Enchantress Bookish Brilliance: Katana Collins's "Outlaw" Blog Tour

Worse than bad. Hotter than hot. These are the bad boys of the Harrison Street Crew, and they answer to no one. They take what they want. And what they want is you.

Volume One of a three-part volume by Katana Collins.

Patrick Flanagan lives outside the law. The cops don’t like him. The law doesn’t trust him. He may come at you with a charm and a handsome smile, but make no mistake—he’s as reckless and bad as they come. But when a total bombshell with stilettos and a power suit comes blazing into his life, this bad boy is about to be so, so good…

Release Date:

Tuesday, March 7, 2017

Available for purchase at

Kindle  Nook  iBooks  Kobo

Outlaw: Part 2

(The Harrison Street Crew Series, Bk #2)

By Katana Collins

Blurb:

Worse than bad. Hotter than hot. These are the bad boys of the Harrison Street Crew, and they answer to no one. They take what they want. And what they want is you.

Volume Two of a three-part volume by Katana Collins.

Ambitious lawyer Michelle Chiccarini vowed like hell she is going to do her best to prosecute as many criminals as she could. Even if that means trying to put away Patrick Flanagan, a man who can make her pulse quicken and fill her head with dirty, wicked thoughts just by looking at him. She’s got to put him behind bars. But how can she do that, when she can’t even resist his touch?

Release Date:

Tuesday, March 14, 2017

Available for purchase at

Kindle  Nook  iBooks  Kobo

Outlaw: Part 3
(The Harrison Street Crew Series, Bk #2)
By Katana Collins

Blurb:
Worse than bad. Hotter than hot. These are the bad boys of the Harrison Street Crew, and they answer to no one. They take what they want. And what they want is you.

Volume Three of a three-part volume by Katana Collins.

Patrick Flanagan won’t go to jail. Not when he’s got a woman as gorgeous as Michelle aching for his every touch and pushing his lust for her past the boiling point. Even though she’s a lawyer tasked with putting him in prison, he can’t stay away from her. Michelle is falling fast and hard for Patrick, but is he guilty? Or is he innocent? She wants to trust her bad boy from the streets, but is he telling the truth?

Release Date:

Tuesday, March 21, 2017

Available for purchase at

Kindle  Nook  iBooks  Kobo

Excerpts

Prologue

Tears streaked down Michelle Chiccarini's face as she rushed through the emergency room's automatic glass doors. A gush of warm air blasted out of the ventilation system and even though it was April, there was still a biting chill to the weather outside. The warmth slammed into her wind-burned cheeks, warming her immediately.

She shouldn't have let her best friend go to that street race alone. She had felt it deep in her gut when Charlie left that evening for the race with Harrison Street Club—Southie's infamous car club—that something bad was going to happen. In that same instinctual way that Michelle knew she was going to lose a case or receive bad news. Bad things always happen when you break the rules. She'd felt it in the pit of her stomach as Charlie had pulled away in her latest prize, an AMC Hornet, with her bright red hair blowing in the cool April breeze.

And now, look. Michelle hadn't even been there to help when the accident happened. She hadn't been there to call the ambulance or ride with Charlie or hold her hand or—

Michelle squeezed her eyes closed, tears pressing against the tight line of her lashes.

“Ma'am? Can I help you?”

A quiet older woman behind the front counter looked at her with concerned eyes.

Michelle inhaled a shaky breath. “There was a car accident victim brought in not too long ago. Charlie Wakeman.”

“Let me see,” the woman said, tapping into her computer. “Charlie Wakeman. Do you know what time he arrived—”

“She,” Michelle corrected her. “Charlize Wakeman.”

“Ah,” the woman nodded, “Yes. She was brought in about an hour ago and she's still in surgery. Are you family?”

Yes, Michelle wanted to scream. Other than Charlie's parents, she was the closest thing to family Charlie had. Michelle sniffed, feeling the muscles in her throat clamp down on the emotion as if that could stifle what she was feeling. “She's my best friend,” she managed to say through a raspy whisper. “Since we were five.”

The woman gave her an apologetic look. “I'm afraid it's family only beyond those doors unless a family member brings you back themselves. You're welcome to wait in the room to your left.”

“Any idea how long it will be?”

She shook her head. “These things can take a while. And even after surgery, she likely won't be allowed visitors until the morning.”

As she said that, Michelle's brother Remy came out from the back room of the ER. For most people, seeing their brother at such an emotional time would have been comforting. But the Chiccarini's weren't most people. And Michelle had only just found out hours earlier that Remy had been abusing Charlie when they dated—both physically and emotionally. The sight of him caused every muscle in her legs to cramp. Her shoulders knotted, tightening and pulling toward her ears. The palms of her hands grew clammy and damp as she clenched them into fists. What in the hell is he doing here?

