Martina (Royal Harlots MC Tijuana MX #1)

Chapter 1

MARTINA

I never planned on running for my life at twenty-two years old, but here I am on the streets of Tijuana, hiding in the shadows, peeking over my shoulder every few minutes.

I could easily blame this shit-show on my brother, Eduardo, but that wouldn’t be entirely fair. If I stood up to him six months ago, had some backbone and didn’t fall for his lies—again—I’d still be enjoying my mother’s homemade empanadas in her bungalow two blocks from the Strand in Mission Beach.

Who knew going to a boarded-up bar in Imperial Beach to save my brother from losing body parts would result in me being sold off to settle his gambling debt?

Another part of the problem rested with my fearless nature. Most of my girlfriends never would’ve even entertained the idea of walking into the seedy bar at midnight, but not me. My energy level and love of adventure baffled most.

My mother enrolled me in martial arts classes when I was six with the hope I would expend the pent-up energy that drove my teachers crazy. Then she added gymnastics to my after-school activities. I became proficient in both, although it didn’t do anything to quiet my quest for adventure.

Roller coasters with death-defying heights: I’m in. Skydiving: yes, please. Dare me to do something crazy; I’m your woman.

Adrenaline junkie would be me—or as my mother would say—"You f’ing crazy.

” Then she would bless herself with the sign of the cross and kiss it up to God.

Her way of trusting God to put me on the right path.

I never had the heart to burst her bubble, but my path was riddled with detours and potholes.

The night in Imperial Beach ended with my brother’s tear-stained face as two gorillas bundled me into the back of a van headed for Mexico. He left without a scratch, and I ended up held against my will as a courier for the cartel.

The original deal centered around working to pay off Eduardo’s debt, but six months later, I was still strapping drugs to my body for my weekly trips over the border.

Exchange the drugs for money, then head back to Mexico accompanied both ways by a cartel underling young enough to make us look like a loving couple.

No. No. And hell no.

With no end in sight, I formulated Plan A.

Unfortunately, the guard I trusted turned out to be a prick who promised to look the other way when I made my escape, but then laughed in my face, threatening to rat me out if I didn’t join him in his bed.

A roundhouse strike to his temple followed by a swift kick to his nuts (thank you, Sensei Choi) rendered him unconscious, changing Plan A to a sketchy Plan B— running off in the black of night.

I’d made it as far as Tijuana, but I still needed a passport and money to pay for a counterfeit passport.

I reasoned The Gateway to Mexico would offer an assortment of menial jobs.

Plus, I wasn’t picky. Dishwasher, taco maker, bartender in a dive bar—anything where I could stay under the radar and be paid under the table.

And I was supremely qualified, as I’d done all those jobs while trying to find myself after high school.

What started as a gap year became a gap life, but one thing I know for sure—being a drug mule wasn’t on my bingo card.

A cacophony of noise and neon lights made Avenida Revolución the busiest street in Tijuana, and the perfect place to blend in.

I discreetly stay behind or next to large groups, knowing my captives are looking for a single female.

I keep my pace fast enough to appear confident, but slow enough to not look desperate or draw attention—or like I’m running from one of the most notorious cartels in Mexico.

By now, my defection would be noticed, and one thing about the cartel: they hate to lose. Struggling to keep my paranoia in check, I sneak a peek over my shoulder every few minutes.

So far, so good—until…

The little hairs on the back of my neck prickle like a sixth sense.

I don’t need to look over my shoulder to know Eduardo is close by.

Even as children, we could sense what the other was thinking and doing almost telepathically.

My sweet mother always said it was the power of twins.

She claimed, as toddlers, we had our own unique language and would always have an unbreakable bond after sharing the womb for nine months.

Unfortunately, Eduardo twisted this bond and used it as a weapon, relying on guilt, constantly reminding me of his perceived belief that I owe him because we are twins and bound at birth.

Our unique language translated into tantrums shattering the bond, but one oddity remains: my ability to know when he is near.

Mom said he’s artistic and impulsive like our father (who ran off soon after we were born), but I know the truth. Like our deadbeat, non-existent father, Eduardo’s talents are manipulation with a heavy dose of selfishness.

