Trigger: An Alpha Bad Boy MMA Romance Read Online Free
Author: Simone Scarlet MMA
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This little doublewide in Handy Villas Trailer Park was the only home I’d known growing up, and this couch in the living room had been my bed for the first twenty years of my life.
That hadn’t been ideal, since I’d topped six feet before my sixteenth birthday, and the damned couch just seemed to get smaller and smaller every day that followed.
I yawned, running my hands through my hair. My mouth was dry, and still tasted of last night’s whiskey. I’d stayed up with pop until late in the night, sipping the old Johnny Walker and talking about nothing until the moon was high in the sky; and I think both of us were going to be feeling the effects of that this morning.
I glanced at the old clock on the wall, and saw that it was a little past six in the morning. I was still on New York time, so that made sense. This was when I’d normally be dragging my ass out of bed to head to the gym in Brighton Beach – pounding on my buddy Nikolai’s door as I stumbled down the hallway.
Of course, there wasn’t any gym down here in Freeport. Not one that I was welcome at any more, anyway. But I knew I needed to get the blood pumping, just to get rid of the taste of whiskey from my mouth, so I hauled my ass off the couch and reached for my suitcase.
Sneakers. Shorts. My old Exporters t-shirt – with the B-port high school logo on the front. I pulled those on and staggered out of the trailer, and a moment later I was loping down the road like a racehorse trying to find its stride.
Don’t get me wrong – Handy Villas Trailer Park is never going to find its way into Homes & Garden magazine. But as I started jogging that morning, I couldn’t help but admire the rugged beauty of the place.
This old trailer park was located a half mile from Bryan Beach Park, and all that separated it from the churning Gulf of Mexico was a stretch of reeds and swampland.
As early as it was, the birds were out in deafening chorus that morning, and the cicadas had already started strumming. The sun was bright in the sky, but it was still too early for that oppressive Texas heat and humidity to come rolling in yet.
It was perfect weather to run in – and I got up to a good pace as I jogged a lazy mile around the trailer park, and then hit Country Road 750 for a spell.
By the time I came loping back to dad’s doublewide, my heart was thumping, my skin was clammy with sweat and the taste of Johnny Walker in my mouth was nothing but a memory.
The old trailer rocked as I hauled myself inside, and I peeled my t-shirt and shorts off for a quick shower. Then I pulled on my Levis, and wrenched open the fridge door to find some breakfast.
No luck.
All my dad had in there was a six pack of Schlitz , a stick of butter and a single, limp stalk of celery.
No wonder he was still a rangy son of a bitch.
I slammed shut the fridge door and scanned the kitchen. Hanging up by the door was what I was looking for – the keys to dad’s truck. There was a grocery store up on Pine Street, and I still had enough cash in my wallet to fill up a brown paper bag or too.
A moment later I’d pulled on my cowboy boots and a fresh t-shirt, and I was back out in the sun again – walking around to the side of the trailer, where dad’s old truck was parked.
His 1984 Chevy S-10 was just where he always left it – the paint fading and the chrome peeling, but still a good looking truck after all these years. I climbed behind the wheel, gunned the old V6, and a moment later I was rumbling down the highway feeling like a teenager again.
Freeport Grocery was a mile or so away – a tiny convenience store no bigger than a Brooklyn bodega. It had what I needed, though – coffee, milk, eggs and bacon. I picked up a newspaper too, and a pack of Big Red chewing gum as I was standing at the register.
That last one had been an instinctual purchase. Back when I was a kid, I’d always pick up a pack when I was at the store, because I knew Roxy
This little doublewide in Handy Villas Trailer Park was the only home I’d known growing up, and this couch in the living room had been my bed for the first twenty years of my life.
That hadn’t been ideal, since I’d topped six feet before my sixteenth birthday, and the damned couch just seemed to get smaller and smaller every day that followed.
I yawned, running my hands through my hair. My mouth was dry, and still tasted of last night’s whiskey. I’d stayed up with pop until late in the night, sipping the old Johnny Walker and talking about nothing until the moon was high in the sky; and I think both of us were going to be feeling the effects of that this morning.
I glanced at the old clock on the wall, and saw that it was a little past six in the morning. I was still on New York time, so that made sense. This was when I’d normally be dragging my ass out of bed to head to the gym in Brighton Beach – pounding on my buddy Nikolai’s door as I stumbled down the hallway.
Of course, there wasn’t any gym down here in Freeport. Not one that I was welcome at any more, anyway. But I knew I needed to get the blood pumping, just to get rid of the taste of whiskey from my mouth, so I hauled my ass off the couch and reached for my suitcase.
Sneakers. Shorts. My old Exporters t-shirt – with the B-port high school logo on the front. I pulled those on and staggered out of the trailer, and a moment later I was loping down the road like a racehorse trying to find its stride.
Don’t get me wrong – Handy Villas Trailer Park is never going to find its way into Homes & Garden magazine. But as I started jogging that morning, I couldn’t help but admire the rugged beauty of the place.
This old trailer park was located a half mile from Bryan Beach Park, and all that separated it from the churning Gulf of Mexico was a stretch of reeds and swampland.
As early as it was, the birds were out in deafening chorus that morning, and the cicadas had already started strumming. The sun was bright in the sky, but it was still too early for that oppressive Texas heat and humidity to come rolling in yet.
It was perfect weather to run in – and I got up to a good pace as I jogged a lazy mile around the trailer park, and then hit Country Road 750 for a spell.
By the time I came loping back to dad’s doublewide, my heart was thumping, my skin was clammy with sweat and the taste of Johnny Walker in my mouth was nothing but a memory.
The old trailer rocked as I hauled myself inside, and I peeled my t-shirt and shorts off for a quick shower. Then I pulled on my Levis, and wrenched open the fridge door to find some breakfast.
No luck.
All my dad had in there was a six pack of Schlitz , a stick of butter and a single, limp stalk of celery.
No wonder he was still a rangy son of a bitch.
I slammed shut the fridge door and scanned the kitchen. Hanging up by the door was what I was looking for – the keys to dad’s truck. There was a grocery store up on Pine Street, and I still had enough cash in my wallet to fill up a brown paper bag or too.
A moment later I’d pulled on my cowboy boots and a fresh t-shirt, and I was back out in the sun again – walking around to the side of the trailer, where dad’s old truck was parked.
His 1984 Chevy S-10 was just where he always left it – the paint fading and the chrome peeling, but still a good looking truck after all these years. I climbed behind the wheel, gunned the old V6, and a moment later I was rumbling down the highway feeling like a teenager again.
Freeport Grocery was a mile or so away – a tiny convenience store no bigger than a Brooklyn bodega. It had what I needed, though – coffee, milk, eggs and bacon. I picked up a newspaper too, and a pack of Big Red chewing gum as I was standing at the register.
That last one had been an instinctual purchase. Back when I was a kid, I’d always pick up a pack when I was at the store, because I knew Roxy
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