Chapter 3

Trainer

Eighteen months ago

 

Gotta good buzz goinʼ.

Feeling fine.

Meeting with my bud, tossing some brew. Friday night, and my job as a mechanic is finito.

I don't think about how I haven't seen Mama in three weeks. ʼCause if I do, I'll have to kick the latest Arnie's ass.

My eyes scan the dim interior of the bar, seeking out the ladies. Gotta have me some of that.

They're all so beautiful, it's hard to choose just one. Then my eyes land on a small blonde.

None of these skinny chicks are for me. I like a little meat on the girls. Tits and ass, as the bros call it.

“Brett, toss me a five. Gotta get myself another brewsky.”

I frown. Todd is always mooching.

He's funny, though. Wish I had real friends, instead of these guys that just sort of hang around and offer nothinʼ.

I think of Mama again. Worry creeps in, spilling into the edges of my mind like sludge. I remember Hammerstein telling me I'm not dumb.

I think about the three and a half years I spent working hard without being able to read a word, the hassle of trying to get work. The lack of confidence.

The only thing I feel good about is chicks and fighting.

I love fucking. Because girls like me fucking them. I got a big dick, and that's good, but secretly, I just love the smell and taste of them. Their skin is so soft; they're so small and fragile. Takes the edge off me to just have them, to protect them, even if it's just for a time or two in the sack.

They never call me dumb. A complete bonus.

“Hey, dumbshit! The five!” Todd hollers, being his normal turd self, when I don’t hand him the cash fast enough.

I flip him off.

He snorts and whacks me on the back of my head, making my longish hair sort of explode at the crown of my head.

A lot of the Arnies did that.

Turning smoothly, I sucker punch Todd in the gut.

Gasping, he sorta slides gracelessly off the stool and falls to his knees then his ass.

I toss the five on the floor in front of him and walk over to the blonde I pegged with my eyes five minutes earlier.

Just as I'm making my way, three biker guys walk in.

How do I know they’re bikers?

They wear those cool-ass leather vests with patches. One in particular catches my eyes. It's a red diamond with a small number one and a percent symbol.

I can't read what's on the back in brilliantly and precisely done lettering, but it looks tight.

They move like restless jaguars, wild and slightly unkempt, prowling through the bar, not having to push people away. The crowd instinctively parts for them, letting them flow through like a river of muscled and leathered flesh.

Eyes missing nothing, they catch sight of me.

I don't look away. Not afraid of nothinʼ. Death will find me when it will.

I survived the Arnies—lost count on how many—so I don't scare easy.

There are three of these biker dudes. One has blondish-white hair and ice chips for eyes. Tall. Built. The other has black eyes and dark hair. He’s also really tall and built.

His light-pewter gaze scrapes over me like I'm dog shit.

I've seen that look a hundred times—a thousand. I know I'm dog shit. But I won't back down no matter what.

Never have.

Backinʼ down would've gotten me killed.

This last guy is a problem. Unlike the other two, he reeks of the potential to be a dangerous fucker.

“Hi!”

Startled, I look down.

It's the blond.

I get an insta-boner. Shit.

One second, I'm thinking about getting my ass kicked over staring. The next, my dream girl of the night is right in front of me.

“Wanna dance?” She flutters long eyelashes over pretty brown eyes.

Ah-huh. Pouting, she slides her hand up the front of my shirt. It has pearl buttons, and I'm wearing my cowboy boots. Like the look a lot. Nicest clothes I got.

“You're hot, cowboy.” The corners of her ruby lips turn upward.

I capture her hand and begin towing her across the dance floor. Not much of a talker. Gets me nowhere. I don't miss a month without talking to Hammerstein.

He's retired now. He became a judge after he helped me with Arnold Sulk.

And he still tells me I'm smart.

Every month.

“Don't visit your mama too much, Brett. There'll be an Arnie,” he says.

He's right. There always is. They're different men, but they’re all the same.

“You won't be able to hold back, son.”

He's right. I won't.

So now I see Mama when I can stand it. Her birthday. Some of the holidays she made special for me when I was a kid. Nothing more.

I can't.

Can't stand the bruises. The withering of her body—and her soul.

I look at the blond and flatten my hands on the small of her back.