Where I’m strong, resilient, and a bit headstrong, Eduardo relies on his good looks to get him out of trouble, or into trouble.

Then he whines, cajoles, or cons his way into more trouble, until he ultimately falls behind and runs to family for help—usually me.

An endless cycle of immature behavior that never ends well for anyone, and least of all me.

Sending Eduardo to find me, lure me in, and lower my guard while one of the cartel goons waits in the shadows would be typical. As much as Eduardo claims he loathes them, he can’t break away because he is always in their debt. Bad bets, gambling debts—they basically own him, body and soul.

I pick up my pace, but his presence moves closer.

My heart races, and I focus on putting one foot in front of the other.

I startle when a door slams open, and a group of drunk men stumble out, along with loud, thumping music.

The flashing neon sign overhead advertises The Tropics, promising a night you won’t forget.

They bump into me then surround me. I consider using them for cover, but instead, I barrel through them and into the still open door.

The door closes behind me, and I stop to take in my surroundings.

Loud, driving music beats inside my chest, keeping pace with my raging heart.

I’m enveloped into the swirl of mostly men seated at tables or crowded around three different stages where women dance and gyrate in skimpy costumes, including a fringe-wearing cowgirl, a G-string-wearing patriot depicting the American flag, and a salacious schoolgirl in a uniform my Catholic nuns would have forbidden.

Yup, I landed head-first into a Tijuana strip club.

It’s slightly more upscale than the others on the boulevard, but my mind still spins with different scenarios.

I could hide out in the dressing room, don a costume as a disguise and get up on stage, or beg the owner for a job so I could earn enough money for a fake passport, then disappear over the border.

I move deeper into the crowd, and my body relaxes slightly.

The energy is potent, along with the swirling smoke, sweet perfume and music vibrating the floorboards beneath my feet.

I work my way around and through the crowd of bodies until I reach the back of the large room.

Nobody notices me or looks at me, and I relish the anonymity.

Basic rule of strip clubs—never make eye contact.

I take in the long bar on one wall where bartenders, mostly female, scurry around to keep up with the demanding crowd, and Plan C is born.

Move to the edge of the bar, try to pick out the boss, then ask if they need help.

First, I desperately need the bathroom. Running for your life is hard on the bladder.

I eye a group of six dangerous, leather-wearing men blocking my path. The music changes. The men stand and focus on another set of women in various costumes taking the stage.

Keeping in the shadows of the flashing strobe lights, I easily slither my five-foot-five, one hundred and fifteen pounds of scared shit past these broad, bulky men. Since their eye level is a good eight inches above me, I quickly ease past them, then down the long hallway in search of a bathroom.

Two seconds later, a large hand clamps onto my shoulder, stopping me in my tracks. “Where you goin’, sweetheart?”

DIESEL

I grab my phone off the table and glance at it. “Where is the motherfucker?”

“He’ll be here.” Smoke flicks his lighter.

“You sure he meant tonight at nine?”

“No, dumbass, he wants to set up a meet at nine in the morning.” Blood leans into the table. “What the fuck do you think?”

“I think it’s a stupid time. What self-respecting outlaw schedules a meet at nine on a Friday night? Nine is a bullshit time. Too early for any action, but too late for a sit-down.”

“You’re just pissy ‘cause you’re afraid it’s gonna interfere with your party.” Blood smirks.

“Eduardo’s twenty minutes late already,” Smoke grumbles. “He’s got ten minutes, then I’m calling it off, and he can set up another meet.”

Smoke values his time and punctuality. Eduardo being late wasn’t gonna win any points with our prez.

“We don’t even know if we’re gonna like his deal,” Blood adds.

“If and when Eduardo gets here, we talk shit over, and if we like what he has to say, we make the deal—if not, he’s out the door.”

“How come Benito didn’t come himself?”

“Who the fuck knows? Supposedly, Eduardo works with Benito, but I’m not putting up with this late shit, no matter how lucrative the deal.”

