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The Biker's Omega (Alpha and Omega 1)

By:Lisa Oliver

The Biker's Omega (Alpha and Omega 1)
Lisa Oliver

       Book One: Alpha and Omega Series


Dedication

To all my lovely readers who understand when I am supposed to be writing  one thing, and yet write something like this instead. It is you who  keep my fingers on the keyboard  –  thank you so much.





Chapter One

"We got ‘em good, did you see that?"

"Yeah, got the fags good. They never saw what hit ‘em."

"Did you see when I … ?"

Trent Beaumont tuned out the two idiots who had been in the club all of  five minutes and who thought it was funny to brag about beating up a  couple of twinks. The Epitaph Motorcycle gang's living room/bar was  large, yet it seemed almost dark and dingy, no matter what time of the  day it was. Trent liked the fact that he could sit in a corner, and  basically ignore everyone around him. The bar itself was the room's  central focus, and most of the club members hung around there, laughing  it up and doing the stupid things that drunk people did. Trent didn't  get drunk, and he preferred to keep to himself when the men he rode with  were tying one on.

Mentally wincing when he heard one of the blowhards make some comment  about putting his boot into the man he attacked, Trent took a deep  breath to calm his wolf. He wasn't sure why he was feeling edgy, but his  wolf was pacing in his mind, and he didn't like it. That usually meant  something big was going to happen. Personally Trent swung both ways,  preferring men, but sleeping with women when he needed to. He hated gay  bashing with a passion, but he would never mention it in the Epitaph's  clubrooms. He liked his balls and his head where they were. The club's  staunchly anti-gay message had been drummed into Trent from the day he  was approached to join, ten years before. He had kept his need for a  small, tight ass hugging his cock, to himself ever since. But listening  to the two idiots at the bar, was sorely testing his patience.

Gritting his teeth before he yelled out something he shouldn't,  something like how it really wasn't manly or tough to pick on guys who  were considerably smaller and less likely to fight back than the two men  who were holding court at the bar, Trent turned his back and then gave a  low groan as he met the sultry eyes of Stephanie. Like she needed eye  contact to come onto him, he thought grimly, holding his breath as she  approached. Her perfume always overwhelmed his senses and he had a hard  time holding back a sneeze every time she came near him.

Tall and slim, with a pair of knockers that had been greatly enhanced by  science, Stephanie was the head bitch in the Epitaphs. It was rumored  that she used to be the main squeeze for Clive, the club president, but  in the ten years Trent had been in the club, he had never seen any sign  of it. She was definitely head female in the club though, and virtually  every male in the club lusted after her. Stephanie had standards though  –   no screwing the underlings when only the club hierarchy would do. And  since he'd been made Sergeant of Arms six months before, Stephanie had  her sights firmly set on him.

"Hey, there, big boy," She lisped, flicking her red hair over her  shoulder in an effort to look seductive. Trent tried not to cringe.  Stephanie's normal voice was strident and Trent didn't mind that, but  she seemed to think that doing a Marilyn Monroe impression was the way  to be sexy. All it did was set Trent's nerves on edge and his wolf  scurrying to the back of his mind.

"Hey Steph," he said gruffly, focusing on his beer and trying to breathe  through his mouth. Fuck, she smelt more pungent than normal. Did she  bathe in her perfume? She was another reason he preferred to sit in a  corner and keep quiet. While Trent had bedded his fair share of women at  the club, he didn't enjoy doing it unless he was really horny, and  getting hit on by women was something he didn't think he would ever get  used to. It went against his Alpha nature.

Running her fingers lazily up Trent's tattoo covered arm, Stephanie  continued in her faux sexy voice, "I thought it was about time we got  together, big boy. You've been stalling me long enough."

"You're too good for the likes of me, darling," Trent said, thinking no.  Fuck. Not ever. He had no problems getting a hard on for a female, even  if it wasn't his preference  –  he had a vivid imagination and knew how  to use it. But he wasn't stupid enough to get involved with a toxic  perfume cloud, not even once. His wolf would never forgive him and he  didn't think he could breathe long enough to enjoy the act.

