TRIGGER: A Motorcycle Club Romance Novel Read Online Free Page B

wondered if he knew I had some Irish in me. Some
Italian, too. Half and half, to be exact, with some renegade Polish thrown in
there, too. A little mutt, that’s me. It led to my good looks though, and I
won’t ever complain about that. It got me laid plenty, and what more did a
19-year-old kid with a penchant for bad news want?

 
    I reached up and stroked my
chin, the slight stubble there a matter of some pride for me. My jaw, thin and
strong, wasn’t much for growing hair, so I made sure to always keep a five
o’clock shadow. With long hair that you could call copper and green eyes, I was
the spitting image of my brother.

 
    Except he’d had a beard so good a Viking would envy it. And a nice, fluffy
mustache, to boot.

 
    I wished more than anything
that I would grow up a little more and find out I could grow that, too. The
other thing my brother had that I didn’t was sheer mass. My brother took up
half the damn room when he walked into it. I was a little leaner.

 
    I reckon I was just as
strong as he was at my age, but he sure as hell looked it, and I didn’t. Which sometimes put me at a funky
advantage, when big guys thought I’d be easy to knock out. I was small enough
to duck their big lugging punches, strong enough to deal a nice gut-buster on
the way up.

 
    “…Dago bastards, haha ! Get it! Ah, I crack myself up kid,” Steel said,
suddenly leaning over to punch my shoulder amicably. I’d missed whatever train
he’d been on, but I didn’t imagine it was very important. It rarely was. I
yawned. I was hungover as fuck, and to be perfectly
frank Steel was just getting on my nerves that day. Of course, I could never
tell him to be quiet or keep his thoughts to himself. He was the damn
President, and he’d taken me in like a damn son.

 
    “Good one, boss,” I said, forcing
a smile. Dusty, murky sunlight filtered in through the painted-over windows.
Dust motes drifted in the rare shafts of light. It smelled like sex and booze
and cigarettes and pot and sadness and no hope and everything in the world
spoiling all at once, rotting away…

 
    “Where is this cheap paddy
bastard,” Steel said, his mood changing swiftly, as it often seemed to. I
looked at my watch; it was half past eleven, and he was thirty minutes late.
Poor sap was digging himself in so deep, soon enough he wouldn’t be able to see
the top…

 
    Just as I was about to make
a comment to that effect, the door swung open, letting in too-bright sunlight,
more dust flying upwards, caught on the draft and lit by the day. When I was a
kid, I’d thought that shit was beautiful. A large, swaying shape filled the
doorframe. I stood up straight; Steel remained seated. We were at one of the
tiny, rounded tables that made up half the bar, the other half occupied by a
stage with poles.

 
    “’Bout time, you stupid fuck,” I said, wanting to impress Steel. He was
an old, dirty, racist, hateful, violent bastard…but having him on my side was a
damn good thing.

 
    “ S’ry ,
so – s’ry , she wa’nt – hic
– she…”

 
    “You’re drunk already, ain’t ya ?” I said, genuinely
disgusted by the wafting smell of whiskey as the man stumbled forward. As the
door swung shut, I could see him better, and he was just the kind of Irish-American that Steel probably imagined
when he thought of such men. Big, red-faced, red-haired, damn near slobbering
with drink. To my shock and alarm, I realized there was someone trailing behind
him.

 
    “Who the fuck is that?” I
demanded, moving forward to block Steel. I couldn’t see, my eyes still
re-adjusting to the dimness of the bar after the sudden flood of light, but the
shape looked rather short, rather slight, rather…safe. Still, you never could
tell. But then I saw our fine drunken friend was holding a rope, and that rope
was…yeah, it was attached, somehow to the person who hid behind him,
intentionally moving with his swaying motions, as though to keep himself