Trigger, page 1
Trigger
Hell’s Jury MC Book 3
Nikita Slater
Copyright © 2023 Nikita Slater
This book is a work of fiction. The names, characters, places and incidents are products of the writer’s imagination or have been used fictitiously and are not to be construed as real. Any resemblance to persons, living or dead, actual events, locales or organizations is entirely coincidental.
All rights reserved. No part of this book may be reproduced, scanned, or distributed in any manner whatsoever without written permission from the author except in the case of brief quotation embodied in critical articles and reviews.
Contents
Chapter 1
Chapter 2
Chapter 3
Chapter 4
Chapter 5
Chapter 6
Chapter 7
Chapter 8
Chapter 9
Chapter 10
Chapter 11
Chapter 12
Chapter 13
Chapter 14
Chapter 15
Chapter 16
Chapter 17
Chapter 18
Chapter 19
Chapter 20
Chapter 21
Chapter 22
Chapter 23
Chapter 24
Chapter 25
Chapter 26
Chapter 27
Chapter 28
Chapter 29
Chapter 30
Chapter 31
Chapter 32
Chapter 33
Chapter 34
Chapter 35
Chapter 36
Chapter 37
Chapter 38
Chapter 39
Chapter 40
Chapter 41
Chapter 42
Chapter 43
Chapter 44
Chapter 45
Hash
Reaper
Nikita’s Newsletter!
Also by Nikita Slater
About the Author
Chapter One
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.
A flash of relief crosses her face as she sets her tray down, then pulls the chair out a little further and gracefully slides into it, adjusting her skirt as she draws herself closer to the table. “Thank you,” she says as she drops her purse on the chair beside her.
Her sexy, posh cadence is smooth and delicious, like gravy on mashed potatoes, and my nipples point straight at her like they know she’s gonna be the future Mrs. Trigger.
“You can sit on… with me anytime you want.” Yeah, a little corny, but I gotta start somewhere.
She looks down at her food, a blush to her face. “I was hoping you’d say that.”
I can’t tell if she’s playin’ my game or taking my words at face value, but I decide to back off. I don’t wanna scare the horse before she’s out of the gate. “So, guessing I wasn’t your first choice, hey?” I sound cool to my ears. Voice doesn’t squeak or
She looks up and into my eyes, a small smile playing at her lips as the blush grows deeper. “My other choice was those two guys over there with the matching golf shirts.” She tilts her head to the left.
I follow the direction. Yeah, two idiots not even aware of how stupid they look. “So you chose me for my fashion sense.” Her scent canters across the table and up my nose. She smells like the very last woman I’ll ever fuck.
Her eyes flick over my body. “Yes. And your ink.” She gives me a saucy smile and drops her eyes to her food.
I was right on first instinct. This girl knows what she’s about.
I laugh softly. “Trigger.”
“What?” She was concentrating on pulling her chopsticks from the package but stops and raises her eyes.
“Name’s Trigger.”
She flits her gaze to my arms then back again. “Wow, now I know why you need those biceps.”
I snort a laugh, liking her way too fucking much. She’s all body, which makes it easy for me, but she comes with a personality too. That scares the shit out of me.
“Road name.” I wait for the inevitable reaction – terrified or immediately flirty.
She does neither. Instead, she picks a small white triangle out of her noodles with the chopsticks and delicately puts it into her mouth.
My dick is like a loaf of French bread left unbagged on the counter for three days.
“Nice to meet you Mr. Trigger. I’m Evanee. Not a road name.”
Intriguing. “And you were knocking my name.”
She grins. “I know.” She waggles a long painted nail at me. “My self-defence.”
I grin and take a huge bite of my power bowl to do something with my hands other than adjust myself again. “What’s that shit you’re eating?” Her struggle to snag a long piece of noodle fascinates me.
She finally gets a grip on the slimy bugger only to have it slip away. “It’s called Phad Thai. One of my favourites.”
“How’re you going to get those noodles into your mouth?” I’m thinkin’ about that Lady and the Tramp show, picturing us eating the same noodle until our lips meet, which makes me wanna swallow her tongue.
She raises the noodle up to her mouth, tries to grab it with her little pearlies, but it slips again, this time dropping on the exposed mound of her milky breast.
Please, please, let me lick it off.
She picks it up with her long fingernails and slips it into her mouth, then licks her lips like she knows I’m putty in her hands. “I’m a train wreck, it’s unavoidable.”
