Trigger: Broken Mavericks MC Page 6

  I went to her room, and she wasn’t there, but then I noticed her mattress was skewed on the metal frame. I felt like a mom snooping on her children when I crept into the room slowly – as though I was afraid I’d be caught in the act – and lifted the mattress.

  I found a small hole in the bottom of the mattress that was covered with a piece of duct tape that had lost almost all of its stickiness. Inside was her pipe, a lighter, and an empty plastic baggy.

  I collapsed back onto her floor, placed my head between my knees, and cried. How stupid could I have been? Of course she’d still been using. Once we were out of the hospital, her withdrawal symptoms had disappeared. Buzz had left messages under our front door demanding money and that we come see him, but Mom had simply ripped them up, and we’d installed a deadbolt on the front door.

  She seemed to be putting her old life behind her. I’d told myself her withdrawal symptoms had disappeared because we were home and she was staying busy, but it was because she didn’t need Buzz or another dealer. She had the stash in her room to tide her over until I looked away for just a moment.

  And I had. I’d looked away, and she’d gone right back to doing what she’d always done, what she’d sworn to me she would never do again.

  After a few minutes, I picked myself up off the floor and did what I did best. I got by. I cleaned the house, made myself dinner, and sat down on the couch, still in my black skirt and white button-down from work, and waited.

  I don’t know how long I sat there before the doorbell rang, but when it did, I jumped up from the couch and stared at the hunk of wood as though if I stared hard enough, it would reveal who was on the other side.

  The clock on the wall said it was after midnight, which was late for anyone to be coming around. Not to mention that my mom and I never had visitors. The only person who had stopped by our house in the last couple of weeks had been Buzz to deliver warnings. He told us he would be back to collect money.

  The last message he’d left had him scheduled to arrive in the morning, but maybe he’d grown impatient. Shaking, I grabbed my Taser from my purse, took a deep breath, and opened the door.

  I don’t know what I expected to see, but it absolutely was not Trigger holding onto my passed-out mother on the front porch. My mom was limp and hanging over his arm. He seemed to be holding her up with ease, though I could see the muscles in his arms flexing to hang on to her weight.

  I sat the Taser on the end table next to the couch and opened the door all the way, ushering Trigger inside. Without a word, he readjusted my mom over his arm and walked inside. He hesitated in the living room, unsure what to do, so I rushed past him and directed him to my mom’s room.

  Her pipe and lighter were still sitting on the floor where I’d left them, and I quickly kicked them under her bed, hoping he wouldn’t see them. Of course, he already knew she was using, but the shame of that kind of paraphernalia casually sitting around my house was too much for me to handle on top of everything else.

  He laid my mom on top of the blankets and then walked out, leaving us alone. She stirred slightly as I pulled the covers up around her chin.

  “Kenna?” she asked, her voice dry and scratchy.

  “You missed your shift,” I said.

  She waved me away. “I hated that job, anyway.”

  I took a deep breath, trying to calm myself down. Now wasn’t the time to yell at her. Not with Trigger in the other room and her so doped up she wouldn’t even remember the conversation in the morning. But then again, maybe that was the perfect time to speak my feelings.

  “I put my reputation with my boss on the line to get you that job. I vouched for you even though you’ve done nothing but let me down over and over again,” I said, my voice breaking from the strain of wanting to yell, but being forced to whisper, so Trigger wouldn’t hear. “I trusted you even though you’ve never given me any reason to. I try to help you. I give you every opportunity to make better choices, to be better, but you insist on breaking my heart every time. I can’t do this for much longer, Mom. I won’t survive if I keep living my life for you this way. Pretty soon, I’ll have to move on, and I’m not sure what will happen when I do.”

  She was staring up at me, her eyes hazy and gray. Then, she smiled, reached out, and curled a strand of my hair. “My beautiful girl.”

  I looked up to the ceiling, trying desperately to keep the tears that were blurring my vision from spilling over. Once I started, I wasn’t sure I’d be able to stop. I lifted myself to my feet, walked into the hallway, and shut the door.

  Trigger was standing in the middle of the living room. He looked so out of place there, like a piece of modern art in a broom cupboard. I’d done my best to keep our house nice, but the few pictures that hung on the walls were old and yellowing, the furniture had rips in the fabric that I’d tried my best to repair or cover with patches, and our threadbare carpet had needed to be replaced for ten years.

  “Thank you,” I said quietly, looking away from him.

  Remembering the last time I’d seen him, when I’d asked him to stay away from my mother, was shameful. He’d done nothing but help me – even if he had been a jerk while doing it – and I’d told him to leave me alone.

  Now, he’d saved my mom again, and there weren’t enough words in the English language to describe how embarrassed I was. Of everything. Of my mom. My behavior. My house. My life.

  He turned as I spoke, as though I’d pulled him from his own thoughts.

  “Don’t mention it,” he said.