Arm stiff, she pointed at Remy. “He's not family. What was he doing back there?”

The woman blinked, taken off guard and glanced over her shoulder. “He arrived with your friend; he was there on the scene along with one other gentleman who's waiting back there with her family.”

If the Wakeman's had seen Michelle, they would have let her back there as well. They didn't know what Michelle knew—what Charlie had just told her hours earlier about Remy hitting her; shoving her. Breaking her wrist. Michelle's throat suddenly dried, just at the thought.

Totally unaware, Remy came up to her, wrapping an arm around her shoulder. It was as though all the anger and frustration of the day had been in a pot simmering with the heat slowly being turned up until she was spewing emotion out over top. It was too much. He was too much. She had never before felt such hatred for someone she loved. Was that even possible? To hate someone and love them? To want to hold them and protect them while also wanting to condemn them for their actions?

With all her strength, she shoved Remy away from her. Taken completely off guard, he stumbled backward, his back slamming into a magazine shelf.

“What the hell, Michelle?”

“What did you do?” she asked and when he came toward her, eyes lowered in question, she shoved him again. Harder. Only this time, he was ready for it and her brother was able to balance himself despite the muscle she put into it.

“It's terrible,” Remy said, trying to grasp Michelle's shoulders and pull her into a hug. “She has a collapsed lung and her leg was mangled in the wreck. But Shell, we've got to stick together—”

A bitter laugh cackled from the back of Michelle's throat. “Don't act like you care about her.” She pointed in her brother's face. “Don't you dare act like you give a shit what happens to her. Not after what you did.”

Guilt lit Remy's brown eyes. The same guilt Michelle had seen in his face when she had caught him sneaking into the house hours after curfew in high school. It vanished faster this time than it ever did when they were teenagers. He'd managed to refine his innocent face.

“Michelle,” he said quietly. “I have no idea what you're talking about—”

She lunged at him again, this time, whipping her fist around toward his face. Before her hand connected to his cheek, she felt two strong arms around her waist and then she was in the air, legs kicking, arms flailing.

“Let me go!” she screamed. “Put me down, let me hit him. I've got to hit him.” She had to hit something. There was too much pent up energy, anger, sadness—she was a volcano of emotion, ready to explode and take out anyone around her

Then, she was outside. The dark, cool air once again enveloping her, a vast difference to the heated, muscled arms clasped around her torso.

Her feet touched the pavement and still she thrashed in those arms. She wanted to hurt someone. Cause the same pain she felt on the inside.

“If I let you go, do you promise to behave?”

Patrick. The vice president of the Harrison Street Crew, Southie's notorious car club. Club, ha. That was a laugh. They were a gang, known for their chop shop and illegal street racing. She knew it, Remy knew it... hell, all of Boston knew it. And up until the other night, she'd only known Patrick Flanagan from his photograph in her file—Operation Green Light as she and her colleagues had come to know the case. The DA's office had been working on Operation Green Light for a few months, building information about the various car gangs in Boston, including HSC. Up until last night, Patrick Flanagan had only been a personality-less face she had to take down. A thug who deserved to be behind bars. The sort of case she was happy to stand beside her brother and help with while he ran for city council. Until now. Now, her world was flipped upside down.

But since last night when she met Patrick Flanagan? She couldn't quite describe the shift. It was small, but notable. Patrick wasn't a big, bad, scary car guy dude. He was relatable. Friendly. Funny, even. Sexy. Everything that she once was back when she was in high school—the fun girl who broke the rules and let loose now and then.

And now his arms were wrapped tightly around her and hell if she wanted him to let go.

Michelle managed to turn in his arms, facing him. Facing those bright blue eyes and dark corkscrew curls that flopped across his tanned forehead. How the hell did he manage to be so tan in Boston in April?

“Let me go,” she demanded, shoving against his broad chest.

He didn't budge. “Not until you prove to me that you've calmed down.”

“I'm fine, let me go!” Squeezing her fists, she beat them into his chest more. Yeah, probably not doing much for her case. But she couldn't help it, she had to hit something. And hitting Patrick was better than fucking Patrick which was what she really wanted to do.

A tear slipped out of the corner of her eye and slid its way down the bridge of her nose.

“Babe,” he said quietly. With his head tilted, the tiniest smile curved along his mouth. “I've got a club brother with his old lady in the hospital and a sexy woman in my arms. I'm not letting go until I'm sure it's what you truly want.” He leaned down, his full lips too painfully close to her ear. “But if you don't stop screaming and punching me, the hospital's going to call the cops. And I've got a feeling that'll be bad for both of us.”

Would they do that? She looked around Patrick's massive shoulders in through the floor to ceiling windows where the entire waiting room of the hospital was staring out at them. The sweet older woman at reception stood with a phone clenched in her hand.