“You’re the prettiest train wreck I’ve ever seen.” Lame, sure, but in my defense, I’m struck dumb by the goddess in front of me.
Her laughter tinkles in the air. “And how many train wrecks have you seen?”
I try to recover. “None as first class as you.”
She flushes, then turns her attention back to her pad-ti shit, fishing for another noodle. I watch in reverence for about 30 seconds before she realizes I’m staring.
She gives me quick raise of her eyebrows. “Want a bite?”
Jesus christ. I so fucking want a bite. “Gonna feed me?” Finally, Cool Trigger is back.
“Is there any other way?” She picks up a piece of shrimp with the chopsticks, contemplates it, then stretches across the table and points it towards my mouth.
My eyes dip to her cleavage and I beg the straining buttons to pop, then look up into her eyes, which are holding steady on my face. But she knows. Fuck.
She touches the shrimp against my lips and I have no choice but to snatch it up. I gulp it down fast. Normally I wouldn’t eat fucking fish if I was drowning in the shit, but for her, I might swallow a lobster, shell and all. I check her out again to make sure she’s worth sacrificing my standards, and her cleavage winks at me. Oh yeah, she fucking is.
“Not bad,” I lie. “Your turn.” I scoop up a forkful of the power shit and aim it at her perfect mouth.
She leans over and parts her lips. My semi turns into a raging hard on as she slowly pulls the food off the fork, her teeth makin’ me think of them tugging at my nipple rings. Then she chews, swallows, and slowly licks her lips as she touches the corner of her mouth.
She frowns as she regards the bowl. “Forgive me for generalizing, but you don’t strike me as a quinoa and chickpea kind of guy.”
“A what?” I look at the bowl in dismay. What the fuck have I been eatin’?
She grins when she sees my horrified face. “I pegged you as more of a beef guy.”
My mind blanks. “I am.” Feeble.
She scoops up another noodle, getting it into her mouth, but some sauce splashes on her chest and blouse.
“Dammit,” she swears as she looks down at herself in dismay.
She rubs the sauce off her chest with her long fingers and sucks on them. Fuck me.
“I have an important meeting.” She points to the vicinity of her chest as if my eyes haven’t been glued to it since she sat down. “And now I’ve stained my blouse.”
Before fully thinking it through, I whip my bandana out of my back pocket, wet it with my water and lean over the table, stroking at the fabric with one hand, the other gripping the side of her open collar for tension.
I work on the stain for about half-a-minute before I realize how badly I’m behaving. I gradually slow my strokes as I roll my eyes up towards her face. Her full lips hold a small smile as she stares at me with a satiny gaze.
I clear my throat as I return to my side of the table, instinctively giving her tits a pat as I go. “I think that’s got it.” My eyes search her chest for any more splashes she might need help with.
A flush creeps over her face as she stares down at her chest. Lucky fucking bitch getting to see that rack anytime she wants. “I’ve got a meeting with a banker this afternoon and I don’t want to look anything less than perfect.”
The fucking banker better be a woman. “You couldn’t possibly look less than perfect.” The frivolous words fall out of my mouth, but this time I mean them. I’m all charm and compliments because the girls like that shit, but this one, she doesn’t need validation. She already knows she’s perfect.
“Thank you,” she replies anyway. There’s no giggle or twirling of hair or anything like that.
I’m about to suggest we find ourselves a janitor’s closet and test how easy it would be to roll that tight skirt over her even tighter ass, but my words dry up and suddenly I’m a pimply 14-year-old idiot trying to talk the 17-year-old neighbour girl into giving me a blowjob. I clear my throat and cross my arms over my chest.
Our gazes lock, then the fucking moment is broken when a kid shrieks behind her. I look at the little shit, then beyond to the ol’ lady I’m supposed to be following only to find three teenage boys sittin’ at the table.
“Fuck,” I say. I look at her with regret. “Duty calls.”
I try not to knock the table over as I stand while at the same time conceal my fucking hard dick. She can’t miss it because her head is exactly waist high, and her face is planted a foot from it. Her eyes twinkle as she looks up.
“See you around, beautiful.” I grin, then take off.
I’ve lost the Blackbeard ol’ lady and when I get back to the food court, Evanee’s gone.
I don’t give a shit about Hangman’s wrath as I walk the mall lookin’ for my future bride. She’s in the wind, but it don’t matter. I’m gonna track that woman down and marry her.
Chapter Two
Evanee