  I waited for the cutting remark, but it didn’t come. He seemed to be genuine, and that alone was enough to bring forth the surge of tears I’d been trying desperately to hold back. I knew it made Trigger uncomfortable when I cried, but I couldn’t help it. I dropped down into the sofa and cried, my face buried in my hands.

  After a few seconds, I felt a large, warm hand on my shoulder. And then the cushion next to me lowered with his weight. Trigger was holding me while I cried, which only made me cry harder.

  Chapter Seven

  Trigger

  A tiny part of me had been glad to see Kenna’s mom huddled in the corner of Buzz’s because I knew it meant I’d have a reason to see her again. I’d be her hero all over again. Dean had been telling me for years I should try and enjoy some of my admirers, take advantage of their gratitude for my own pleasure, but I’d never wanted to until Kenna.

  Even after I saw her in the diner, and she all but threw me out, I couldn’t stop thinking about her. I wondered how she was doing, how things were going with her mom, whether she had a boyfriend or anyone in her bed. For some unknown reason, I imagined myself next to her. This woman I barely knew had infiltrated my thoughts and my dreams.

  Oh God, the dreams. Night after night of sexual fantasies had played out. Me running my hands down her petite frame, tugging on her hair while she writhed on top of me.

  Then, I was standing on her front porch, her drugged mom slung over my arm, and she opened the door holding a Taser, her eyes alert, but with a serious edge. She was prepared to fight whoever was standing on the other side of the door. This tiny woman who I could have broken in half with one hand was prepared to defend herself with what appeared to be a cheap Taser she’d bought off the Internet, wearing her work uniform, no less.

  And I realized then why I couldn’t stop thinking about her. It wasn’t her tiny, hot body – though that was one part of it. It was because she reminded me of myself.

  Kenna nestled herself into my body, her soft cheek against my chest, and I wrapped an arm around her shoulders. Her sobs were quiet, but I felt her body shaking as the emotions poured out of her. Normally, seeing anyone cry was enough to send me fleeing the room. I didn’t do well with strong emotions. However, at that moment, I didn’t mind being there to comfort her. I just wanted to be the person who helped her stop crying.

  “It’s okay,” I said, surprising even myself. Kenna jumped when I spoke, but then turned her face into me and took a deep
breath. Her hand rested on my arm, and her fingers brushed across my skin, leaving goosebumps. “Everything is all right.”

  She lifted her head and looked up at me, her eyelashes wet with tears. “What if it isn’t though? What if everything is a mess and it will never get better?”

  I’d called Kenna a skank the first time I’d seen her. I’d assumed I knew everything I needed to know about her and her family. She was willing to sleep with a dealer to score some drugs for her mom, and I didn’t want any part of that. However, I realized now that all she wanted was to save her mom, just like I had wanted to save mine not so many years ago. I hadn’t been able to save my own mother, but maybe I could help Kenna save hers.

  I massaged my hand up and down her arm. “The only way things can’t get better is if you’re dead. And you’re alive, and I’m alive, and your mom is alive. As long as we are breathing, there is hope.”

  ***

  Kenna

  I wiped my eyes and stood up. I needed to put some space between myself and Trigger. He smelled and felt too good with his arms around my shoulders, his chest rising and falling against my body.

  “Do you want anything to drink? Water, tea, juice?” I offered, already moving towards the kitchen.

  I hadn’t actually expected Trigger to take anything. In fact, I expected him to bolt out the front door as soon as I turned my back, but to my surprise, he followed me into the kitchen and requested a mug of lemon tea.

  He sat at the table while I moved around the kitchen, boiling water, dropping tea bags into the mugs, and pouring the water. He watched me, but I never felt studied or nervous. Despite having only met Trigger a few times, I felt a weird sense of ease in front of him. Perhaps it was because he’d seen the worst of me. He’d seen the truth of my life, and I didn’t feel I had anything else left to hide.

  On the list of things I thought I’d never live to see, Trigger sipping hot lemon tea at my kitchen table topped the list. His fingers were too big to fit inside the handle of the mug, so he looked like a giant playing with a children’s tea set.

  “You sounded like you were talking from experience before,” I finally said, breaking the silence.

  He took another sip from his mug and sat it on the table in front of him. “When?”

  “When you were talking about things getting better as long as we’re breathing.”

  I was afraid to ask him anything too personal. He wasn’t the type to enjoy sharing personal information, and I didn’t want to scare him away. I didn’t know what I would do if I were left alone with my mother.

  “I’ve had bad times,” he said finally, his eyes looking intently over my shoulder, giving me the impression that he was seeing something much different than my kitchen wall.

  “This bad?” I asked.

  “Worse.”

  I assumed he’d leave it at that, but then he began to talk, and I was so blown away not only by his story but by the fact that he was opening up to me, that I couldn’t do anything other than stare at him with wide eyes.