Gradually his hands slid down her torso, fingers spreading out until she could feel each painfully sharp breath against his palm. What was it about a man holding you in his strong arms? What was it about those firm arms that made her feel so safe? Like everything was going to be okay?

“Breathe, babe.”

Whatever the reason, when he whispered in her ear and held her tight against him, her muscles relaxed. Her breath grew deeper and longer. And for a half second, she trusted this man to take care of her. Trusted him to keep her safe—even if that meant keeping her safe from herself.

And that was the irony.

She forgot in that split second that she should never trust Patrick.

“Shit,” Michelle whispered, wiping at the tear even though it had long finished its descent down her face.

“Come on,” Patrick said, still holding her, but ushering her away from the windows around the other side of the building where some 70s looking muscle car was parked.

Why was she following him? A virtual stranger; the vice president of the very club she was in charge of taking down. But he's not a stranger, she reminded herself. Charlie knows him. Call it gut instinct, but she knew Patrick wouldn't hurt her. Not tonight. Not with her best friend and his club brother's girlfriend in the hospital. Maybe not ever.

Unlocking the door, he ushered her inside to the passenger's seat of his car, then fell into the driver's side himself.

“I'm not leaving this hospital,” Michelle said, giving him a wary look.

Patrick sighed, but nodded. “I'm not expecting you to. Just wanted to get out of the cold before those tears of yours turned into icicles.”

“Tear,” she corrected him. “Singular.”

“You sure about that?”

Reaching over, he brushed his finger across her cheek where it was stained with dampness. Shit... had she been crying more? She brushed her own hand, wiping the wetness gathered at her jawline.

She sniffed against her full sinuses and the burning sensation behind her nose.

“Last I heard, they thought she was going to be okay,” Patrick said quietly, turning the heat in the car on.

Michelle didn't say anything. Just sat in his car, thinking of how she attacked—flat out attacked her own brother. She probably looked like a crazy person in there.

Most people would feel embarrassed or scared or—or anything. But inside? She felt numb to anything other than Charlie's health and well-being. And she wouldn't believe her best friend was okay until she saw Charlie with her own eyes.

She stole a glance to her left and found Patrick staring at her carefully. “I hate hospitals, myself. Something about the smell,” Patrick said. “Like rubbing alcohol and that weird smell of wood—like tongue depressors. You know what I mean? I didn't even know tongue depressors could have a smell.” He shrugged and sucked at his teeth, his eyes still fastened onto her. He paused and Michelle said nothing. What was there to say? Of course he hated hospitals. Didn't everyone? When she didn't answer him, he kept on talking. “She's in good hands though. I don't personally know the surgeon working on her, but this is the best hospital in Southie.”

Patrick chuckled to himself and ran a hand along the steering wheel. “This one time when my brother and I were kids, we stole fistfuls of my dad's tongue depressors and a carton of orange juice to make our own popsicles. Sold them on the weekends down at the docks to the workers.” Patrick chuckled to himself, shaking his head. “Man was my dad pissed. Apparently those things are expensive whereas we could have gotten a bag of popsicle sticks for cheap from the craft store or some shit like that.” His eyes crinkled with the smile. It was a beautiful smile. A beautiful, distracting smile.

Distracting.

That's just what she needed.

“Why are you being so nice to me?” she blurted out. “Less than 24-hours ago, I was threatening you with prison time.”

Patrick shrugged, turning to look her dead on. “In a hospital, it doesn't matter that you're a prosecuting attorney and I'm a big bad car club guy. In there, we're all just people afraid to lose someone we love.”

“Yeah, but—”

“And you looked like you were about a second away from totally losing it on your brother.”

“I was, but—”

“And as much as I'd love to see that little weasel of a politician's face bashed in, it didn't feel right to let you go down for that.” That smirk was back. An easy smile that he managed to wear no matter what the circumstance. “Make you a deal,” he said. “You let me be the one who bashes faces in.”

She shook her head, looking out the front windshield. “I wouldn't have gone to jail for that. Remy wouldn't have pressed charges. Not against me.”

“Damn. Guess I should have let you go to town on his ass, then.”

Michelle felt the smirk tilt the corner of her mouth, Patrick's smile already lighting his face. “Guess so.”

“You wanna tell me what that was about? I mean, like I said, I hate that Remy bastard. Anything that results in getting his ass kicked is a good day in my book. Just surprised to see you as the one doing the kicking.”

She couldn't talk about it—about the scars Charlie showed her. The video feed of him shoving her best friend. Not to Patrick. Not to anyone—yet. It wasn't her story to tell. She shook her head. “Shane can ask Charlie when she's feeling better.” If she ever feels better. Shit. There was another set of hot tears, dancing at the edges of her eyes.