Stephanie set her brightly painted lips in a pout, and Trent wondered  what on earth she had injected them with. He was certain she wasn't born  with them that shape. "No one turns me down," she said and the lisp was  gone from her voice  –  replaced with venom. Trent shivered. This was  more like the woman he knew.                       
       
           



       

"I've been here ten years, Stephanie," Trent said determined to be  reasonable. While he didn't know if she was sleeping with the President  or not, he knew she had considerable influence in the club and he didn't  want to lose his position. "You've never made a move on me before while  you've been sober. Let's not change things."

It was true. Stephanie had come onto him fairly regularly since he first  joined the Epitaphs, but Trent had always brushed off her overtures as  the ramblings of a drunk woman. Fortunately when she was drunk she could  be easily distracted into the arms of another. Sober was a different  story and from the steely look in Stephanie's eyes, the woman hadn't  touch a drop of alcohol in days.

"You weren't the Sergeant of Arms before," Stephanie said bluntly. "Now  it's your job, as part of the inner circle, to entertain those of us in  the female hierarchy, and I called first dibs on you. You're not going  to get another fuck in this club until you go through me first."

Fists clenched, one around his bottle of beer and one at his side, Trent  fought to keep the anger from his face. As he stood up, unravelling his  full height, he guessed he might not have been a hundred percent  successful because Stephanie stepped back a bit and dropped her hand  from his arm.

"I fuck who I want, when I want," Trent snarled quietly, not wanting to  draw attention to what was going on. The bar room of the clubhouse  wasn't overly crowded but the Epitaphs were a curious lot. "When I took  this job I got told I was in charge of weapons and club safety, not  pussy fulfillment. You want to get filled that bad lady, there are  plenty here who would take you on and thank you afterwards."

Stephanie's eyes narrowed and she tapped her lip with one pointed  finger. Trent noticed that her nail and lip color didn't match  –  not a  good look. Besides Trent preferred his partners natural and clean  smelling. "Clive will hear about this," she threatened.

Trent shrugged. "The day he tells me who to fuck is the day I walk,  sister, and he knows it." Grabbing his jacket from the back of his  chair, Trent swung it over his shoulder and brushed past Stephanie. He  needed a ride far more than he needed a fuck, especially with a woman  who would crush his balls instead of lick them.

Hurrying past the two gay-bashers at the bar, Trent was almost at the  door when a hand grabbed his arm. Thinking it was Stephanie again, Trent  snarled and swung round, almost knocking the person off his feet. It  was Bob, one of the men mouthing off earlier, whose cocky look had  fallen off his face and he was looking at Trent in shock.

"What do you want Bobbie? Can't you see I'm heading out?" Trent said, barely holding onto his patience.

Bob's cocky look came back in an instance. "Did you hear what me and  Todd did, Sarge? Got a couple of fags over on Main Street. Did them over  real good. You'd be proud of us, Sarge, real proud. We beat them into  the pavement. Real fighting skills."

"Why did you bash them?" Trent didn't have time for this shit.

A look of confusion came over Bob's boyish face and a splash of red hit  his fair cheeks. "Because they're fags, Sarge?" His voice tilting on the  question.

"Yeah. So. Did they come onto you? Did they pick a fight with you? Were  they making out on the main road or something? What did they do to cause  the fight?"

"No, Sarge. Nothing like that. They was just walking down the street,  but they was fags. We could tell by the way they was dressed, so we  bashed them."

Shaking his head at Bob's lack of proper grammar, Trent snarled. "You  were wearing your leathers, yes?" Bob nodded. Of course. From the smell  of it Bob probably never took his jacket off.

"So you were wearing club colors. You assaulted two men on Main Street  for no reason and now you'll bring the police to our door the moment  those two men give their statement. What have I got to be happy about?  The last thing we need is the police hanging around here."

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