“God damn, you know how to touch a girl,” she purrs, laying her small face against my chest. I'm tall, so she's kinda between my pecs.

I cup the back of her skull, and we rock to the music.

Feels good. My mind can't stop the spinning of anxiety it always has goinʼ on.

After a few minutes, the song changes to another one. Hot. Slow.

She moves the space between the buttons of my shirt apart and kisses the skin revealed there.

I bite back a groan like a hiss.

Love the ladies. Love what they have even more.

“Hey,” she says softly.

My mind is already in bed with her. I forgot the bikers. My asshole friend, Todd.

Even my abused mother.

Everything is the blond before me with her soft body and curves in all the right places as she molds against me.

She tips her head back. “I'm going to go powder my nose, and I'll be right back. Then we get, ’kay?” She winks.

“Get?” I say in slow, lust-filled response.

A look comes over her face. I don't like it—the “Are you stupid?” look.

I fake it and make a mock-gun with my finger, pulling the trigger. “Gotcha—get. I get it.”

I don't, but she laughs before sauntering away with a sway to her hips that keeps my eyes glued to her behind.

Adjusting my cock, I stroll to the entrance, letting the cool air caress me, evening out my nerves. I take in the primitive parking lot. Asphalt that was once smooth and perfect is now pitted with random patches of erupted gravel. I see the bikers’ rides and admire their beauty. Motorcycles don't talk. They probably just make a dude feel good. 

I rotate my neck, popping out the kinks. Always on edge. Hate it. Keeps me sharp, I guess. Needed to be that way since I was a kid. Old habits die hard.

Five minutes goes by, and I straighten. Seems weird the blonde isn't here. She seemed eager.

I tamp down the small hairs at my nape and scan the bar again.

The bikers are there, looking just as alert as me. They take long pulls on brews as their eyes glitter over the crowd.

Todd limps over, a five-dollar bill crunched in his hand.

“Fucker,” he whines, hand at his bread basket.

“Don't be hitting me. Ever,” I say absently, but I'm already moving through the door, skating around to the side entrance that lets people out of the bar.

Close to the bathroom, I remember.

I stop short as I round the corner. I blink.

The fucking blonde is on her knees, mouth on some guy's dick.

What?

My eyes flick to the other two men. Something's not right. One, I wanted her. I chose her, and she was mine for tonight.

Two, she doesn’t want what's being done to her.

One of the men has her arms jacked behind her back and is shoving her down to the root of the other guy's cock. Trailing wetness travels her face.

Tears mean fear.

Pain.

Anger seals over me like a wet, hot kiss. I stride forward, my fist already clenched. Sweet adrenaline sweeps though my veins, lighting my senses on fire, chasing away the remnants of beer fog and the bad memories that take up precious space in my mind.

I'm ready.

They're not.

The third guy is observing or supervising, chuckling and egging on the other two.

Tears continue steaming down the blonde's face as she gags on his prick.

I take the laughing fucker down in a kick-and-punch combo that always works. My knuckles strike his throat, and he crumples, gasping for air. He grabs at the knee I just dislocated with a well-placed kick of my boot.

The guy getting his tool sucked widens his eyes. He opens his mouth to shout, but I grab the one who’s holding the girl, his palm at the back of her head.

The same head I gently cradled while we danced as foreplay.

I hit the side of his temple with a closed fist, as hard as I can.

The blow demolishes the side of his skull, leaving an indentation as he topples like a tree.

Without the pressure on the back of her head, the blonde falls backward on her butt and looks up at me with a surprised O forming on her mouth as I neatly step over her.

Gripping the rapist's shoulders, I knee him in the crotch and toss him backward in a two-second move as smooth as breathing.

Never feel dumb when I'm handing out the punishment.

With a gurgled shout of pain, he grabs his cock and balls, rolling over to puke on the asphalt.

Pivoting, I hold out my hand to the blonde, but her mouth is opening and closing.

Then the bikers show up, looking as dangerous as I thought they would be.

Deep down, I know I can't take all three.

But Brett Rife doesn't back down.

I grab the blonde's hand, hauling her up and behind me.

The biker who looked so bad ass in the bar surveys the downed attackers and looks up at me and says, “This your work?”

I nod, as tense as a snake.

His pale-gray eyes move to the girl.