Patrick's eyes narrowed, his smile dropping as he studied Michelle's face. “There something I should know about?”

“No,” she answered quickly.

The same narrowed suspicion clouded his face, darkening it. “Maybe I should go back in there and see for myself.”

“No,” Michelle darted a hand out, landing on Patrick's muscled thigh. It was tensed, bunched up into a tight ball of muscle above his knee. Wow, were those some muscles. Her throat went dry as she circled her thumb up the inside of his thigh, tracing the muscled line to the inside of his leg.

Sexy as hell.

A sharp breath hissed from beside her and an embarrassed flush heated her cheeks. What in the serious hell was she doing? This was a criminal for Christ's sake. It was bad enough she was seated inside his car, but to be caressing his leg? Pushing a heavy exhalation through her mouth, she gave herself a mental head shake.

She moved to pull her hand back but before she could, his palm came down heavily on top of hers, holding her hand in place only inches away from his crotch.

“Whatever this is,” he grunted, “I'm pretty sure we both want it.”

With his free hand, he leaned over, brushing his thumb across her bottom lip intentionally smearing her red lipstick down her chin.

Michelle swallowed hard. “Whatever this is,” she repeated, her voice a hoarse whisper, “I'm pretty sure we shouldn't act on it.”

“Luckily, I've never been one to follow the rules.”

But I am. Rules were her life. And when she followed them, things fit into a pretty little ribbon wrapped box.

And when she didn't? The world was dark and blurry, an acidic taste of bile and vomit clinging to the back of her throat. Each breath was painful, sharp and like knives were being shoved into her throat. Michelle shuddered, pushing the memories of her destructive years from her mind.

“God I hope that shudder was for me,” Patrick said, leaning over the center console until his lips were so close that she could feel the heat of his breath.

She expected him to kiss her—only he didn't. He hovered, a breath away from her lips and his smile curved wider showing beautiful, white teeth.

She blinked, breathing heavily, feeling how tight and needy the tips of her breasts were. Her eyes landed first on that smile, then drifted down to where she could see a thick erection pushing through his jeans. Then finally, she met his eyes. Crystal blue eyes that were bright against the dark night.

She went to talk, but her throat was dry. “What—why didn't you...?” Why didn't he what? Kiss her? Grope her? Rip off her shirt? What the hell is the matter with me?

His grin widened even more. “You aren't a rule breaker, huh?”

At that challenge, her thoughts cleared. “I'm not,” she declared.

As she moved to pull back from him, he curled his fingers around the back of her neck. “Let's see about that,” he whispered, pulling her mouth to his.

God, that was good. Her belly jumped into her chest leaving a hollow cavity in her torso as he kissed her long and deep with his tongue sweeping into her mouth.

Michelle broke the kiss, shoving her face into his neck. The only thing she could smell was him. A crisp, woodsy scent. And all she could feel was his hard muscled arms around her, his firm chest pressed against her body. What was she doing? This wasn't her? But God she wanted it. Her hips pumped, almost a reflexed reaction to his mouth as he kissed his way down her neck. Gently, one of his hands fisted around her hair where he had buried his fingers during the kiss while the other worked up her skirt.

His finger found the garters keeping her stockings up and he paused, muscles seizing, pausing and he hissed. “Fuck me,” he grunted, snapping the garter against the soft flesh of her thigh.

Her stomach clenched and the dampness between her legs increased at the sharp bite of pain. She wanted more. His fingers edged up her leg until he dipped into her soft, wet folds. Her arms clenched around his shoulders as did her pussy, clamping his finger inside of her. God it was good. “So good,” she moaned in his ear and he chuckled into her neck.

“Yeah, babe,” he said, pulling back and pulsing that finger in and out of her in steady, rhythmic movements. “You going to come for me like a good girl?”

He pressed his lips to hers before she could answer. Then, two fingers were inside of her, curving against the spongey bundle of nerves deep inside of her and Michelle cried out, her moan breaking their kiss. She twisted, falling back in ecstasy against the chilly window.

Her hand darted out, grasping his denim clad erection in her palm and she squeezed, enjoying the approving grunt she heard from him. There was a satisfying sound of a zipper and then his cock fell heavily into her palm.

Shoving her skirt up to her waist, he pulled her over him until she was straddling him, her black lace thong pushed to the side. From the glove box, Patrick grabbed a condom and ripped it open with his teeth, sheathing his erection in latex.

Wordlessly, Michelle wrapped her hand around his dick, guiding him inside of her. Her body stretched around him and she threw her head back, relishing in the feel of him filling every inch of her. He knifed his hips up, thrusting harder into her and she moaned as his thumb found her swollen nub, circling it in wet strokes. Bullseye. Michelle jerked and dove her fingers into his hair, cupping the back of his head. He glanced up, those eyes riveted on hers and he smiled. A quirky little half grin that was cocky as fuck.

