Cursed:Chosen Few MC Romance Book one

By: Nessa Connor


“Mornin, Cutter. I’ve got a job for you.”

Dirk Beaumont had been sitting on his ratty couch, nursing a beer and minding his own business. He liked minding his own business and had intended to spend his entire morning on the couch doing not very much. But when the boss shows up, opens your front door and makes a personal visit to your pad, you pay attention. It wasn’t a matter of being polite. Dirk had given up being polite long ago but just like a straight who wants to keep his job, he had to be nice to the head guy. Bart was the president of his motorcycle club, The Chosen Few. As a senior member and an officer of the club, he had to toe the line when it came to following the few rules and the club code. One big rule was that when the president speaks, you fucking listen. When he comes to see you, that visit becomes the most important thing on your agenda.

Not that it took a rule for him to take notice. Something important was going down or Bart wouldn’t be banging on his front door.

So, as Bart slumped in a chair and put his boots on the cheap-assed coffee table, Dirk got up, went to the refrigerator and got two more beers, taking one to Bart, who stared at the bottle in his hand. “It’s nine in the fucking morning, Cutter.”

“Call it a breakfast beer, Prez,” he said. “If we’re gonna talk business…”

Bart took a sip. “Fine. We’ve got a job that needs your special touch.”

Dirk resigned himself to missing the ball game that was going to be on that afternoon. He had a twenty riding on the Broncos. It would be bad enough to lose the money, but if he didn’t even get to see the game, that really sucked. Still, club business was his main thing. “So what is it? Is Chico acting up again? Doing jobs on his own?”

“Probably, but I haven’t heard any new shit. I think the last talk you two had convinced him to keep a lower profile. At least until the scars heal completely.”

Dirk looked at him and waited to hear the real news.

“It’s a smuggling run.”

Dirk laughed. “You want me to visit sunny Mexico?” That was the closest border. The run up to Canada was too long and besides, the clubs to the north protected their own turf.

“Not this time. This one’s a trip up to Canukville and I need you on it right away.”


“It will bring in cash that the club can use, Cutter. This ain’t some giant, convoluted scheme… pretty easy money really.”

Dirk nodded. A run to Canada could be lucrative, even if you just brought back prescription drugs that you bought legally in Canada. Retirees were happy to pay a premium to get their prescriptions filled where the drugs cost half as much. And it wasn’t even risky—the Canadian government didn’t mind, so the only tricky spot was crossing back into the US.

If the trip had been to Mexico, Dirk would have suggested letting someone else do it, but he was one of the few senior club members without major busts. Bart had one assault conviction and was out on bail for another now. The problem was that felons had trouble getting into Canada—the border agents were picky. Dirk had managed to avoid getting busted since his juvenile convictions and they’d been buried. If the score was in Canada it made sense for him to do it.

“What sort of cargo?”

“A chick.”

He laughed. “You want to smuggle a chick down from Canada? We don’t have enough here?”

“Other way around. You can bring a few things back if you want, to pay for gas, but the job is getting her into Canada.”

Dirk laughed. “So she gets on a bus that takes her to the border and she can walk across.”

Bart drained his beer, then shook his head. “Not this chick. She’s in some shit, a bit of an awkward situation between a fucking rock and a hard place. Her biggest problem comes in getting to the border. She’s gonna have people looking for her.”

“She’s wanted?”

“In a manner of speaking. She’s doing a runner on her husband.”

Dirk laughed. “Like I said, buses leave every hour to Vancouver. Or Amtrak runs from LA to Seattle.”

“That doesn’t work if the husband is Terrence Montrose.”

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