Book Junkiez

(Dixie Reapers MC)

Motorcycle Club Romance, Age Gap, Suspense

Date Published: October 24, 2025

Nova — I was never a part of my uncle Bats’ outlaw MC world. He kept me
far from the Dixie Reapers, convinced distance meant safety. But when my
parents died in a crash I know wasn’t an accident, I walk straight into
the world I’ve been shielded from, where every secret carries blood,
betrayal, and danger. Each step puts a bigger target on my back, but I
can’t stop. Not when the conspiracy reached higher than I ever imagined.
And then there’s Doc. He’s a risk I can’t afford, no matter
how much I want him.

Doc — I patched into the Dixie Reapers for a fresh start, not to guard the 19
year old niece of a fallen brother. As a veteran and the club’s medic, I
know how to fight, save lives, and bury temptation. But Nova’s stubborn,
reckless, and too tempting to resist. I fell fast, and hard. Once I’ve
set eyes on her, I’m not letting go. Protecting her tests me more than
any battlefield ever has, but losing her isn’t an option.

Enemies circle like vultures — dirty cops, corrupt judges, men willing to
kill to silence us. Together we uncover a deadly web of human trafficking and
murder. But in the outlaw world, justice comes at a cost. Nova is mine, and
I’ll burn the world down before I let anyone take her.

If you like possessive alpha males, gritty MC romance, heart-pounding
suspense, and age gap romances, you’re going to love Doc and
Nova’s story!

WARNING: This book contains mature themes, government corruption, human
trafficking, violence, and adult content. Reader discretion advised.

EXCERPT

Nova

My little Honda looked pathetic among the gleaming motorcycles, like a child
who’d accidentally wandered into an adult party. I gripped the steering
wheel, knuckles white, as I scanned the Dixie Reapers clubhouse. Uncle Bats
had always warned me to stay away from this place, from his world. But Uncle
Bats was dead, and I needed answers that only his brothers might have.

The folder and notebook on my passenger seat contained everything I had left
of my mother — her research notes, newspaper clippings, and a lifetime of
suspicions that had probably gotten her killed. I picked them up, clutching
them to my chest like armor.

“You can do this, Nova,” I whispered to myself. “For Mom and
Dad.”

I took three deep breaths, counting each one the way my therapist had taught
me after the accident. Except it wasn’t an accident. I knew it
wasn’t, no matter what the police report said.

Outside, the late afternoon sun cast long shadows across the parking lot. Men
in leather cuts moved between motorcycles, their laughter and conversations a
low rumble that stopped abruptly when they noticed my car. I felt their gazes
on me, assessing, suspicious.

Uncle Bats had kept me secret from them, and while I knew of the Dixie
Reapers, I’d never been allowed to meet them. Now I was about to shatter
that barrier. The thought sent a tremor through my hands, but I shoved the
fear down deep where it couldn’t reach my face.

I stepped out of the car, my sensible flats crunching on the gravel. Five feet
tall in my best shoes, I’d never felt smaller than I did walking toward
that building. The folder and notebook clutched to my chest were my only
shield against their stares.

“Hey, darlin’, you lost?” called one man, his tone somewhere
between amused and suspicious. Tattoos covered his arms and disappeared
beneath the leather vest emblazoned with the Dixie Reapers patch.

I kept walking, eyes forward, spine straight the way my mother had taught me.
“Look them in the eye, Nova,” she’d say. “Don’t
let them think you’re afraid, even when you are.”

The surrounding conversations died one by one, replaced by silence and the
weight of two dozen stares. I could feel them taking in my brown hair, my
hazel eyes, my five-foot-nothing frame that had never intimidated anyone. I
probably looked like a strong wind could blow me over, but they didn’t
know about the steel underneath. They didn’t know I was
Mary-Jane’s daughter.

The clubhouse door loomed ahead, guarded by a mountain of a man with a graying
beard and hands the size of dinner plates. His cut identified him as a full
member, not just a hang-around. He stepped directly into my path, forcing me
to stop or walk straight into his chest.

