BRICK: A Bad Boy Biker MC Romance Novel by Meg Jackson

Author:Meg Jackson [Jackson, Meg]
Language: eng
Format: epub
Published: 2016-08-23T18:30:00+00:00

18

He hadn’t been lying when he said that a gypsy party was a sight to behold. The party was held outdoors, in the rows between the trailers and on the “porches”, where people set up makeshift bars, barbecues, and long tables of food. There was enough booze to slake the thirst of a hundred sailors on shore leave, and enough food to sober them up enough to drink some more.

Music mingled and mixed from where it played through open trailer windows or on tiny radios, much of it shimmering, incandescent, and exotic to Kim’s ears. Children and adults alike twisted and turned under Christmas lights strewn from trailer to trailer, dancing wild and free in the cool summer air.

Damon, who’d been absent when Ricky was talking to Kennick, appeared during the party with a guitar, settling down at the far end of trailers and strumming some simple folk songs that people intermittently sang along to.

Kim had started out the night feeling on edge; parties had never been her forte, and especially amongst this crowd of strangers who looked at her as an outsider, she felt out of place and judged. But as she helped set up, drifting from family to family at Kennick’s side, the wondering looks turned to warm acceptance. She felt the enormous amount of liquor that the gypsies seemed to drink helped that, but then so did her association with Kennick, whom they trusted implicitly, it seemed.

Now, she was nestled under Kennick’s arm, holding a beer in one hand and a shot glass of clear, strong-smelling vodka in the other, near where Damon strummed out a beautifully lonesome tune. Three old men, whose names she thought were Dago, Turk, and James, though it was hard to remember considering how many names had already been thrown at her that night, were trying to one-up each other with fantastic tales.

Some were uproariously funny, some tinged with a kind of horrible awe or aching loss. All the same, each story blended into the next one regardless of subject or tone, synchronized with the familiarity of retelling, sharing the same practiced beauty that comes from years of details perfected and refined.

“That’s nothing,” the man Kim thought of as Turk said, taking a sip from the shot glass he held, which was a sign for everyone gathered to do the same. “Let me tell you about this woman I worked for back in ’83.

I was tarring her roof all summer, got to know her pretty good. She was a real sweetheart, and not stingy with the lemonade. Had two pretty daughters and a husband who, I guess, was never around too much. I barely ever saw him, anyway. The girls were in school, and I guess I was her only company, and with me on the roof knee-deep in tar, I wasn’t much for conversation.

So she goes and gets herself a parrot. Real pretty thing, all bright green and blue. She got it for a steal, too, and she didn’t figure out why until the damn bird started talking.

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