TRIGGER: A Motorcycle Club Romance Novel Read online

  “What? But you just…what is it? I’m not pretty enough, am I? Oh, I’m so stupid…” her eyes seemed to flash wildly from anger to sadness to self-loathing. I groaned inwardly. Maybe it would be easier just to let her blow me, after all. Maybe I could imagine she was Cass…

  But I hadn’t done that in years. I hadn’t let myself. I didn’t deserve to think of her like that. As much as she was still the only woman who’d ever made me feel like I was any good, I didn’t ever want her to just be a fantasy. It was all or nothing. And all I had was nothing. So I had better be happy with it.

  “You’re gorgeous,” I said, wondering if she could hear the lie in my voice. I mean, it wasn’t much of a lie; she was young and vibrant and beautiful with that morning bedhead and smudgy make-up. But not to me, she wasn’t the girl I’d dream up as my ultimate fantasy. “It’s not you, really. I promise. I just…I got some weird news this morning, it’s got me kind of out of sorts.”

  She rolled over, then up, clutching her knees to her chest. She sniffled slightly, burying her nose between her kneecaps.

  “I get it,” she mumbled. “I’m just some stupid slut.”

  “Stop,” I said, rolling my eyes behind her back. “I’m just not into it right now.”

  She sniffled again, didn’t look back. Which was a good thing, because I’m sure the look of annoyance on my face would only have started her to bawling. I just didn’t have time for this bullshit; or, rather, I had all the time in the world…but no patience. I’d just given her a nice little orgasm, why couldn’t she just be grateful and move the hell on? With a sigh, I figured I might as well try to be the nice guy.

  “Listen, can I give you a ride home? Where do you live?”

  She uttered a short exasperate sigh and stood up, so fast it was almost an act of violence. She looked around the floor for her clothes; or, what passed for clothes at least. It was the tiniest little red dress and a pair of fuck-me heels.

  “I don’t need a ride,” she said, nearly hissing. “I need a fucking drink.”

  “Well, the bar’s right across the lot, princess,” I said, fighting the urge to kick her off the edge of the bed when she sat down to wobble her way into those stilettos. “But if I were you, I’d just go home. What do you think you’re ever gonna get from hanging around here anyway? Shit, you can do better. Probably.”

  She shot me a look over her shoulder that was one part hatred, one part pathetic hope.

  “You don’t know me,” she mumbled, moving on to the last resort of the young and misunderstood. My frustration with her must have been palpable at that point. “You don’t know my life.”

  “Fine,” I spat. “And I don’t fucking want to. Ungrateful bitch.”

  Oh boy, I thought, realizing the exact moment I’d gone too far. The slow turn of the head. The eyes narrowing more and more. The mouth screwed up like a toddler about to throw a tantrum.

  She was still holding one stiletto up against her foot, having not yet slid her toes through the straps. A moment later, my hand closed around her arm as it swung wide towards my face, the spikey heel of her shoe poised to smack me straight in the nose. She squealed slightly, her face red and eyes wild with anger (and a good dose of hangover, I’d imagine). My grip on her was firm but gentle, only enough to keep her diminutive strength at bay.

  “You best not,” I said, the low growl of my voice making her eyes go wide. A moment later and the shoe feel harmlessly onto my lap; to be fair, it wasn’t that harmless, the heel still sharp enough to make my balls curl up a bit as it smacked against my zipper. Her arm went limp and I released it, tears now falling from her smudgy eyes liberally. She turned away from me sharply.

  “I’m sorry, I guess. Just get out of here,” I said, handing her the shoe and getting up. I closed the bathroom door between us and listened as she made a quick exit, the clatter of her heels against the exposed wood floors an idyllic soundtrack to a dramatic morning. I turned on the shower once I heard the click of the door closing. A nice, long, hot shower…just what I needed to wash away the nasty feelings left in my mouth. I uttered up a quick prayer of thanks that I’d never have to see the crazy bitch again.