She knew it was wrong. So wrong. Breaking every rule out there both ethically and legally. But it felt too damn good. And she needed to feel good right now.

Each movement was more intense than the next and as he circled his hips and fluttered his touch over her clit—the man knew what he was doing. And he did it was ease. Like he could read her thoughts and body language, anticipate just what she wanted. Pierce her desires with a single glance of those ice blue eyes.

Fuck.

Fuck.

With his free hand grasping her waist, he guided her up and down over his dick and her body slid over his as she rode him in slow, deep thrusts at first. Then, throwing caution to the wind, she abandoned her quiet, prim side. Ignored the quiet, studious lawyer who spent her college years locked up in her dorm studying and embraced the girl who tattooed tweety bird on her ass when she was seventeen with her fake ID.

She moved faster and faster. Harder, rotating her hips in circles against his thumb. Patrick groaned, his head falling back against the seat until the whole car was shaking with her movement. But his eyes never left hers. And that smirk stayed right in place as he watched her every move.

Who cared about rules? Who cared about Operation Green Light and the fact that she was supposed to be prosecuting this man in less than a year if all went to plan. Right then? All she wanted was an orgasm. The release. An explosion rippling around his cock and fingers and lips.

Yep, rules be damned. Tonight? She wasn't an ADA. She was simply a woman escaping life with the company of a sexy man.

***

They finished and laid together in silence in Patrick's car. Her skirt, still up around her waist, her black lace thong pushed to the side, swollen and satiated. She lay over top of him, still sitting in his lap.

Her phone rang from within her purse on the floor of the passenger side. Michelle stiffened as Patrick's hands circled her back in reassuring strokes.

“If it was about Charlie, I would have gotten a call from Shane or Rig, too,” Patrick said.

That eased her thoughts a little. But still not enough. What was she doing? Literally sleeping with the enemy.

Leveraging her weight off of his hips, she leaned over grabbing her purse and adjusting her clothes back into place.

With a glance at the phone in her hand, she saw she missed two calls from her boss, Duncan—the district attorney of Boston.

Guilt slammed into her, cramping her gut and replacing whatever relaxed enjoyable post-orgasm bliss she had with anxiety. She held up her phone to Patrick. “I have to take this outside,” she said, pushing out of the car.

With a tug, he pulled her back into the car. His blue eyes bright and assessing and tilted down at the corners. He looked almost... concerned. As quickly as the expression flashed on his face, it disappeared, replaced with that same light-hearted grin. “You're not leaving me, are you?”

She shook her head. “I'll be right back. I just need to make a call.”

They stayed there, locked in eye contact for another moment before he nodded. “Look,” he said, “Charlie's not going to be taking visitors until the morning. And I've got something to take care of.” He cupped the back of her head, pulling her into another kiss. She let him, though far more tentative than their first this time. “Meet me in an hour?” he whispered. As if Rig or Duncan or someone else could sense that they were planning to meet up.

Michelle shook her head, pulling out of his arms. “That's not a good idea, Patrick.” What they'd just done was already a terrible idea.

“What's the alternative? Sleep here in the waiting room? Or in your car? Or go all the way home to Newton? Then when she does wake up, it'll take you forty minutes to get back here. I'm only a few blocks away down at 136 Jay Street. You'll be close. You can get a good night's sleep.” His grin spread wider. “And I promise no funny business.” His thumb stroked at her jaw, trailing across her smeared lipstick. “Unless you want more funny business. But something tells me you need rest.”

Her stupid heart jolted. Why was he being so nice to her? They'd only just met and he was taking care of her like she was... like she was family or something. Even her own mother wasn't this nurturing. God, it felt nice to have someone looking out for her. “Okay,” she spoke even though her throat was tighter than spandex.

“Okay,” Patrick repeated. “The sexiest word a man will ever hear.”

Michelle laughed. And wow, did it feel good to laugh.

“No, seriously,” Patrick continued. “You should really tone down your enthusiasm. We can't have my ego inflating that much.”

“Don't push your luck, Abercrombie,” Michelle said grinning. Once more, she stepped out of the car. Patrick gave her a wave and started his engine, pulling out of the hospital parking lot as she redialed her boss. As the phone rang, a damp sweat collected on her scalp and she held her breath. Did Duncan know? No, that was ridiculous. How would Duncan even know that she had fucked one of the men she should be convicting?

Of course he didn't know. Yet.

Duncan answered on the second ring. “Michelle,” he said. “Your brother called me with the news about your friend. I wanted to make sure you were okay and see if you needed anything.”

Of course, Michelle knew that her brother and Duncan knew each other. Attorneys in Boston were incestuous. They all knew each other, especially at Duncan's level.