“Clubhouse is members only, sweetheart,” he said, voice like
gravel. “Whatever you’re selling, we ain’t buying.”

Tiling my chin up, I met his gaze. “I’m not selling anything. I
need to speak with whoever’s in charge.”

He chuckled, but there was no humor in it. “That so? And what business
would a little thing like you have with the Dixie Reapers?”

The men behind me had moved closer, forming a loose semicircle. I could feel
them at my back, curiosity and suspicion rolling off them in waves.

“My name is Nova Treemont. I’m Bats’ niece.”

The effect was immediate. The doorman’s expression shifted from
dismissive to shocked in an instant. A murmur rippled through the men behind
me.

“Bullshit,” someone whispered.

“Bats never had family,” said another.

“He had a sister,” another voice said.

The doorman’s eyes narrowed, searching my face. “Bats never
mentioned no niece.”

“He wouldn’t have.” I met his gaze. “He kept me out
of… all this. For protection.” I gestured at the clubhouse with
my free hand. “But he’s gone now, and I need help. The kind only
the Dixie Reapers can provide.”

The doorman studied me for what felt like an eternity, his gaze moving from my
face to the items I clutched and back again. I could almost see the gears
turning behind his eyes, weighing the possibility I was telling the truth
against the risk of letting a stranger into their sanctuary.

“Wait here.” He turned to enter the clubhouse.

I stood rooted to the spot, aware of the bikers still watching me. I could
feel the curiosity and hostility aimed my way. I kept my breathing even,
pretending I couldn’t feel their stares boring into my back.

The doorman returned a minute later, holding the door open. “Come
on,” he said gruffly.

I stepped past him into a world my uncle had spent his life shielding me from.
The air was thick with cigarette smoke that clung to the furniture and walls.
The smell of beer and whiskey undercut everything, along with something else
— something distinctly male and dangerous.

Pool balls clacked on a table where a game paused mid-shot as players turned
to stare. Behind a long bar, bottles gleamed under dim lights. Motorcycle
memorabilia covered the walls — license plates, photos.

It should have felt alien, this place my blood relation had called home.
Instead, deep inside me, something whispered recognition. As if some part of
me had been waiting to find this place my whole life.

The doorman nudged me forward with a hand that could have wrapped around my
entire upper arm. “This way.” He guided me deeper into the
clubhouse. “They’re waiting.”

I followed, clutching my mother’s research to my chest, aware that I was
crossing a threshold I could never uncross. Behind me, I heard someone say
softly, “Mary-Jane’s kid? Jesus Christ.”

They’d known my mother then. At least some of them had known, and
they’d stayed away all these years. Just as Bats had intended.

The thought steadied me as I walked toward whatever waited ahead. I
wasn’t just Nova Treemont anymore. I was Mary-Jane’s daughter,
Bats’ niece. And I had questions that needed answering, no matter how
dangerous the answers might be.

The back room was darker than the main area. Five men sat around a table,
their faces half in shadow, their cuts marking them as the officers of the
Dixie Reapers. I stood before them, a girl in jeans and a cardigan, feeling
like I was facing a firing squad. But I’d come too far to falter now.

The doorman who’d escorted me in gave a brief nod to the man at the head
of the table before stepping back, positioning himself in front of the closed
door. Message received: I wasn’t leaving until they decided I could.

“So,” said the man at the head of the table. His neatly trimmed
gray beard and dark eyes seemed sharp beneath heavy brows. The patches on his
cut read, “President — Savior.” “You claim to be
Bats’ niece.”

It wasn’t a question, but I answered anyway. “I am Bats’
niece. My mother was Mary-Jane Treemont, his younger sister.”

A muscle in the President’s jaw twitched. “Bats was a brother to
us for a long ass time. Never once mentioned a niece.”

“He was protecting me. Keeping his family separate from… this
life.”

One of the other men — younger, with a Vice President patch — snorted.
“Convenient story, sweetheart. Got any proof?”

I unzipped my bag and pulled out a small photo album, sliding it across the
table. “Page three. That’s my mother and uncle at her college
graduation.”