  As it turns out, that thanks was a bit premature.

  I should have known; when was God ever on my side?

  Cass

  “Stop being so dramatic,” I groaned. “I never said you were gold-digging. I never said that. What I did say was…”

  Jennie interrupted me, going off on a tangent about how I was in no position to judge her. Which, perhaps, was true, but still.

  “Jennie…Jennie…oh, my God, you are such a little drama queen, all I wanted to know is what you were doing for your birthday, if you wanted anything, and I have to hear the goddam riot act…no…don’t…no don’t interru…ugh!”

  I held the phone away from my ear, not willing to listen to anymore of her criticisms.

  You’re the one who’s unhappy, she would say.

  At least I don’t let my boyfriend treat me like a whipping girl, she would say.

  At least Mike treats me like he loves me, she would say.

  At least I’m not still pining over some guy who left me a million years ago, she would say.

  Blah blah blah.

  “Listen…listen Jenn…Jenn, I’m hanging up now…yes, okay, yes…well, same to you…I’ll talk to you soon,” I said, clicking off with a frustrated grunt. I let the phone clatter to the desk where my laptop glowed softly, the room dim though it was past noon. Brock liked the house dark when he slept off a hangover. He also liked it quiet, and I’d probably asked for trouble by having a conversation with Jennie in the first place, but the urge to call her and just hear her voice had hit me hard and unexpected.

  Her birthday was a week away. I’d planned on getting her a tablet, but she’d mentioned that Mike, her much-older boyfriend (and ex-boss) had already given her one as a pre-birthday gift. It had made me grit my teeth a bit; the tablet I’d been eying would have done a number on my bank account, and I probably would have had to hide the purchase from Brock. So now it was back to the drawing board.

  Nothing made any of it worse than the fact that my kid sister was right about a lot of what she said. Not that I was wrong about what I said to her, per say, but she was right. I wasn’t happy. I still did pine for a man who’d left me long ago. Those days in New Hampshire haunted me in a way I wasn’t sure I’d ever escape…

  Life hadn’t been very fun after coming back to New York. When I’d finally realized he was done with me, it had been a hard pill to swallow – but I’d managed. I’d gotten a room in a three-bedroom apartment in Bushwick, picked up two part-time jobs waitressing in the city.

  I saw Jennie on a weekly basis, at the kindness of Jackie and Gloria, who had taken as good care of her as I’d known. She was doing well, too. Good in school, lots of friends. When she smiled, it was a real smile. They gave her new clothes, vacations, books and games and all the things a child could want and need to flourish.

  When I met Brock, I was 23. Jennie was just about to turn 14. He’d been a big, burly long-haul truck driver. He always stopped in to see me at the café I worked at, always with some sweet thing to say and sometimes even a little gift. He was a good tipper, too. He wasn’t my type by a country mile: huge, bulking shape, crew cut hair, yellow teeth from years of smoking. But what did looks matter? Besides, I liked his tattoos. They reminded me of…well…you can guess.

  I hadn’t been with anyone since Trigger – at least, not seriously. A few attempts at dating that had never panned out. I was tired of living in Brooklyn, tired of the sad, dreary city streets. I’d been mugged the year before, and no longer felt safe walking alone at night.

  I’d just been tired of feeling like I was going it all alone, of looking down all the long road of my life and seeing it filled with nothing but the same old shit. Brock had promised me fun on the road, a life where I’d never have to work if I didn’t want to, mountains and rivers and streams and cities and good f
ood and music and laughter. I’d believed his promises.

  I was dumb.

  And, I was selfish.

  Jennie was just coming into her teenage years when I left the second time, and I should have known how much more she would need me then. Her voice, when I told her I was leaving, had been cold and reluctant, but she hadn’t fought it or questioned it the way she had when she was younger.