She cleared her throat, looking back at Patrick's car as she walked away. “Thanks. I'm... okay. Just waiting to hear any news. We probably won't know anything until tomorrow morning.”

“If there's anything I can do—”

“Thanks, Duncan. I'm okay, though.”

There was another pause. “Well, I know my timing here is bad, but, well, hell... maybe some good news is just what you need tonight. I want to offer you the Chief ADA position. I've been looking over your work on Project Green Light … and this is really good work. I want you to take the lead on it. The promotion will mean that the car club cases are entirely in your hands.”

She was getting a promotion? Here? Tonight? Guilt burrowed deeper and she closed her eyes ignoring the memories of what she'd just done. And that promotion essentially meant her career was now reliant on a case where she had just slept with one of the potential men she would be soon issuing an arrest warrant for. That was some heavy shit.“Me? Are you sure?”

Duncan laughed. “Hell, not if you don't want it—”

“No! No, I want it.” God did she want it. More than she wanted or needed a man or an orgasm.

Her eyes fell to the tail lights of Patrick's Pantera as it turned right out of the parking lot and she swallowed.

“Good,” he laughed again. “Spend time with your friend. I'll see you at the office Monday.”

“I won't let you down.” She hung up, walking slowly to where her car was parked. And as she started her engine and pulled out of the parking lot, she didn't turn right toward Jay Street. Instead, she took a left and turned into the motel on the corner. Turned away from Patrick. Without explanation... for good.

Chapter One

Four Months Later

Patrick Flanagan came to quickly. Or at least, he thought it was quickly. His head was resting on the steering wheel, his shoulders and chest slumping forward like dead weight. He blinked awake. What happened? Where am I?

Brushing his fingers over the ram like symbol at the center of the wheel, he glanced around, eyes darting back and forth. He wasn't in his car; his Pantera. Why wasn't he in his own car? He squeezed his eyes shut, thinking hard. The memory slammed into him, hard and fast. Oh, that's right... he stole this one. Some poor unsuspecting fool's Toyota that they left running in the parking lot of a Hannaford. When will people ever learn? Leaving the car running is to a car thief what an unattended t-bone is to a stray dog. It was irresistible. An invitation to steal it. A big fat target with flashing lights that said: Take me! I'm easy!

Red and blue lights streaked into Patrick's car. Two cop cars were just now rolling to a stop behind him. The cops were just pulling up, so he couldn't have been out that long. Breathing deeply, he pulled himself together, wincing as he pushed himself off the wheel and sat straight up.

What the hell caused him to wreck?

He backtracked the evening's events—the meeting between Harrison Street Crew and Sauceda's Crew. He wasn't at the meeting though. He was the decoy if cops came into the area. He saw the cruiser and took off to distract them, pull them away from the docks and it worked like a charm. Until—oh yeah. That's what happened. A fucking cat darted across the road or... hell, for all he knew it could have been a raccoon. And going sixty on a 35mph back road, he swerved, smashing into a post office box. He must have knocked himself out.

Waiting, he watched in the mirror as the cops in one cruiser jumped out of their car, holding their guns out. Shouting some nonsense about getting out of the vehicle.

Thank God he'd thought to choose to steal a car with tinted windows; they couldn't make out his face. And so he smiled at them in the reflection, knowing they couldn't see a damn thing. They couldn't see his HSC vest or who he was or even that he was flipping them off.

Wiping at the blood trickling down the side of his face, he gave it another few seconds. The second cruiser wasn't getting out. They were the smarter cops.

“Okay girl,” he whispered, brushing his hand over the steering wheel. “Sorry to do this to you, but we don't have a choice.” Hopefully this Toyota's tires were okay... because if not? They were about to find out the hard way.

Punching into reverse, Patrick backed off the Southie curb, tires squealing as he slammed the clutch with his foot and put the car in gear.

He took off, leaving the officers with guns pointed at him scrambling like Keystone Cops. The cruiser that was smart enough to leave their engine running took off after him. The night air cut in through the sun roof blowing his curls wildly around his face and providing a much needed coolness to his sweat-damp strands. Felt fucking great.

The blue and red lights hit against the reflective rearview mirror, nearly blinding him. He pushed harder and could smell the smoke of the engine, but at least it seemed the tires were holding up. Those damn police lights wouldn't have been a problem if he hadn't been trying to push up to eighty miles an hour in the curvy back roads of Southie. But at that speed? A momentary flash of lights blinding you in the mirrors could result in your car wrapped around a telephone pole.

Oh, wait, he thought chuckling to himself. Been there, done that.