  “My dad left when I was too young to remember him, and my mom took a job as a stripper to pay the bills. I was still in school, and even when I finally figured out what was going on, I was hardly capable of getting a job or making a better life for her. But I would have. I planned to, in fact. Growing up, I saw how much she sacrificed for me, how much life tried to beat her down, but she kept getting back up for me, and I wanted to do the same for her. I had plans to go to school, get a job making a lot of money, and make sure she never had to work again, as a stripper or otherwise. But then, things got worse.”

  His eyes darkened, and his fist clenched with the memory.

  “She became a prostitute to try and cover some of our debts. But right from the start, her pimp took too much off the top. When she tried to get out of it, he claimed she owed him money, as well. She worked herself sick trying to pay him back, but she knew she would never make enough. Finally, she decided to run away and start over. We were all packed and ready, but he figured out her plan before we could leave. So, he killed her.”

  I gasped, my hand over my open mouth.

  Trigger only nodded. “It was horrible. He dumped her out like she was trash. I was in high school at the time, and it destroyed me. I dropped out and found the Broken Mavericks and decided I was going to get revenge on scum like that. Like my mom’s pimp and Buzz. Men who prey on vulnerable women and enjoy it.”

  I reached out and placed a hand on his shoulder, squeezing lightly. “I’m sure she would’ve been so proud of you.”

  He softened at my words, and suddenly, I saw an entirely new person in front of me. I’d known Trigger had a hidden kindness in him when he’d saved my mom and me from Buzz, but now it blazed out of him. Everything he did was for and because of his mom. He wanted to honor her memory and exact revenge on the kind of men who destroyed her life.

  However, his trauma also affected him deeply. He had endured more heartache than anyone should have to, so it was no wonder he was closed off and cold.

  I’d been attracted to him the first time I’d seen him. Anyone with eyes could look at his inky black hair, square jaw, and the tattoos that roped around his muscular body and see how handsome he was. But now, I admired him. I was attracted to the kindness he tried so hard to disguise behind toughness. To the vulnerability, he hid away. Trigger, as much as he tried to deny it, was sensitive and caring, and I wanted to be the person who brought that out in him.

  All at once, Trigger seemed to realize what had happened. He’d opened up to me, and I was comforting him, and it became too much. He slid his chair away from the table, so he was out of my reach.

  “All I’m saying is that I understand wanting to help your mom turn her life around,” he said, rolling his shoulders as though trying to forget how my hand had just been there.

  He was pulling away again, and I was desperate to keep him with me, to keep him close. I wanted to talk to him and learn more about him. I wanted him to feel safe with me. It seemed, from the outside, that Trigger didn’t have anyone in his life he could be vulnerable with. I wanted to be that person.

  “My mom started using slowly,” I said. “I watched her snowball out of control. It felt like watching a train jump the tracks in slow motion. I could see what was going to happen, and I wanted to stop it, but I was powerless. And now that I am older, I feel even more responsible for her. If I leave and let her get evicted and don’t make sure she is eating actual food or going to the doctor, what chance does she have? I know none of this is my fault, but if I left her and she died, I would feel guilty every day for the rest of my life.”

  “Believe me, I understand.” He looked down at the floor.

  I wanted to reach out and lift his chin up. Instead, I folded my hands on the table in front of me. “Do you feel guilty?” I asked.

  I wasn’t sure Trigger would answer, but finally, he nodded. It was so subtle that I wouldn’t have caught it had I not been looking for it. His eyes were dark and fixed on the linoleum floor. I tried to get him to look up at me, but he was resisting.

  So, I took a chance.

  I eased out of my chair and rounded the table like I was approaching a wild animal. Small, slow steps. No sudden movements. I knelt down in front of him and placed a hand on his knee.

  “You didn’t do anything wrong. You were only a kid when it all happened,” I said softly.

  His eyes flicked up to mine for a second, and I could tell even that small connection cost him a lot.

  “I think we both need something stronger than tea,” I said.

  His eyes shot to me quickly, surprise crossing his features, and then he laughed. “I couldn’t agree more.”

  I grabbed two glasses from the cupboard and filled each of them with a splash of some whiskey that had been in the back of our mostly-empty liquor cabinet for years. I knew next to nothing about alcohol except that people were always talking about the age of it. And if age was any indication of quality, I was serving Trig
ger our nicest liquor.

  Then I took a drink and changed my mind entirely.

  “Not much for whiskey?” he asked with a smile, sipping his.

  My eyes were watering as I shrugged. “I’m fine.”

  “You don’t look fine. You look like you have a hot coal in your mouth.”

  I tried to regulate my features for a few more seconds, and then I gave up, dropped my glass on the table, and took a huge swig from a half-empty liter of soda in the fridge door.

  “I don’t drink very often,” I admitted.

  “You don’t say,” he said with a smirk.

  “I’m adverse to anything people can get addicted to.” It was true. Watching my mom’s life slip out of her control, watching her hand over everything to a substance, had soured me on the thrill other people seemed to get from playing beer pong and smoking weed.