I watched as the President flipped to the page, his expression unchanging as
he studied the photo of a much younger Bats with his arm around my mother.

“Could be anyone.” The VP’s tone lacked conviction.

“Check the next page,” I said. “That’s from my
parents’ wedding. My mother, my father, and uncle.”

The President studied the photo longer this time before passing the album to
the man next to him. It made its way around the table, each man taking a
moment to examine the proof of a side of Bats they’d never known.

“So you’re his niece.” The President slid the album back
across the table. “What do you want from us?”

I took a deep breath and placed my folder on the table. “My parents died
several weeks ago in what was ruled a car accident. Their car went off the
road. Police said my father lost control.”

“And you don’t believe that.” The VP watched me with
narrowed eyes.

“No,” I said firmly. “I don’t. My mother was an
investigative journalist. She was working on a story.” I opened the
folder, spreading out newspaper clippings and photocopied notes across the
scarred wood. “She was investigating connections between Magnolia County
officials and organized crime. Money laundering, illegal gambling, possibly
human trafficking.”

The men exchanged glances, their expressions giving nothing away. I’d
honestly expected some sort of reaction, especially since this was happening
in their territory. My uncle had always been clear that while he may be an
outlaw, some things weren’t tolerated.

“Three days before she died, she called me,” I continued.
“She said she’d found something big. Something that would blow the
whole thing wide open. She wouldn’t tell me details over the phone, said
she’d show me everything when they came to visit that weekend.” My
voice cracked slightly. “They never made it.”

I pulled out a copy of the police report, pointing to highlighted sections.
“The accident report says the car was traveling at high speed, that my
father lost control. But my father never drove fast. He was cautious,
meticulous. And the witness statements are vague. No one actually saw the car
go off the road.”

“Accidents happen.” An older member with a gray ponytail watched
me intently. “Doesn’t mean someone killed your parents.”

I met his gaze directly. “After the funeral, our house was broken into.
Nothing valuable was taken, but my mother’s home office was ransacked.
Her computer was gone. All her files.”

That got their attention. The men straightened, exchanging glances that spoke
volumes.

“I managed to salvage these.” I gestured to the documents on the
table. “She kept backups in a safety deposit box. But it’s not
everything. There are references to evidence she had that I can’t
find.”

The President leaned forward, resting his forearms on the table. “And
what exactly do you expect us to do about this, Ms. Treemont?”

“I’ve tried the legal route,” I said. “I’ve been
to the police, the FBI, even a private investigator. No one will touch it. The
case is closed.” I swallowed hard. “My uncle –Bats — once
told my mother that if she ever needed help, real help, she should come to his
brothers. That you take care of your own.”

“Bats said that?” The VP’s eyebrows raised.

“He did,” I confirmed. “And with him gone, you’re all
I have left.”

The President’s eyes were unreadable as he studied my face. “You
understand what you’re asking? If what you’re saying is true,
you’re talking about going up against powerful people. The kind that can
make a car accident happen.”

“I know.” My voice came out steadier than I felt. “But they
killed my parents. They’ve been watching me too. Cars following me home.
Strange calls. Last week someone broke into my apartment.” I pulled up
my sleeve, revealing a jagged raw wound on my forearm. “I surprised him.
He had a knife.”

That drew a low curse from one of the men who hadn’t spoken yet.

“Before she died, my mother dug into something dangerous — something
big enough to get her killed. These bastards still tried to bury it, but I
swore I’d drag the truth into the light and make them pay.” My
gaze cut across the table, meeting each man’s eyes in turn.
“Justice for my parents is the only thing that matters.”

The silence that followed was heavy, broken only by the distant sounds of the
main room beyond the door.

Finally, the President gathered up my mother’s papers, tapping them into
a neat stack. “Wait outside.”

The doorman stepped forward, opening the door for me. I hesitated, reluctant
to leave my mother’s research behind.

“We’ll return these,” the President said, seeing my
hesitation. “Go on now.”

I had no choice but to comply. The doorman escorted me back to the main room,
indicating a worn leather couch against the wall. “Sit tight.”

