Hell On Heels (Royal Bastards MC, Montreal, Canada #3)

Prologue

Lottie

Shoving off the sofa, Lottie headed straight for her bedroom closet.

Buried in the back, hidden behind everyday clothes and forgotten shoes, was a hanging garment bag.

Inside it was the outfit—one she’d originally lent to Sway.

Her best friend had tried it on only once.

That had been enough. Sway had returned it without a second thought; certain Lottie would find the right moment to wear it.

That moment was tonight.

She wasn’t about to waste a dress like that on just anyone, but being newly single had its perks. No rules. No expectations. Just her, and the chance to remind herself exactly who she was.

Lottie slid the hangers to the side, fingers brushing fabric until she reached the bag. She pulled it out carefully, laid it on the bed, and unzipped it with deliberate slowness. A flash of blood-red vinyl gleamed through the opening like a promise.

Dragging the dress free, she hung it on the closet door. It clung to the hanger with sultry weight, the corset bodice curving like it already knew her body.

Tonight, she’d wear it for no one but herself—and that made it hotter than anything else.

Staring at the dress, Lottie tilted her head and thought, Why not? There was no real reason not to wear it.

“Fuck it.”

She was going out, and she was going to have a damn good time. Tonight was for the come fuck me dress and heels that practically screamed bend me over, please.

After a hot shower, she styled her jet black hair and did her makeup in her signature look—sharp, smoky, and unapologetically bold.

Sliding into the dress, she felt decadent. Dangerous. A little dominant. All three were words people used to describe her on a regular basis, and tonight she was leaning into all of them.

She stepped into her black spiked stilettos and crossed to the full-length mirror. One look and her lips curled into a wicked smile.

“Damn. I look hotter than normal.”

Laughing under her breath, she grabbed her black coat from the closet and slipped it on, buttoning it up just enough to hide the fire underneath. Purse in hand, she headed for the door before she could talk herself out of it.

Lottie reached the door, hand hovering over the knob. She stood there for a moment, silent, motionless. Then she sighed—sharp, tired, and turned away.

Back in the bedroom, she peeled off the dress, its slick material sliding down her body like a second skin she suddenly didn’t want to wear.

She stepped out of it and returned it to the garment bag with care that felt too tender for how she really felt.

The shoes went back in their box, tucked neatly beside the bag.

She slid both into the closet and shut the door.

She just… didn’t have it in her tonight. Not anymore. Not since her ex-boyfriend had kidnapped and tortured Sway. That night had carved something out of her. Something hard to name.

How the hell was she supposed to trust men again? It had been ten months since everything changed for Sway, and by extension, for her too.

Tesh’s death had opened the door for the Royal Bastards to enter their lives, and with them came a flood of complications, protection, chaos... maybe even something good. She hadn’t decided yet.

But what she did know was that the girl who used to throw on a dress and walk into the night like she owned it hadn’t been back since.

In the past, she would’ve picked up the phone and called Sway. Crying into her best friend’s shoulder until the ache in her chest felt a little less raw. But those days felt like a lifetime ago.

Since they’d left the safe house, she and Sway had barely spoken. When they did, it was always Lottie who reached out. The replies she got in return were cold and clipped. Nothing more than one or two-word answers. Nothing like her Sway. It made her sick. It made her sad.

Losing that connection had dimmed something in her—a light that used to keep the rest of her world in color. No matter how hard she tried, she couldn’t find the silver lining. The silence between them felt permanent.

Slipping into her pajamas, Lottie padded into the bathroom. The soft overhead light cast a tired glow over her face as she stared at her reflection.

She gathered her long hair into a high ponytail, pinning back her bangs with practiced hands. Then she reached for the little plastic box beside the sink, pulled out a cleansing wipe, and began scrubbing off her war paint.

Stroke by stroke, her confidence disappeared. So did the version of her who used to believe everything could be fixed.

Not wanting to sit in the silence of her home any longer, Lottie remembered one of the nurses at the clinic had mentioned needing someone to cover the late shift. Why not? At least it would get her out of the house. Stepping out of the bathroom, she grabbed her phone and quickly dialed the clinic.

“Clinique de Villa.”

