Blood Sisters

Shea Stevens fears an impending biker gang war could destroy her family. A year after she put a rival club behind bars, Shea is blindsided when a crooked senator gets them out of prison.

When the senator’s former mistress begs for protection, Shea and her own sisterhood of female bikers rally to defend the woman from from the merciless gang sent to silence her.

But as violence rocks the once-quiet streets of rural Arizona and long-kept secrets are exposed, Shea fears losing the one person she treasures most. Her young niece.

Can Shea protect both women from a crooked senator and the bloodthirsty biker gang bent on revenge?

Blood Sisters is the gripping third book in the Shea Stevens Outlaw Biker crime thriller series. If you like full-throttle action, heart-pounding intrigue, and exciting tales where queer women join forces and kick ass, then you’ll love Dharma Kelleher’s thrilling story of high-octane girl power.

Buy Blood Sisters today and join Shea as she fights for justice and truth.

"Dharma Kelleher is one of the few transgender crime writers working today, which is reason enough to read her books; we all need to listen to the full variety of voices that form the backbone of our society.

But rest assured, you are also going to get some kick-ass reads. One would be hard-pressed to find other action-packed thrillers that are so rooted in a foundation of heart, healing, and hope."

-Kristopher Zgorski, BOLO Book Review

"A gritty, action-packed story with my favorite lesbian protagonist."

-Sons of Spade Book Review

Shea Stevens’s blood ran cold. A skull painted against a Confederate flag background glared at her from the gas tank of one of the countless bikes in the dusty Cortes County Fairgrounds parking lot. It wasn’t just some rando’s attempt to add racist flair to their Harley Fat Boy. It was the Johnny Reb, emblem of the Confederate Thunder Motorcycle Club. It meant trouble. 

“It can’t be.” Tendrils of fear snaked down her spine while she stared at the motorcycle. She nervously ran a hand through her butch pixie haircut, ignoring the harsh summer sun turning her tanned skin red.

“Aunt Shea, come on!” Annie Wittmann, her twelve-year-old niece, pulled at her arm. 

The two other women with them stopped and turned. 

“Something wrong, Havoc?” asked Rah-Rah, a golden-haired woman with the girl-next-door looks.

Indigo followed Shea’s gaze. Her black-and-cobalt-blue braids fell still as the whisper of a breeze died. “Shit.”

The three women wore leather cuts identifying them as members of the Athena Sisterhood Motorcycle Club. Annie wore a cutoff denim vest with the words Little Sister stitched on the back. 

“Gotta belong to one of their hangarounds or someone’s old lady,” Rah-Rah said. 

“Or a member from an out-of-state chapter,” Indigo suggested.

Shea checked the back of the bike. “Arizona plates. They’re local.” 

“Can’t be a patched member then,” Rah-Rah insisted. “They’re all in prison. Won’t even be eligible for parole for another four years.”

“Let’s hope so.” Shea exchanged a look with Indigo that communicated volumes about their brutal history of dealing with the Thunder. If they were out of prison and knew the Sisterhood was responsible for putting them there…Shea didn’t even want to think about what could happen. To her. The other members of the Sisterhood. But worst of all, to Annie. 

“Aunt Shea, can we go in already? I’m melting out here in the parking lot.”

“Yeah,” Shea said. “Let’s go in. Uncle Terrance is probably wondering where we are.”

At the entrance to the fairgrounds, a heavyset man in a Harley Davidson T-shirt said, “Welcome to the High Desert Biker Festival. Tickets are ten dollars each.”

Shea held up her vendor’s badge. “Iron Goddess Custom Cycles.” She handed him a ten-dollar bill. “This is for my niece.”

After Indigo and Rah-Rah paid, the four of them wandered through the maze of booths that sold everything from clothing and riding gear to aftermarket parts and motorcycle insurance. Shea scanned the leather-clad crowds for anyone wearing a Confederate Thunder cut. Fortunately, they reached the Iron Goddess booth without seeing another Johnny Reb. 

Under the white ten-by-twenty canopy tent, Terrance Douglas, Shea’s business partner, sat in front of a banner that read Iron Goddess, Custom Cycles for Women. He was a muscular black man with a trim afro, a full beard, and an approachable smile. A sport bike with a tank painted like a checkered racing flag sat in the middle of the tent, flanked by racks of helmets, jackets, gloves, and Iron Goddess–branded clothing.

