Trigger: An Alpha Bad Boy MMA Romance Read Online Free Page A

loved the stuff. The rubbery smell of cinnamon was enough to make me think of her instantly, and I kind of felt naked being back in Freeport without a pack in my pocket.
    Ten minutes later, I was back at Handy Villas , and lighting up the stove. Coffee was bubbling, and the smell of sizzling bacon filled the trailer.
    That was enough to wake dad.
    The door the bedroom rattled, and my old man staggered out, rubbing his eyes with his bandaged hands.
    “Good Lord, son,” he growled, looking at me standing at the stove with a frying pan. “Where’d you get all that?”
    I spooned scrambled eggs and bacon onto a plate, and put it on the table at the breakfast nook.
    “I went out shoppin’,” I explained. “You didn’t have a damn thing in the fridge.”
    “Yeah, well, I need to get to the grocery store,” Dad grumbled, as he slid onto the bench and stared hungrily at the plate of food sitting in front of him. “Now, you gonna help me eat this, or what?”
    It felt weird, sliding into the booth opposite my father, and cutting up his food with a knife and fork. Like we’d switched roles, or something. As I stabbed a lump of eggs and a swathe of bacon, and lifted them to his mouth, I felt like I was feeding a baby or something.
    Foulest-mouthed, worst-smelling baby I’d ever met, but still .
    “Son, you didn’t need to do that,” Dad nodded at the grocery bags on the counter, as he chewed. “I’d have gone shopping eventually.” He snorted. “I just hadn’t been expecting company, is all.”
    I rolled my eyes.
    “What’s your typical breakfast, then? A Schlitz smoothie and a stick of celery?”
    He snorted.
    “Don’t forget the stick of gum as I’m driving to work,” he joked. “Even after all these years, I’m still finding packets of Big Red secreted ‘round this place like a damned scavenger hunt.”
    I shut dad up by shoving another fork full of bacon and eggs into his mouth.
    “Listen,” I told him, as he chewed. “You told me you busted your hands when the hood of your truck fell on ‘em.”
    Dad paused chewing as I said that, and narrowed his eyes.
    “Well, I took the truck for a drive this morning,” I continued, “and the hood’s just fine. Shit, it’s about the only thing on that old beater that still works.”
    Swallowing his mouthful, Dad growled: “Did I say my truck? I meant one of the trucks at work.” He shrugged. “It’s not important now, is it?”
    I offered him another forkful of food, and watched him silently as he ate it.
    My dad knew I wasn’t a damned fool. We both knew full well that there was more to his ‘accident’ than he was telling me. But Walter J. Oates is a stubborn son of a bitch if he’s anything, and I had no doubt he wasn’t going to tell me anything even near the truth until he was good and ready.
    “So what are you gonna do?” I asked, as I served him the last fork full of food. “You called work? They know you’re out?”
    He lifted his bandaged hands.
    “They classified us all as ‘contractors’ last year,” he growled. “That means no workers comp or disability.” He shrugged. “Guess I’m just going to have to keep my expenses lean for a couple of weeks, until I’m ready to go back.”
    Dad worked at an oil refinery, a couple of miles down the coast. It had hard, heavy work each and every day – and while the doctors had said he’d have that cast and those bandages off in two or three weeks, I could hardly imagine him getting back to work that quickly.
    Dad narrowed his eyes. Sometimes it was like he could read my damned mind.
    “I’ll be fine ,” he growled, answering my unasked question. “You don’t need to worry about me, son. I’ve been through worse.”
    And that much was true. In fact, if anything was true of Walter J. Oates, it was that life had thrown him more than his fair share of curveballs.
    A discharge from the navy at 25. His wife – my mom – dying of cancer when I was just eight. Then fifteen years