Page 16 of Stealing the Biker

“Whatta ya mean?” He slurs his words, his eyes completely glossed over.

“Party time is over.”

“We can continue it back at my place.” He tries to spin her around and knocks her into the table, sending our discarded glasses to the floor.

“You two. Pay your tab and get out,” the bouncer tells us as Trenton continues to dance around the girl he was hoping to hookup with.

“Don’t be a cockblocker, buddy.”

“That’s my girlfriend, you stupid fuck.” He swings on Trenton, clocking him in the jaw, and all hell breaks loose.

Trenton stumbles back, but the punch doesn’t take him down. Quickly, he recovers his balance, swinging a haymaker of his own, missing his mark and hitting nothing but air.

Knowing better but too drunk to care, I throw myself into the fray. Fueled by liquor, I go for the bouncer, unleashing my own brand of ass whooping. I manage to deck him square in the jaw. “Fuck around and find out,” I holler, grabbing a beer bottle off a table and smashing it over the short but stout man’s head.

“Come get some.” Trenton punches a random dude who tries to get between us.

His pretty little girlfriend screams while the bartender comes out from behind the bar wielding a baseball bat. I grab Trenton and we stumble out of the bar as they chase after us, hurling insults.

We make it to my truck, erupting in laughter as Trenton rubs his jaw.

Fuck. I needed this.

“We need steak and eggs.” He slaps his palm against the dashboard.

“Turn that shit off,” Trenton yells.

I roll to my side, falling off his shitty couch, knocking my shoulder on the corner of his coffee table. “Ow. Fuck.” I pat my pants, looking for my phone to turn my alarm off.

I’m supposed to drive Kiesha to school today. All I want is to crawl back onto the couch and sleep for ten years. I flex my hands, catching sight of my busted knuckles. I nearly forgot about our bar fight, but the way my head throbs at the temples is the only reminder I need. I hope Trenton has coffee and clean towels. I’ve got a change of clothes in my truck.

My fingers fumble with the button on my jeans. The pull to go back to bed is growing stronger by the second, but I have a job to do. I slip on a fresh t-shirt and stare at my reflection in the mirror as I brush my teeth.

Lines of exhaustion are etched around my bloodshot eyes, and the bruises and scrapes across my raw knuckles mock me. I could have been home with my woman instead of getting into a barroom brawl. As shitty as I feel, it was fun. Made me feel alive.

Trenton passes by the bathroom on his way to the kitchen for the coffee I brewed. “Stop staring at yourself. Nothing you do is going to help your face.” He laughs.

I find him at the breakfast bar hugging a mug of coffee as black as asphalt.

The scent turns my stomach, but I force myself to take a few sips of the cup he poured me.

He lays his heads on the counter, slinging an arm across his eyes to block out the sunshine pouring through the window. “What the fuck did we do last night? My jaw hurts like a motherfucker.”

“You got your ass kicked, that’s what.”

“Damn. Did I at least get that blonde’s phone number?”

Chapter Six

I don’t know why I’m bothering trying to look cute for school. There’s no one left to impress now that I know Jonesy is a total dud. Everything sucks. What teeny bit of a social life I was building is dead. I don’t care that Jonesy has a kid. It’s the fact that he’s a deadbeat father that makes him so not worth the effort I’ve been putting in trying to get his attention. It pisses me off.

I finish curling my hair. At least the touch up Sam did on my color is as popping as my lip gloss. I grab the purple and black checkered flannel I stole out of my mom’s closet and put it on over a black crop top with my cute flare leg jeans with the knees ripped out. A black choker and my Doc Marten boots complete my look.

Not that anyone will appreciate it, except maybe Sam, but they don’t see me that way.

Shoving my stuff in my backpack, I follow the aroma of coffee into the kitchen, hoping there’s something easy to grab for breakfast on my way out the door to catch the bus.

It’s so unfair that I don’t have a car yet. Sam lives close to school, so it’d be out of their way to pick me up. Normally they drive me home, though. Sam hates having dinner with their moms. Plural. Their mom remarried a woman not long after divorcing their dad or something like that.

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