Instead of slowing down, Patrick tightened his grip on the steering wheel and squinting through distraction and the headache pulsing at his temples, he pressed even harder into the gas pedal. He had a job to do; one job tonight to accomplish for Rig and the Harrison Street Crew. And that was to intercept any cops in the area and get them as far from the docks as he could—then get back to Megan's Pub in time for the money drop off.

And pray to God that the two tasks don't get in the way of each other.

He turned up his radio, Black Betty blaring through the speakers and he couldn't help the little smile that tipped at the corner of his mouth.

This shit was fun. No way around that. Even if he got caught, there was an exhilaration to the getaway. One that pumped adrenaline through his veins so fast that he could practically feel the chemical change taking affect.

The blue and red flashing lights were gaining on him, the two headlights nearly kissing his bumper. But that was the plan. Keep them with him until they were out of the vicinity.

Maneuvering around the other cars on the road was always the hardest. Slow pokes sticking to the 35mph speed limit—good for them. Patrick slid from right lane to left grabbing the small bag of pop rocks he'd left in the cup holder and pouring a bunch into his mouth as a distraction to the blood dripping from the cut on his head and the pounding headache.

The sizzle of retro hard candy and sugar just increased his pulse as the on-ramp to I-93 came into view.

This was it. “Come on piggies—time to huff and puff,” he said to himself with another glance in the rearview mirror. Then, he slammed his foot down on the accelerator jolting forward with an additional 15mph. Not so fast that they couldn't keep up... but time to get down to business.

A 16-wheeler was in the right lane of the highway moving slow enough to be a problem, but fast enough that Patrick couldn't get off the on-ramp without hitting the brakes. With the cops on his ass? Hitting the brakes was not something he wanted to do.

“Shit,” Patrick muttered and nervous sweat trickled down his neck. Instead of sliding into the proper lane, Patrick stayed where he was, the car lurching as the on ramp turned into a texturized shoulder of the highway. Vibrations rumbled beneath his ass as he overtook the truck and abruptly swerved in front of it and just behind a Volvo.

The right lane was packed with cautious drivers slowing down at the sound of the police sirens; that's what responsible citizens do... they pull over. Slow down.

The good news was that the left lane was wide open.

With a quick glance over his shoulder, Patrick slid into the left lane and the cop had fallen back a few cars behind the truck. A cakewalk, Patrick thought.

He dipped under the tunnel funneling him from South End Boston taking him right into downtown. Something—someone would be waiting for him on the other side of that tunnel.

He just didn't know what yet.

Up ahead, the light from the edge of the tunnel came into view growing larger and larger. The cop tailing him hung back... still close enough to follow, but significantly slowing down.

A second siren ahead of him echoed in the distance. He exited the tunnel, traffic beside him slowing and stopping at the sounds of sirens and lights coming up behind them.

He zipped beyond the tunnel, back out into Boston Center. From the next exit's on-ramp, he could see another cruiser entering the highway.

Reinforcements. A high speed chase in the middle of Boston wasn't something the police overlooked. Not with the tense political climate these days and with Jeremy Chiccarini actively trying to eradicate the car clubs from Boston.

If I can smoke one cruiser, I can smoke two.

Except, this cruiser up ahead wasn't attempting to chase him; it was staying to the side... off the road and blocking the shoulder. Glancing in the rearview, he noticed the cop behind him had slowed down even more. Still on his tail, but much further off in the distance, the blue and red lights little pinpricks in the dark night.

Up ahead he heard the whomp of a helicopter and a quick glance confirmed that it was not a news helicopter, but a police air monitor. Something was up. They had a plan.

Patrick chewed on what was left of the Pop Rocks in his mouth, enjoying the crunch as he thought hard.

No one was on the road up ahead—his tires. They must be trying to take out his tires. And that's why the cruiser was blocking the shoulder, so that he couldn't go around whatever they had set up.

Well, shit. This wasn't good. Every exit was blocked leading up to the tire blowers and he was already two exits beyond where he was supposed to get off, heading toward North End now.

Patrick eased off the gas, slowing down. Tension was palpable in the air and he could see the cops positioned, guns ready from behind the car. The off ramp was just beyond the road block and they had barricaded the other ramp, cutting off civilian access to the highway.

Once he had slowed down enough, Patrick gripped the E-brake and with a deep breath and quick Hail Mary, he yanked it, spinning the car in the opposite direction. The flow of traffic behind him was at a crawl, staying far behind the scene and the cop that was on his tail continued its advance; this time face on. Shoving into fourth gear, Patrick accelerated once more, heading in the opposite direction of the highway flow and directly toward the flashing lights and headlights of the cop. It was a daring game of chicken, but one he knew he'd win. They had no idea if he was armed and shooting at him wasn't an option.

He picked up speed, just above seventy; not too crazy. In his rearview mirrors, he saw the cops that had set up the barricade, scrambling to get into their car and chase him the other way. The helicopter over head, stayed just above him.