I perched on the edge of the couch, feeling the weight of curious stares from
the men scattered around the room. No one approached me, but I could hear the
whispers.

“… Bats’ niece…”

“… Mary-Jane’s kid…”

“… looks just like her mother…”

That last comment made me look up sharply, trying to identify who had spoken.
An older member nodded at me from the bar, raising his beer bottle slightly.
“Knew your mama when she was younger than you. Bats always said she was
the smart one in the family. Said she could sniff out a lie from a mile
away.”

A lump formed in my throat. I’d never heard anyone talk about my mother
like that, like they’d known her personally. “Did you know her
well?”

The man shrugged. “Well enough. Your uncle always spoke highly of her
investigative skills. Said she could’ve been FBI if she hadn’t
been so damn stubborn about working outside the system.”

That sounded like my mother. And it sounded like something Uncle Bats would
say.

I sat straighter, hope kindling in my chest for the first time since I’d
arrived. Maybe they would help me after all. Maybe I’d finally get the
answers I’d been seeking for several weeks.

I just had to convince them I was worth the risk.

I traced the edge of my mother’s notebook with my fingertip, counting
the seconds that stretched into minutes. The leather couch beneath me had seen
better days, cracked and worn by years of men larger than me shifting their
weight. Around the room, bikers pretended not to watch me while doing exactly
that. I wondered if Uncle Bats had sat here, on this very couch, planning runs
or celebrating victories I’d never know about.

My gaze drifted to a wall of photos near the bar — men in Dixie Reapers cuts,
arms slung around each other’s shoulders, grins splitting their bearded
faces. I rose slowly, drawn to search for my uncle’s face among them. A
few members tensed as I moved, but none stopped me.

There he was. Younger, with fewer lines around his eyes, his arm thrown around
another member, looking more relaxed than I’d ever seen him during his
rare visits to our home. He’d always been on edge around us, as if
expecting trouble to follow him through our door.

Now I understood why.

“He was a good man,” said a voice behind me.

I turned to find the older member who’d spoken to me earlier, the one
who’d known my mother.

“One of our best,” he continued. “Loyal to the bone.”

“But not loyal enough to tell you about his family,” I said
softly.

The old biker’s mouth quirked in a half-smile. “That was his
loyalty to you, girl. Keeping you separate. Safe.” He nodded toward the
back room. “Not many of us manage that trick.”

Before I could respond, the door to the back room opened. The President
emerged, followed by the others. The room fell silent as they approached.

“Ms. Treemont,” the President said, his voice carrying across the
now-quiet clubhouse. “We’ve discussed your situation.”

I returned to the couch, perching on its edge, hands folded in my lap to hide
their trembling. “And?”

“Bats was our brother.” The President spoke in a measured voice,
choosing each word with care. “That carries weight. But what
you’re asking involves the club in what appears to be a personal
vendetta against powerful people, based on circumstantial evidence.”

My heart sank. “It’s not just –”

He held up a hand, cutting me off. “I didn’t say we wouldn’t
help. I said you’re asking a lot.”

Hope flickered back to life in my chest.

“We’ll hear you out,” he continued. “Review what
you’ve brought us. But I can’t promise involvement beyond that.
Understand?”

I nodded quickly. “Yes. Thank you.”

“Don’t thank me yet.” His expression remained stern.
“This isn’t a democracy. I make decisions based on what’s
best for the club, not for outsiders — even ones with Bats’
blood.”

About the Author

Harley Wylde is an accomplished author known for her captivating MC Romances.
With an unwavering commitment to sensual storytelling, Wylde immerses her
readers in an exciting world of fierce men and irresistible women. Her works
exude passion, danger, and gritty realism, while still managing to end on a
satisfying note each time.

When not crafting her tales, Wylde spends her time brainstorming new
plotlines, indulging in a hot cup of Starbucks, or delving into a good book.
She has a particular affinity for supernatural horror literature and movies.
Visit Wylde’s website to learn more about her works and upcoming events, and
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