“Soirée, Sacha. Voulez-vous toujours que votre quart de travail soit couvert?”

“Oui. Ce serait génial, Lottie.”

“Vous êtes les bienvenus.”

She hung up, grateful Sasha hadn’t found anyone else yet. Work wasn’t glamorous, and it wasn’t exactly a party, but it was better than sitting here alone with her thoughts and memories.

Throwing her phone on the bed, she started to change. If she couldn't wear the dress, she’d at least wear her scrubs like armor. Something familiar. Something useful.

She wasn’t running. She was surviving. And for tonight, that was enough.

It wasn’t that she was lonely for the attention of a man… well, she was, but more than that, she missed her best friend. It all went back to Sway being kidnapped and tortured because of her affiliation with the club.

Sighing at the thought, Lottie knew she’d played a role in that situation. Her ex-boyfriend, Dawson Franks, had been the one behind the entire horrible attack.

She still didn’t know what had happened to him. If she had to guess, Vicious, Sway’s husband, had probably tortured Dawson to death. Which, honestly, he deserved.

The guilt of being part of the reason Sway had been targeted had Lottie accepting the distance between them.

After Sway married Vicious, the distance only grew. Lottie couldn’t shake the feeling that he didn’t want her around. It was in the looks he gave her—the sharp ones filled with quiet judgment, and the way he barely acknowledged her.

Even Sway had stopped calling as much. The whole damn thing was depressing.

The only good thing to come out of her connection to the club was landing the nursing job at Clinique de Villa. The twenty-four-hour clinic gave her something to hold onto—purpose, routine, and most of all, a place to hide.

An excuse to always be busy. Unavailable. Chicken. That’s what she was.

* * *

Razor

If you sit long enough looking out onto the world, it can almost appear to be perfect at times. When your entire life has been dictated, you’ll find a way to break those ties and grasp freedom at any cost.

For Merritt Clermont the world faded away when he blasted down the highway on his Harley.

If there was anywhere his soul could unburden itself, it would be right there on the blacktop, wind in his face, roar of the engine in his ears, concrete beneath his wheels.

The patch on his back told everyone who he was. A Royal Bastard.

He’d been born into the life of a biker. His mother “god rest her soul" had wanted him to be a doctor or a lawyer. He promised to go to school and kept that promise. But he’d been pulled back into the club life once she died.

He’d made a deal with his dad to let him finish medical school and he’d return to the fold.

He could have left the lifestyle once his old man died. Instead, Razor found another home. One with the Royal Bastards. His brothers were his family. They always had his back whether on or off the road. Whether he had his colors on or not.

Coming up in his father’s world did not earn him anything.

Hell, it didn’t earn him the right to breathe.

His father had been an officer with the club, which made him have to fight harder for his place in this life.

He worked hard for his degree in medicine too.

If anyone wanted to take either from him, they would have to be ready for one hell of a fight.

Over the years, he’d managed to find his place amongst his brothers.

He was the chapter’s head medic, which gained him the road name Razor.

Just like him, each man had their own story.

Just like the two men on his six—Book and Hemlock.

Book had been in the club for years, just from behind bars.

The guy had barely been patched in when he went to prison for murder.

He’d been out a year and was still struggling to get his footing.

Hemlock had come along as a kid doing odd jobs and now held a position in the chapter as the second medic.

Being in the club they were held to a code. A code they each lived by and no one, no one ever broke the code. One of loyalty, trust, honor, respect, and most of all to protect each other.

Pulling off the highway, he led them into town.

Razor was sure it was time for a break. The dust and dirt from the road had him ready for something liquid and cold.

His damn phone buzzed in his back pocket.

Taking a breath he tried not to think about who may be calling.

Things had been hectic at the clinic lately with the older doctor cutting back his hours.

If the old man was calling off, Razor would retire the man permanently.

Parking the bike, he sat and waited for his brothers to line up next to him. Reaching into his back pocket he took the phone out only to see a string of missed calls from the clinic along with three texts from Lottie. Opening up his messages he read the text.

Lottie- Razor, doc wants me to close the clinic tonight.

Lottie- The old bastard left me here alone.

Lottie – I tried to lock up, but the alarm went off. Send me the code.