Chapter 1
Almost two months ago
Brody
Feck. It’s one of those days. I’ll not complain anymore about frozen bulletspelting down from the skies of my hometown in Scotland. Nae. Right about now, I’d take hail and spitters over the sun scorching across the back of my neck. Och! I’d rather Hurricane Bawbag over the lassie who ruined my bràthair, pushed him from the clan way.
I get out of my truck, slam the door, walking stiff-legged. Eight hours. Eight whole fecking hours with my bràthair’s wife, Chevelle, while we drove from LA to a nowhere town past Albuquerque.
Why travel with my archnemesis, ye ask?
Two reasons.
One, that friend of hers. I met the lass once, and she’s still running through my fecking mind, tormenting me. I’ll either kill Justice because the Romans sent the lass to play some sort of mind games with Chevelle. Or we’re fecking. I remember our first encounter. The two of ‘em were sloshed. From those lips to that ass, those hips, God, those tits. Justice had an all-access ticket to ride this here amusement park. The dick. The beard. That’s something special about a lass who gets to ride this here beard. I don’t offer to give head much—very rarely. But when I do, I’ve got chops softer than a bairn’s bottom, and my beard’s groomed to perfection, smells good too.
I grip the door to the McDonald’s and hold it open.
“Thanks, but don’t embarrass me,” Chevelle snaps.
My eyelid twitches. Is she fecking kidding me? I’m here to keep Chevelle safe, and or give her friend the screw of her life. I snort. “Och, quit acting like a bitch.”
“Call me—”
“I said acting, Chevelle. I’ve never called ye out by name—can’t say the same for ya. Get yer ears checked, sweetheart.”
I stroll inside, eyebrows pulling together at the sight. I’m an In-N-Out type of lad if I have to choose somewhere for a burger. This place has lassies and laddies zipping around. In the back, there’s an area for them to jump in, but they ain’t contained.
“Wit in the bloody feck?” I murmur to myself. It’s not that I hate kids. Well, aye. If ye’re not clan blood, young or old, I’ve nae tolerance for ya.
Justice is seated at a booth, away from the action. With her braids swept over the side of her soft cheeks, it obscures my sight of her lovely face. Those chocolate-coated tits are hidden, which is a small blessing on the account I might have to murder her and save Chevelle. Damn, those tits had struggled to be free of the tight blouse she wore last week. They begged to bathe in my cum.
My baws grow heavy, cock stiffening. I remind myself that I rode across two fecking state lines, so my little bràthair’s wife’ll finally forgive me for the nugget move at Leith’s bachelor party. It was a foolish attempt to get my bràthair back. All it did was alienate him and make her hate me.
As we continue to stroll, I get a better visual of Justice’s bonny face. I’m stopped in my tracks. Flawless sable skin with golden undertones and her liquid brown eyes could very well be my downfall. Not riding her a few times would be the biggest crime of my life—and I’m a stone, cold killer.
“Sweetcakes.” I nod to the lass. My thoughts drift back into the gutter again. Are her pussy lips as plump and captivating as the rest of her? I’d take my time with all her extra curves, claim every single ounce of her—lick, kiss, worship.
While addressing Chevelle, Justice climbs to her feet. “You brought—”
Chevelle locks eyes with me for a split second. I roll mine away. Threat not necessary, but the lass warns anyway. “Brody won’t say a damn word, Justice. Come here.”
The ladies hug. Is there a spark plug missing in Chevelle’s heid? When we hopped on the road, I brought her up to speed on Justice’s fishy behavior. Who moves to a new apartment then flees town a couple of days later? Justice could be working for those Italians, the Roman family.
After a few minutes of excruciating chick chatter, I’m ready to cut in when Justice mentions a petty crook, Marcus LeRoux. Something in me that hasn’t stirred in ages pipes up.
I snort. “Small-time drug dealer in Boston?”
“How do you know Marcus?” Justice asks.
Despite myself, I ask, “He yer lover?”
“No! How dare you?” The look on her face tells me all I need to know. Justice ain’t lying.
“How dare I? Too bad, I was hoping ye would say feck me, Brody.” Now that ye’re not connected to the Romans, I’m satisfied with jumping into bed with ye a time or three. “But if ye’re paying off an old habit, I could talk to some friends for Chevelle’s sake. Done deal.”
Aye! My focus returns to the sole reason I traveled eight-fecking hours with Chevelle. To finally patch up this shoddy-arse relationship I’ve with my piuthar bheag—little sister.
Justice glares at me again. “I hate that bastard. Hate drugs and anyone that has anything to do with them.”