“Owning a piece of a casino would be sweet.” Blood, our VP, is always looking for a way to increase profits. “Always loved going to Vegas.”

“Only if the percentage is right and in our favor, ‘cause there’s no fuckin’ way I’m dipping our fingers into something that don’t pay off.”

Smoke looks at the bottom line first. He took a shit hole like The Tropics, fixed it up and made it a huge moneymaker, along with the cage fighting.

He’d learned the hard way in San Diego how much not paying attention to details can cost. He’d almost lost his chapter of the Royal Bastards, but somehow managed to put it all together in Tijuana and actually make a profit—a huge profit, which made Jameson, our chapter president in the States, very happy.

“This fucker’s got five more minutes.” Smoke throws me a look. “Can’t have our Enforcer waiting too long for his birthday party.”

“Hey, not every day a guy turns thirty.” I flick my hand at Smoke and Blood. “And I plan on partying my ass off, ‘cause someday I’m gonna be old like you fuckers.”

Smoke narrows his eyes. “Who you calling old?”

“Yeah, yeah.” I pull a pack of smokes out of my cut. “And who the fuck does business on a Friday night?”

“Quit bitchin’,” Smoke said.

“Don’t these bastards know Fridays are for kicking back, drinking, and getting your dick wet?”

“Geez,” Blood rolls his eyes, “you sound like a kid.”

“Worse,” I add with a smirk.

“If we get the right numbers, this casino deal could work. With the profits from the cage fighting and the product we sell at the fights, we need another place to hide our money.” Blood laughs. “Too much fuckin’ money, not a bad problem to have.”

“And the beauty part is, the cartel pays off the cops, and we have an open door to make our money legit,” Smoke says. “Trade the dirty money in for chips, then redeem the chips for clean cash. Win-win.”

“I sure never expected when we landed in Tijuana two years ago that we’d have duffel bags full of scratch, but as they say,” Smoke plugs a cig between his lips and lights up, “hard work pays off.”

Bolt joins us at the table, and Smoke asks, “Any sign of Eduardo?”

“Not yet, Boss.” Bolt shrugs. “I guess punctuality ain’t important to the cartel.”

Smoke glances at his phone again. “Fuck him; time’s up,” he says to Bolt, who runs security at the strip club. “Lock up the doors. Time to get this party started.” Smoke nods at me. “Wouldn’t want you to miss a minute.”

For the rest of the night, entry to The Tropics is by invitation only.

That way, all the brothers can party their asses off without worrying about watching over the club.

And I planned on enjoying that freedom to the fullest with one, or maybe two or three, of the beautiful ladies strutting their stuff.

Shit, it’s my fuckin’ birthday.

I sling my arm around Bolt’s shoulder. “I understand Ricky brought in some extra girls for the night.”

“That’s right.” Bolt nods to Ricky, who manages The Tropics. “And if any of them are good, we’ll keep them on as regulars.”

“Sounds like a sweet plan. Nothing like new faces to keep the money rolling in.” Bolt toasts me with a shot of Jack, and I throw it back.

“Believe me, when this night is over, you’re not gonna be able to see straight.”

“Bring it on, brother. Bring it on.”

Bolt heads toward the back door, and I spy one of the new additions looking lost. Probably looking for the dressing room, and I’m feeling helpful. If the front is as good as the back, my thirtieth birthday would be one to remember.

Earlier, I got a very energetic birthday blowjob from Chantel, and although she’s hot as fuck, sometimes she’s just a little too eager.

She’s been putting the pressure on lately, trying real hard to be my old lady, but that’s never gonna happen.

Problem is, Chantel isn’t very particular and screws everything in sight, so there is no way I’m dipping my dick into that germ factory, but shit, it’s my birthday, so who am I to turn down her deep throat?

The new girl passes the dressing room door, so I catch up with her. Seems like this sweet flower needs assistance, and I’m just to one to help.

I rest my hand on her shoulder. “Where you goin’, sweetheart?”

She spins around, eyes wide, and I was right. She looks like she walked out of a Gap commercial. All long legs and narrow waist, with her thick dark hair teasing those perky tits. Happy, happy birthday to me.