Riding the Line (Devil's Knights 2nd Generation #2) - Winter Travers Page 0,54

a mistake.”

*

Chapter Twenty-One

Royal

Why?

Indiana’s Sloppy Joe Recipe

Perfect for your next impromptu MC gathering

6 lbs. lean ground beef

1 small onion, minced

3 cans tomato soup

4 Tbsp yellow mustard

1 ¼ cups brown sugar

1 Tbsp Worcestershire

Salt and pepper to taste

Brown ground beef with onion.

Drain grease.

Put back on heat. Add tomato soup, yellow mustard, brown sugar, Worcestershire, salt and pepper.

Bring to simmer.

Simmer for 1 hour.

Serve on your favorite bun.

***Halve or quarter the recipe if you’re not cooking for Lo and the boys.

Coming Soon

Trapped with the Bad Bay

Wild Preacher’s Club, book 2

Thrill Seeker

Kings of Vengeance MC, book 5

About the Author

Wall Street Journal and USA Today bestselling author Winter Travers is a devoted wife, mother, and aunt turned author who was born and raised in Wisconsin. After a brief stint in South Carolina following her heart to chase the man who is now her hubby, they retreated back up North to the changing seasons, and to the place they now call home.

Winter spends her days writing happily ever-afters, and her nights being a karate mom hauling her son to practices and tournaments.. She also has an addiction to anything MC related, puppies, and baking.

Winter loves to stay connected with her readers. Don’t hesitate to reach out and contact her.

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Dive into the first chapter of Nickel!

Nickel

Fallen Lords MC

Book 1

Chapter 1

Karmen

I couldn’t find a box big enough to fit him in.

Well, that makes me sound like a murderer or something. Nickel, the man in question, is still very much alive, I assure you. I should probably go back a little bit and explain.

My father went to prison when I was thirteen, and I can’t remember my mother. She left before I could even have a memory of her. He always told me we were better off without her. Things were rough for us, but we always had each other. Well, I had my dad. My dad had me and beer. I can’t remember a time I didn’t smell hops on his breath.

I went to my first day of preschool and asked the teacher why her breath didn’t smell like my dad. That ended up with my dad in the principal’s office for an hour and me crying the whole way home while my dad yelled at me. That was the last time I ever mentioned my dad’s drinking to anyone. I was a fast learner and caught on quick. One mess up, and I never made the same mistake again.

The night my dad went to prison, I was at home, like normal, while he was out at the bar three miles down the road. He regularly walked to the bar and stumbled home, but that night, there was a severe storm predicted to blow in, so he decided he would take the truck. That decision changed my life and made me see everything in a whole new light.

I was sprawled out on the living room floor, watching TV, when there was a loud pounding on the front door, and I figured it was my dad. It was normal for him to forget his keys and bang to get inside.

I opened the door to two police officers, with my grandma, Vivian, standing behind them. I only saw my grandma at Christmas. I knew the second I laid eyes on her, something was not right.

It seemed my father had decided to call it a night after drinking almost a twenty-four pack of beer and tried to drive home. In that three-mile drive to the house that had no turns or curves on it, my father had managed to hit a soccer mom in her minivan with her three children in the back. Only one child survived.

The police told me I had to go with my grandma until they figured something out. Meanwhile, she stood behind them, arms crossed over her chest, tapping her foot impatiently. After they were done, my grandma barged between the two police officers and started firing off orders about packing a bag and getting all my stuff ready to go. We weren’t going to stay in the “hell hole” anymore.

While I was packing up my things, completely in shock, I heard my grandma down the hall, bitching and moaning about having to take care of me. I knew then and there that things were never going to be the same.

After she hauled me over to her trailer—that was not much better than the “hell hole” I used to live in—I begged to see my dad. Every day, she told me, and I quote, “I couldn’t see the