Total pages in book: 99
Estimated words: 96121 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 481(@200wpm)___ 384(@250wpm)___ 320(@300wpm)
Estimated words: 96121 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 481(@200wpm)___ 384(@250wpm)___ 320(@300wpm)
Trip didn’t care. He wanted to move forward and put the past behind them.
Though, everyone he’d come across so far had made that impossible.
He was sure this afternoon would go no differently.
Even so, he needed to get this over with, so he untucked his nuts, shut off the sled, and dismounted. After a second of indecision, he pulled off his leather skull cap, hanging it over the bike’s throttle, and shook out his hair, hoping Sig would recognize him.
As he strode across the lot, he tucked his keys in his front pocket and straightened his cut. Stopping in front of the door, he hesitated long enough to take a long, deep breath, then he raised his fist and pounded on the door with the heel of his hand.
He knew Sig was inside because the door was thin and, as he had approached, he could hear two voices. Not just a man’s but a woman’s, too.
So, sleep wasn’t probably the only thing Sig was catching up on.
The sounds from inside continued without interruption, so he pounded again and heard a “fuck” barked out followed by a grumble.
Then a bunch of chatter.
“This better be fuckin’ good,” came clearly through the door as Trip heard the slide of the chain lock and the click of the cheap deadbolt being twisted before the door swung open wide.
The room was dark behind Sig, leaving Trip at a disadvantage. But his brother, the one he hadn’t seen in almost twenty years, undoubtedly stood in front of him, squinting because of the afternoon sun behind Trip.
That meant Sig might be too blinded by the light to recognize Trip off the bat.
And though he hadn’t seen Sig in two decades, he never saw him like he was right at that moment. Totally fucking naked with a hard-on.
Living in prison and even during his time in the Marines, privacy was at a premium—Trip saw more cock, balls and assholes than he ever wanted to see—so it was no big thing. Only Sig wasn’t in prison anymore and Trip didn’t want to see his brother’s fucking dick, which was pointed directly at him like a compass pointing west.
“Got a pair of fuckin’ jeans?”
“Got some goddamn balls knockin’ on my door and disturbin’ us after I told the fuckin’ office we weren’t to be bothered.”
“Who is it, Siggy?” came a female voice behind him.
Siggy? Trip couldn’t see much since his brother’s body blocked most of the open doorway. But if the woman was as naked as Sig, which was Trip’s educated guess, maybe it was better he couldn’t see into the room.
“Is it food? I’m fucking starving!”
Trip’s eyebrows raised as that female voice was not the same as the first one. He grinned. “Is there a third?”
“Not sure who the fuck you are, but since you ain’t carryin’ any bags of food, I got a feelin’ you’re lost.” As Sig went to close the door, Trip slid his boot into the jam to prevent that.
“You know who I am,” Trip said.
“Can’t say I do,” Sig answered, lifting his gaze from Trip’s offending boot and squinting up at him. Those narrowed eyes landed and stuck on Trip’s chest. “Why you wearin’ that cut?”
Sig’s gaze rose over Trip’s shoulder and Trip knew exactly what he was looking at.
“That fuckin’ sled kinda looks familiar.”
“It should.”
Sig’s eyes slid back to him and Trip stood his ground as the man studied Trip’s face. Trip did the same since he really didn’t want to keep looking at Sig’s now sinking battleship.
Trip gave him a quick once over, stopping above the waist. His hair, the same color as both his and their father’s was shorter than Trip’s. Surprisingly a lot shorter, like the sides had been shaved and were just beginning to grow out. The top was longer but still not long at all. A beard, also shorter than Trip’s, covered his face. He had a large tattoo along the right side of his neck, starting at his hairline and making its way down his body to consist of a full sleeve on his right arm, one part of it a large phoenix which covered his right shoulder and pec.
How fucking fucked was that? Trip considered the resurrection of the Fury similar to a phoenix rising from the ashes.
And his fucking half-brother bore that very tattoo.
Other smaller tattoos, like sayings, decorated his torso and left arm but Trip wasn’t going to take the time to read and decipher them all.
The man had no beer gut like their father had sported, either. It seemed as though Sig had worked on his body in prison just like Trip. Sig wasn’t quite as built, but he was close.
What caught his attention next was the ink over Sig’s heart. Two angel wings with a name in between them, but before he could ask the meaning of that, Sig growled, “Yeah, got some goddamn huge balls showin’ the fuck up here. Huntin’ me the fuck down. Either that or you’re fuckin’ stupid. And I don’t remember you bein’ fuckin’ stupid, Trip, but a lot could change in twenty fuckin’ years. Maybe someone cracked your head against a concrete wall, and you lost some of your fuckin’ sense. That what happened?”