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CHAPTERONE
Trigger
I’m in the food court in a mall in Reno sticking out like a fuckin’ elephant in a playground.
Standing 6’2”, weighing on the plus side of 220, with arms the size of most people’s waists, I draw attention. It don’t help that my hair and beard are in serious need of a lawn mower and my tats tell the story of my shitty life.
The food court is the last fuckin’ place I want to be, but Hangman, the prez of my bike club, Hell’s Jury, ordered me to keep an eye on one of the Blackbeards’ ol’ ladies.
Blackbeards are the Jury’s enemy and tensions are escalating since my club brother, Coyote, killed one of their members, and they, in turn, kidnapped his sisters. We don’t normally involve the ol’ ladies of our enemies no matter how cuntish they are, but according to Hangman, we’re working an angle and the ol’ lady I’m following, the one who decided that New York Fries was her version of fine dining, might be useful.
What’s fascinatin’ to me as I sit at a table built for minions is that she’s failed to notice me. She’s with a gaggle of friends and they’re eatin’ and talking while everyone else within a twenty-table radius is sneaking glances at me. Maybe she’s as dimwitted as the stories I’ve heard. After all, it took her 20 minutes to decide what she was gonna eat from a place that only sells fries.
Now she’s wavin’ her fork in the air and talking with her mouth full but then so are the four other women she’s with. If I’m being grudgingly fair, the food court is like a hive full of bees, so fuckin’ busy, no one’s noticin’ anything… but me, which beings me back to how stupid the Blackbeard ol’ lady is, chowing down on her poutine like she’s from Canada.
It’s a case of pot calling the kettle black anyway because on my food tray sits a fuckin’ power bowl, which I ain’t even heard of until the asshole behind the counter suggested that it would fuel my big-ass body and keep me going all afternoon. It’s punishment for my impatience because it was the only joint that didn’t have a fuckin’ lineup. After I tasted it, I understood why.
I take another mouthful of the shit only my club brother, Coyote, would eat, then throw my fork back into the bowl in disgust. I pick up the bottle of water because the fuckers didn’t sell coke and I wasn’t gonna drink anything called Kombucha which cost seven bucks a bottle and looked like somebody with kidney stones pissed it out. But water, what a fuckin’ waste of tastebuds. It’s used in a shower while I’m fuckin’ a chick, maybe two. It’s not something to drink.
I swallow it anyway, to wash the taste of avocado off my tongue. My mouth is still touching the lip of the bottle as I look up.
And goddamn freeze.
Holy Jesus of Nazareth!
I place the bottle slowly on the table and straighten my back, going so far as to run my hand through my long curly hair like the hairbrush it hasn’t seen in days.
I can’t take my eyes off the woman standing about 20 feet from me. Not the fucking Blackbeard ol’ lady, but a tall stunning woman built for licking, sucking, and fucking.
No male with a dick could overlook her long gorgeous legs lengthened by classy red 4-inch stilettos that turn her into a six-foot Amazon. She’s wearing the tightest hip hugging grey skirt I’ve ever seen. No panty lines that I can tell, which has me drooling. I want to slip my hand under that fine piece of fabric to see how wet her cunt is.
Her perfect hips taper to a slim waist with the puff of a belly straining at the skirt’s material. And her tits. Fuck! So perfect, I almost cream my jeans. The long-sleeved blouse she’s wearing is a silky dark green number that buttons up the front, the top three buttons open. The closed ones are straining across her chest, like her girls are begging to be let out to breathe.
Her toffee-colored hair is long enough to wrap in my hand and use it as a bridle to ride her like the stud I am. In fact, between her hair, tits, and hips, I’ve already calculated 15 different ways of fucking her.
I lick my lips and swallow the saliva that’s rapidly forming in my mouth. It’s orgy time, my dick thinks, though if she were mine, I wouldn’t share her with anyone, man or woman. I finally move my eyes off her tits to notice that she’s holding a red tray in her hands, food on top of it as she scans the tables for a place to sit.
Bless my luck, and the Blackbeard ol’ lady and all the other fuckers crowding the food court. There are hardly any places to sit. But me, I’m at a table for four and look like I’m sitting in the middle of a crop circle. She can’t help but notice me.
Be cool, Trigger, I tell myself as I cross my arms, willing her to look this way, keeping my mouth a flat line so I don’t look like a fuckin’ dog in heat. She sees the table first, then moves past it to my face. My heart skips a beat, maybe two when our eyes meet. My dick salutes her like she’s a five-star general.
Don’t act like a 12-year-old, I tell it. Be cool.
I keep my gaze on her, but my face expressionless. For some reason, I don’t want this one to know how easy I am. She’s no club bitch, no hangaround and my dick’s more excited than when 10-year-old me found the stack of porn magazines under my uncle’s bed.
This woman, whoever the fuck she is, has it going on in every conceivable way. I hope the fuck she ain’t married, not that that would stop me, but I don’t want the complication of killin’ her husband.
Her red painted lips tip up as she holds my eyes and takes a step towards me, then another, and another, walking past all the other fuckers who’re staring at her like fools. Her gait is slow and measured, her sexy hips swaying and her tit’s bouncing as she gets closer. She knows that eyes are following her, yet she ain’t lookin’ for validation. A chick like her – she knows exactly what she’s about.
What turns me on the most is that she’s the only one in this whole fuckin’ food court to have the balls to approach me.
I think I’m in love.
I blatantly look her up and down when she gets within a couple of feet of me. Gorgeous fucking legs that’ll squeeze me in a vise, tits that are perfect round globes. I have huge mitts, but those babies, they’d fit and spill over the sides. Her lips, full and perfectly set in her Marilyn Monroe face were made for sucking cock. My cock.
“Excuse me,” she says in a cool sultry voice, meeting my hard, dark stare with her emerald eyes. “Would you mind if I sit with you?” She looks around the cafeteria. “It’s busy today.”
Be cool, you fucker.My heart’s beating out of my chest and I think my fucking palms are sweaty. I have to resist rubbing them on my jeans. “Be my guest,” I say all Vin Diesel like, shoving my boot against the leg of the chair across from me and pushing it out far enough for her to slip into it.