“Ladies,” Terrance said with a nod. 

“Morning, T,” Shea said.

“’Bout time y’all showed up.” He stood. “I was beginning to worry.”

“My fault,” Rah-Rah said, pulling off a pair of shades she’d bought at one of the booths on their way in. “I couldn’t decide between this pair and some retro Ray-Bans.”

“Hi, Uncle Terrance,” Annie said, giving him a hug.

“Hey, sweetie. You excited about starting soccer camp tomorrow?”

Annie shrugged. “A little nervous.”

“Nervous? Girl, I’ve seen you play. You got moves like Megan Rapinoe. What’ve you got to be nervous about?”

“I don’t know.”

“You just go out there, show ’em who’s boss. It’ll be all right.”

“Thanks, Uncle T.”

“You two ready to check out the rest of the festival?” Rah-Rah asked Indigo and Annie. “I saw a jewelry vendor a few aisles over selling cute earrings.” 

“Can I?” Annie looked to Shea.

“Yeah, but do what Rah-Rah and Indigo tell you.” Shea handed her a couple of twenties. “And try not to spend it all in one place.”

“Geez, you act like I’m five.” 

“She’ll be all right,” Indigo said. “We’ll also keep an eye out for you-know-what. We’ll meet back up at the awards ceremony if we don’t see you sooner.”

“See you ’round.” Shea gave each of them a hug and a clap on the back then turned to Terrance. “Getting any customers?” 

“Some. Sold three jackets, a few pairs of gloves, and several T-shirts. A couple women asked about custom bikes and took business cards.”

A woman and man strolled into the booth and walked around the sport bike. She was skinny with long blond hair secured with a studded leather hair wrap. He sported an unkempt beard and wraparound shades. His leather cut identified him as a patched member of the Desert Devils, a one-percenter motorcycle club with close ties to the Confederate Thunder. Maybe it was his bike they saw in the parking lot, though usually they decorated theirs with red devils, not the Johnny Reb.

“Let us know if you have questions,” Terrance said, but the couple ignored him. 

“Why you want a bike of your own, honey?” asked the guy. 

“Cause the bitch seat is hard and uncomfortable is why.” The woman threw a leg over the sport bike. She wore a cutoff denim jacket with the words “Property of Dugger” stitched on the back. “I can picture me riding something like this.”

“A pissant crotch rocket?” Dugger chuckled. “Girl, you’d kill yourself, fer sure.”

“It’s got twice the horsepower of a Harley with the same displacement,” Shea said, meeting the woman’s eyes. “And much better clearance, so you can take corners faster. You could leave your boyfriend here in the dust.”

The woman’s face split with a mischievous smile. “Sounds like my kinda ride.”

Dugger stepped between Shea and his girlfriend on the bike. “Lady, I suggest you mind your own business.”

Shea stepped into his space. “This here is my business. I built this bike. You’re not afraid your old lady will leave you behind, are ya?”

He glanced down at her vest. “I recognize them colors. You one of them Barbie bikers.”

“Athena Sisterhood. I see you’re one of the Thunder’s lap dogs. They haven’t patched you over yet?”

“Shea,” Terrance warned. “Don’t.”

Shea’s eyes locked with Dugger’s. She didn’t want to be the first to look away. At the same time, she didn’t need club rivalries spilling over into the business she shared with Terrance. 

She turned to the girlfriend. “When you’re ready to buy, call us. My man Terrance here’ll give you a good deal.”

“Thanks.” The girlfriend picked up a business card, and the two of them walked on to the next tent.

“What the hell was that?” Terrance asked.

“What can I say? I’m not good with people. Especially assholes. You should have Lakota, Kyle, or Monica helping you run the booth. Even Vince would be better than me.”

“Vince, Kyle, and Monica were all here yesterday. Lakota will be here this afternoon. You owe it to your team to put in your time.”

Shea took in a deep breath and let it out. “You’re not wrong.” She sat on the bike in the tent. “After the festival, give me the keys to the truck. I’ll trailer the show bike back to the shop. You can drive this bike home.” She patted the bike’s fairing.

“Deal. Now I gotta take a piss. Do us both a favor and try not to kill any future customers while I’m gone.”

Shea laughed darkly. “That’s a big ask.”

Terrance walked out of the tent then turned. “The award ceremony’s at seven. Encourage people who stop by the booth to vote for our Flying Tree bike.”

“Will do.”