“Don't touch her,” I say and mean it. No one hurts ladies when I'm around.

“No,” he answers in a short word. “Don't hurt chicks.”

I relax—only slightly.

His smile is sudden and broad. “Been sizing you up.”

What?

Now I'm just confused, but don’t want to show it. I look more closely at them. They look a few years older than me but definitely twenties, maybe close to thirty.

“I think I'm going to be sick,” the blonde says from behind me.

“Have at it,” the guy with platinum shorn hair says.

“She's had a shock,” the guy with dark hair adds, some humor in his voice. “She could do this willingly at the club, ya know.”

“What club?” I ask, hearing the sounds of my once-future bedmate heaving. Looks like there won't be any fun tonight. Plus, my fists hurt like hell.

The guy with the smoky eyes says, “We're always looking for good men to join the ranks. You want to have the tightest family you ever knew?”

More than he knows. I don't say anything, though. I don't trust nothinʼ that sounds good.

“I'm going home,” the blonde says, wiping her mouth.

She's not looking that sexy anymore. There's vomit on her shirt, and her clothes are ruined. Plus, her eyes are angry and sad.

Not hot.

“Thanks for saving me, but I'm…” She shuffles her high heels around, casts a glance at the moaning trio on the ground, and looks up. “Not in the mood anymore.”

The bikers laugh, and she gives them dirty looks before stomping off.

The guy with light-blond hair whistles low. “Headed that one off at the pass, brother. She's one of those psycho bitch types.” He taps knuckles with the one with dark eyes.

“You did a fine job of dispatching this merry band of fuckers,” the guy with the pale-gray eyes says, kicking the toe of the pantless guy, who'd been shoving his cock down the girl's throat moments before.

I say nothing.

“Can you talk?” he asks, peering into my eyes.

“Yeah.”

“Fuck, he speaks!” The guy with black eyes says. “I don't know…” he continues, giving me a critical look. “Might be work. Seems a little slow.”

Code for stupid. “I'm not stupid.” I bare my teeth.

“Holy fucking christ, he's a hothead, to boot.” Black eyes roll.

“I like that in a man.”

“You would, Noose.” The blond guy chuffs.

One of the men on the ground groans. It's the one I pounded in the temple. Guess I should be relieved I didn’t kill him.

I grunt with dissatisfaction, casually walking over to his position. I bend my leg at the knee, lifting my cowboy boot high, and bring the heel down on his crotch instead. The move's so natural, I don't give it any thought.

He bellows.

I grin, thinking about how he was hurting the girl.

“I really, really like him,” Noose says. He walks over to me, and I back away warily.

Noose raises his hands. “Gotcha.” He looks at the blond guy. “This is Wring”—his head swings to Black Eyes—“and this is Lariat.” He pops a cigarette out of a pack and lights it, instantaneously shooting smoke rings in the air.

One of the Arnies was good at that. He would do it before he put his cigarettes out on whatever patch of my flesh was nearest.

I fight glaring at Noose. He's definitely not an Arnie.

He doesn't understand the expression and narrows his eyes. “We're with Road Kill MC, looking for prospects.”

“What are those?”

“They're dudes that have to take shit, shovel shit, and be shit until they patch in and become our brother. You game?”

I think it through. I could be a part of something.

I'm not part of nothinʼ right now.

Todd chooses that opportunity to walk out and come into the middle of the three lying on the ground and the three offering me something… I don't even know what.

“Come on, Brett! Let's go get plowed.” Todd staggers over, tosses an arm around my shoulders, and tries to passively dig around for my wallet. “I need another five-spot,” he slurs.

“Or you could stay put with your friend here,” Lariat says, sarcasm dripping from the word friend, “and have a meaningful drunk fest.”

Wring's blond eyebrows rise.

Unhooking Todd's arm, I grab my wallet out of his hand and stuff it back in my jeans pocket.

Without my support, Todd stumbles backward, tripping over the top of the lead rapist, and falls on the guy's dick.

The fucker gives a hoarse shout at the newest insult.

Sometimes shit just works out.

I leave with his muffled screams in my ears.

Todd can deal with it.

I follow three guys I don't know, with a proposition I don't understand. I'm either brave or stupid.

Hammerstein says I'm not dumb.

If only I believed him.