Read Wed to the Bad Boy Online
Authors: Kaylee Song
Wed to the Bad Boy (44 page)
About Kaylee Song
Kaylee calls the Chesapeake Bay Area her home. She loves the water, the city life, and the beautiful Appalachian countryside. You can find her with her rescue animals and her husband on any given day, reading on her balcony, or snuggled up on the couch with a book in her hand.
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You probably don’t want to know what happens to Cullen and Layla in the next book. You probably don’t want to know who Wrath is and why he’ll change everything for Fire and Steel. If that’s true then you definitely don’t want to read the first scene from “Wrath,” book two in the Fire and Steel Saga. But I’ve included the first scenes anyways. Just don’t say you weren’t warned.
Wrath is now live!!
Wrath: Available now in the amazon store
Aidan
I was pissed and embarrassed and sick of the world. Of course, I’d just come from a job interview.
Whining, piss-eyed, pieces of shit
…
When I spotted the sign on the side of the building, “Kat’s Cat House,” I pulled over. Tits, ass, and alcohol. It was exactly what I needed.
The crunch of the gravel in the driveway was a satisfying sound as I drove into the lot. I slowed the jeep to a deliberate crawl, imagined that each pop and crackle was the sound of bones breaking as I punched the interviewer in the face.
I did everything right. I drove my jeep instead of my bike. I even covered my prosthetic, and he still asked all of those fucking questions. The ones that made me want to beat the fuck out of him, and every interviewer before him.
They all looked over my resume, admitted I was qualified, and then proceeded to ask me the same shit every time.
I dug my fingers into my hair, shook my head and then climbed out, slamming the door to my jeep hard behind me. Fuck that shit. I didn’t want to think about it right now. I just wanted to down a beer or two and get yelled at for touching the girls.
Fuck, I got a little hard just thinking about it.
Every time I went into a damn job interview, they treated me like I was an animal. Fine, I’d act like one. Might as well. That’s all people saw me as.
A killer.
I opened the door to the place and looked at the inside. It was dark and grungy and exactly the type of place that I needed. I paid my cover to the man on duty and found my way to the bar, catching a bit of private conversation as I went.
“Fuck, man. I dunno. Look-” Two bikers in leather vests were just a little ways down the bar. It figured. Even at one in the afternoon, I couldn’t drink in peace and quiet.
Maybe they picked up on my mood, or maybe they were just done. Either way, they wrapped it up quick.
“Go. I’ll think about it.” The one who was clearly in charge took a sip of his drink and then looked straight ahead. The burly black biker took the hint, got up and left.
“Can I help you?” An older woman, at least forty, asked.
I shrugged. “Depends, what can you make?”
“Just about anything you want.” She smiled at me. I’d been to enough bars in my life. It was the easy grin across her lips that gave her away.
“You own this here joint, huh?” I leaned into her and smirked.
“How’d you guess?”
“Well, you’re workin’ at the least busy time, probably because you don’t need to rely on tips, and you act like a woman who doesn’t give a shit what anyone else thinks.”
She laughed outright at that, her voice raspy and full. “Damn, first time I’ve gotten a smart one in here.”
“I take offense at that, Kat.” The biker three seats down spoke up, winking at her.
So this was the Kat of Kat’s Cat House herself.
“You shouldn’t.” Her eyes twinkled… “Just take it as a fact.” Grinning, she leaned over the bar and looked me over. “So, what’ll you have?”
“Whatever washes down ‘pissed off’.”
“What happened to make you mad, Sugar?” She plopped a glass down on the bar and then started rooting around behind the bar.
“A car bomb.” I said, then shook my head at her puzzled expression. “Blew another interview.”
“On account of what?”
“My past.”
Funny, you’d think they’d be falling over me to hire me on Memorial Day weekend. Instead the interviewers were asking me if I ever “killed” anyone. Didn’t matter that I didn’t. Just that they thought I could’ve. As if I would have killed people just for fun. That’s not what we had been out there to do.
People didn’t understand. It hadn’t been a game. We’d been armed to protect and search out trouble. The times that had called for killing had been about survival. And nobody had laughed about it.
I’d never had to do that, but seeing this shit at home, knowing what the others would have to deal with when they came back… That the people they’d sworn to protect would still be spitting on them, judging them, when they got home, when they had done what they had to do…
What a fucking joke.
I felt ill. It was easier to be angry.
Kat watched my face and poured me a drink. “Shit. I’m sorry. My best Scotch, on the house.”
“Thank you, but I pay my way.” I wasn’t going to take pity charity from anyone, no matter how sweet she was.
“Then buy the next one,” she said, her voice not allowing me room to argue. ”This one’s a welcome home.”
The biker had come over and took the stool beside me. “What were you interviewing for?” he asked. He reached for my hand and shook it, his grip steady as he introduced himself. “Rage. Fire and Steel.”
Damn, what kind of name was that? I looked at his cut. The name of his club was stitched on his jacket Another, brighter patch under the first read “President.”
Biker gang. I straightened up and focused on my drink a minute. I knew I had to make a decision on how to act.
I decided to go with civil. “Aidan,” I said, nodding to “Rage.”
“You get that over there?” He tapped on my prosthetic with his foot. The contraption vibrated slightly, sending a sharp pinging sensation up my femur into the socket. I looked down to see that the metal rod above the shoe was showing. “How’d you know I’d been overseas?”
“I can tell a soldier when I see one.”
I nodded dully, suddenly tired. “Afghanistan.” I answered, looking into my drink.
“What did you do over there?”
“Wheeled Vehicle Specialist. Mechanic.” Did a little bit of everything really: driving, fixing, recovering.
“You work on any cars?”
“Yep, got training on it all before I went over. Three tours. Well, two and three quarters.” I was a damn good mechanic. If it had an engine I could fix it; old, new, didn’t matter.
“You want a job?”
I blinked at him. My week was doing a one-eighty shift and I wasn’t sure if it was real. “Doing what?”
“I have a garage. Need another mechanic. Someone who knows his shit.”
I considered him, looking over his cut. I didn’t know much about motorcycle gangs, but I knew that they were trouble. Still, I needed the money. The assistance I got only went so far.
“What kind of garage?”
“Little one, down the railroad tracks, over in Braddock.”
I eyed him carefully. “And you’d just hire me, just like that?”
“Trial basis, of course, but why not? You did your time, served our country. Least I can do is give you a shot at a job.” He took one last sip of his drink and then stood. ”You game?”
Fuck, I didn’t even have to think about it. My current choice was between whether I was going to have hot water or food this month.
“Hell. Yeah.”
He grinned like it was what he was expecting me to say. “Great. See my woman, Layla. She’ll get you sorted in the morning. But no touching, or you’ll have a second metal leg.”
Something about the way he said it told me he meant it. I’d met the type before. This Rage might be fair, but mess with his people and he was a mean son of a bitch.
I swallowed.
This was going to be interesting.
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