  While my heart ached the final time I hugged her, I managed to convince myself that this, too, was for the better. What good could I really be to her if I was depressed and miserable and bitter? I had dreams of her coming to visit me wherever I ended up, of bringing her along on one of our trips, of showing her the Grand Canyon, or Yellowstone, or, when she got older, Vegas.

  But none of those things ever came to pass.

  Instead, she only grew more distant, more sullen, and more resentful. As she grew into her teenage years, our conversations got shorter and shorter, her tone more clipped. The secrets grew. More and more often, I had to learn about things in her life from Jackie and Gloria.

  Where she once gleefully ran to the phone whenever I called, she started claiming to be “too busy” to talk when I called. She’d hit “ignore” when I called her cell phone. It got to the point where I was lucky to talk to her once a week. When she got her first job at 16, I was proud of her. Little did I know that this job would, ultimately, create the last rift between us.

  Jackie had been frantic when she’d called to tell me the news: Jennie had just dropped a bomb on them. On all of us. As soon as she turned 18, she told them that she’d been dating her manager at the retail store she worked at.

  He was older, twice her age, and wealthy, and she claimed to love him. She said they hadn’t been intimate yet, but that she was ready to lose her virginity to him. As if that all wasn’t bad enough, a month after this first revelation, she said she’d decided to move in with him – in Nevada. He had family there, and an opportunity to open his own store.

  Of course, I’d immediately booked a bus back to New York. We lived in Colorado, and it took three days to get there.

  By the time I did, her bags were already packed, and she was leaving for the airport the very next day.

  I wish I had been kinder to her on that last night. Instead, I was pushy, and criticized her, and pleaded with her to rethink it. I told her that she was making a mistake, that she would regret it immediately, that she was breaking Jackie and Gloria’s hearts after they’d been nothing but good to her. She wouldn’t listen. Of course she wouldn’t. She was 18 and in love.

  And why should she listen to me? I had abandoned her twice. And it was no secret that I was miserable with Brock; try as I might to hide it, the few times I’d managed to get him to come to Christmas or Easter in New York, he’d been so surly, rude, and cruel that it made everyone vividly uncomfortable.

  I missed my little sister. I took the blame for the current circumstances, but had no idea how to fix them. I couldn’t lie to her and tell her I supported her decisions, even though I’d met her older boyfriend and actually found him quite sweet. Instead, in an effort to keep the peace, I tried not to discuss it at all. But that was hard to do, since they lived together, and she was over-the-moon about him, and wanted to talk about him all the time.

  Which was why our phone conversations always ended up the same: anger, tears, frustration.

  While I tapped a pencil against my teeth, ruminating on all this, my e-mail dinged. It would either be from the tutoring service where I worked part-time, or something to do with Brock’s upcoming fight in Reno. I breathed a sigh of relief to see that it was a request from a student who wanted another session with me.

  Of my two part-time jobs, tutor was far easier to deal with than illegal underground fight manager. But Brock, frankly, wasn’t good enough for anyone not dating him to want to manage. And, it kept him from bitching about how I should be working more, making more money. Truth was, he made more than enough for both of us in his day job as a construction worker, but he had a spending problem as big as our budget, and we’d often find ourselves living off my meagre wages a week after his payday.

  Of course, he was under the impression that all this was about to change. The last fight I’d booked him, he’d gotten clobbered. Which was surprising, considering his considerable bulk in comparison to the guy he’d been up against. But, as luck would have it, there were some men in the audience who were very interested in Brock’s losing streak. Turns out, sometimes, being a shit fighter works out for you. Like when they have a ringer who’ll throw the fight, and make bank off the bets they place on you.

  When the man in charge first approached me, I’d been wary. Mostly because of his dumb outfit. He looked like a poor man’s Frank Sinatra. But the cash he’d waved in my face had been real and, he claimed, only half the amount he was willing to pay to have Brock fight a guy in Reno. And win. A for sure win.