Perfect. Fast enough to cause alarm; but not so fast he would lose control.

Two thousand feet from the cop. One thousand. And as he hit jut a few hundred feet, he pulled the ebrake again, turning into the cove between the north and south highways where cops wait to pull you over. The tires screeched beneath him and he could only imagine the damage he was doing to this poor Toyota. A cop was waiting for him there, just as he had anticipated—but with Patrick going sixty in that turn and the cop standing still, it didn't stand a chance.

Patrick slammed into the stagnant cop's back bumper and turned onto the opposite highway, going in the other direction on I93, back with the flow of traffic.
No tire popping road blocks there. And as suspected, the cruisers following him couldn't handle such a fast and unexpected turn.

Two down, one to go, he thought looking to the sky where the helicopter still tailed him. He took the next exit, sliding off it easily and though still speeding, he was cautious not to go too fast. Sticking about twenty above the speed limit. He was certain that on the police radio, they were calling in other cruisers to cut him off ahead. Patrick snaked his way through the city, traffic taking its toll on his speed and he dodged, weaving in and out of the right and left lanes while also taking unexpected turns that were completely unpredictable.

Though it took twice as long, he finally pulled up to a parking garage in the Government Center. He slammed into the red and white arm that was supposed to make you stop and take a ticket, cracking the damn thing right in half. Completely covered from the helicopter, he breathed a little easier as he raced up the ramp, curving around until he reached the third floor of the parking garage, safely out of view. He could hear the sirens behind him; the additional cruisers knowing just where he was pulling up. There was no time to fuck around. He didn't even bother sliding the stolen car into a parking spot. Pulling his baseball hat lower over his eyes, he grabbed the rest of the Pop Rocks in his gloved hand, a few spilling onto the driver's seat as he climbed out of the vehicle and slammed the door shut. Peeling his vest off, he shoved it into a messenger bag he carried and straightened his REO Speedwagon t-shirt, thankful that it wasn't a Celine Dion concert that night at the Government Center. Walking quickly but casually, he made it to the elevator, one by one hitting the fire alarms along the way.

A roar of panic swept around him and below him at the government center as he stepped off the elevator into the sea of people exiting the concert. Fear and anxiety was a potent force and the crowd wasn't walking anymore—they were running toward the exits. Half of them flooded the garage toward their cars to escape, the other half went to the train station or just straight ahead; anywhere to get to safety. Patrick kept pace with the crowd until he reached his car; his Pantera which he had parked in a dirt lot outside of the concert earlier that day. He slipped the attendant a twenty dollar bill and casually climbed inside, peeling his gloves off and tucking them in the dashboard.

It was going to take Patrick forever to get back to Southie, especially with all these road blocks. But if he kept to the speed limit and didn't get pulled over, he should make it to Megan's Pub in plenty of time to finish the drop off for Rig and the club.

He smiled, the exhilaration of the chase causing a series of excited shivers convulsing his body. Pulling out his burner phone, he texted Rig—his boss and President of HSC, his car club; his family. His home.

All's well. No more cops should be wasting time near the docks tonight.

It only took a moment for Rig's response to come in:

Good. Get your ass back to Southie. Deal is taking longer than I thought to secure, but I want you at Megan's ready and waiting.

“Aye, aye, boss,” Patrick said with a mock salute to the phone. Then texted confirmation that he was on his way before he slid his vest back on and made his way back down to Southie.

And the night's only begun, he thought.

The Harrison Street Crew Series

EX-CON

Bk #1 in THE HARRISON STREET CREW Series

EX-CON: Part 1

Add to your TBR List on Goodreads

Kindle  Nook  iBooks  Kobo

EX-CON: Part 2

Add to your TBR List on Goodreads

Kindle  Nook  iBooks  Kobo

EX-CON: Part 3

Add to your TBR List on Goodreads

Kindle  Nook  iBooks  Kobo

About The Author

Katana Collins is lucky enough to love her day job almost as much as she loves writing. She splits her time evenly between photographing boudoir and newborn portraits and writing steamy romances in a variety of genres -- paranormal, contemporary, new adult and suspense.

She lives in Portland, Maine, with an ever-growing brood of rescue animals: a kind of mean cat, a very mellow chihuahua, and a very not mellow lab puppy... oh yeah, there's a husband somewhere in that mix, too. She can usually be found hunched over her laptop in a cafe, guzzling gallons of coffee, and wearing fabulous (albeit sometimes impractical) shoes.

You can find Katana at

Website  Facebook  Twitter  Goodreads

Giveaway

a Rafflecopter giveaway

Presented By

Pages

Follow Me

Tuesday, March 7, 2017

Katana Collins's "Outlaw" Blog Tour