  Brock himself had been all about it. Even when I’d voiced my concerns about getting involved in any sort of racket like that, and after I’d done my research on the guys and their venue. They ran a little basement fighting den, the kind that Brock generally fought in. But they were notoriously cut throat in their dealings; when things didn’t go their way, they were known to react with extreme prejudice. Like, six-feet-under prejudice.

  “What could go wrong?” Brock had argued, and I’d seen from the way his eyes started to narrow that this was not a discussion that would end well. “I get a win under my belt, we get some good money, maybe someone picks me up for a real fight, outside of these dingy-ass, crooked-ass, bullshit rings. They don’t none of them fight fair, you know that, Cass. All I need is a fair fight and you’ll see. The whole world will see.”

  See that you’re a shit fighter with nothing but mass, I wanted to say, but bit my tongue. Turns out, even silence was the wrong thing.

  “What? Can’t even agree with me on something as fuck-all simple as that? Don’t think I’m a good fighter? You’re a fucking cunt, Cass. I ever tell you how much of a fucking worthless cunt you are? I been letting you run my career, and your dumb ass has run it straight into the fucking ground. Now, I ain’t gonna let you fuck this up for me, you dumb bitch,” he’d roared, his voice getting louder and louder with each sentence.

  “I’m sorry, baby, you’re right,” I’d said quickly, laying my hand on his arm and trying to placate him. He shook me off. “I’ve been doing a shit job, I know. This is great. This is going to be great for you. You’ll show ‘em all.”

  “Goddamn right I will! And then I’ll get me a real fuckin’ girl. A hot little model, and I’ll be happy giving her all my damn money, at least she’ll put out. Not like you, frigid bitch.”

  I’d winced. It was true, Brock and I hadn’t slept together in upwards of two years. We’d been dating for five years, and the first three had been fine; I was okay with letting him stick it in me at night when he came home drunk. But then I learned he was cheating. A lot. Like, every night. Even with me giving him all I could in the bedroom, he was hiring prostitutes, damn near lived at a strip club, and would take any bathroom bar fuck he could get.

  After that, I’d said no more. And he’d hemmed and hawed and threatened to kill me, but in the end he’d been just as happy fucking twice the number of girls on the side. Kept me around to manage the house we rented together, and his career, and act the part of the good girlfriend at weddings and parties. I was really good at that. At least, when he could keep his own filthy, degrading mouth shut for long enough.

  And me? Why did I stick around?

  Well, I guess I was in so deep at that point, I didn’t see the point in leaving. He did help provide for me. Our house was our house. Our things were our things. And he could be sweet, sometimes…sort of.

  Besides, when it came to sex, I’d only ever had one man who pleased me. And in the deepest darkest moments of the night, when Brock was out banging some tart or passed out drunk beside me, it was the memory of him that satisfied me.
Even though it made me ashamed, knowing that Trigger certainly didn’t spend his nights touching himself to thoughts of me, it was all I had.

  I’d conjure up a night – any of those vivid nights – and let myself fall back into the memory.

  My hands would follow the same path Trigger’s had, starting at my neck, moving down my chest towards my breasts, the same way his mouth had so many years before. I’d feel my skin begin to twinkle and shiver as I pictured his tongue curling around my nipples, his lips closing gently over them and pulling back, his hands supporting them from below, the weight of him pressing me down.

  Sometimes, I’d turn myself over, to better muffle the movement from a sleeping Brock, and imagine Trigger’s hands gripping my hips, pulling me towards him while my thighs parted. With my head buried in the pillow, I’d bite it to keep from moaning, remembering the way his cock had teased me, pressed against my slit, promising so much pleasure but holding back while he enjoyed the view of me from behind, his hands tickling up and down my sides before moving around to cup my mound, one finger slipping between my lips to rub my clit, slick with my own juices, all the while entering me one torturous centimeter at a time, slowly spreading my pussy for his manhood.