Twisted Steel: An MC Anthology: Second Edition Elizabeth Knox (cheapest way to read ebooks .txt) 📖

all soon. I toss this one on top and notice the edge of a large envelope peeking out. The return address catches my eye. I pull it from the stack. Santa Cruz High School Class of 2001 Reunion Committee.

It’s addressed to Timothy O’Leary c/o Dorothy Reardon. I frown, guessing Gram’s must be the last known address they have for me.

I tear it open and read it.

It’s an invitation to my twentieth reunion. Christ, has it been twenty years already?

Suddenly I’m catapulted back in time to the summer of my graduation, when everything changed . . .

Twenty years ago . . .

I sit with Sara on a bench in front of the ice cream place down near the wharf. She’s got a double-dip cone she’s licking. I got a cherry slushy, but mostly I’m just watching Sara lick that cone, thinking all sorts of filthy thoughts.

Swinging her feet, she looks over and catches me, then grins and slugs my arm with her free hand. “Get your mind out of the gutter, Irish.”

She’s taken to calling me that, and I can’t say I don’t like it. Anything’s better than Tim. I’ve heard all the Tiny Tim jokes I can stand. Besides, when she says that nickname she’s given me, it sounds sexy on her lips.

“I make no promises on that,” I reply, grinning.

We both go back to staring at the ocean.

“Speaking of promises, I think we should make a pact.” She looks over at me.

“A pact?” I take a slurp off my straw and toss the empty cup in the trashcan.

“Yes. If neither of us are married by our twentieth high school reunion, we promise to meet there, and we date each other again.”

“You going somewhere?” I ask with a lift of my brow.

She shrugs. “You never know what life will throw at us. Just promise me, Irish.”

“Okay. Fine. I promise.”

“Cross your heart?”

I roll my eyes and make the mark. “Happy?”

She grins big. “Yes. I’m happy.”

“Good, now can we go get some real food? I’m starved.”

Staring down at the invitation now, I realize I had no idea the weight of the promise I’d made that day. Or that here I’d be, twenty years later, not married, and wondering if that promise still holds weight. I know the answer to that, because I think it may hold more weight than I ever expected. Right up there, actually, with the one I took when I swore an oath to the United States Marines, and then the oath I took when I became a patched member of the Evil Dead MC.

Two days later—

I’m standing at the fridge, staring inside, wondering if I want the half-eaten sub sandwich I bought last night or if I want to go out. The contents are pretty meager; I don’t even have any beer. Guess I’m going to have to break down and go grocery shopping.

The sound of a pack of Harleys coming up the street draws my attention and I wander to the front of the house to peer out the window. It’s four of my brothers. They slow to make the turn into my driveway.

I backtrack through the house and go out the back door to meet them. They park and dismount, pulling their helmets off.

“Wondered how long it’d take before you found the place.” I smile. “I hope to hell you brought beer.”

Red Dog grins, pulls a twelve-pack out of his saddlebag, and holds it up. “Like American Express . . . don’t leave home without it.”

I fold my arms. “Okay, you’re allowed in. What about the rest of you? Do you come bearing gifts?”

Wolf pulls a bottle of Jack out of his saddlebag. “Does this get me inside?”

“You also may enter.”

I look at Cole and Crash and arc a brow. “Well?”

Cole scoffs. “Fuck off. You’re lucky we hauled our asses over the mountains to come see the place.” They both shoulder past me.

Crash slugs me in the chest as he tromps up the steps. “Let’s see this Tyrolean Haunted House you’re livin’ in, Green.”

Boots trudge inside, and four leather-clad men plus myself take up most of the space in the kitchen.

Red Dog hands me the case of cans. “Don’t say I never gave ya nothin’.”

I tear it open and pass them each a beer.

They wander around the house, checking each room.

“Christ, Green, what the hell are you going to do with a place this big?” Cole asks.

“I know who’s having the next Christmas party,” Wolf says. “Bet you could fit a ten-foot tree in this entryway.” He stares up.

“Look at that staircase, man. How old is this place?” Red Dog asks.

“1889,” I reply.

Red Dog looks up the stairs. “How many rooms you got in this place?”

“Fifteen.”

“Some rich guy build it?”

“Railroad baron or so I’ve been told.” I shrug. “Never really researched it.”

Crash looks over at me, resting his elbow on the banister post. “Seriously, Green, how the hell you gonna pay to heat and cool a place this big, not to mention the upkeep and repairs?”

“Gram left me some insurance money. If it gets to be too much, guess I’ll sell it.”

We move to the dining room and sit around the big table.

Cole slouches back in the chair at the head of the table, one arm hooked over the back. I sit on the opposite end. Wolf and Crash sit in the middle, while Red Dog leans a hip against the buffet.

“You movin’ in probably lowered the home values of everybody in the neighborhood,” Crash jokes.

“Fuck off.”

“Drive over wasn’t as far as I thought,” Cole says.

“Nope, just twenty minutes from the clubhouse.”

“How you likin’ it so far?” Cole asks.

“Better than where I was,” I reply, and wait for the jokes. My brothers don’t fail me.

“Anything’s better than that fucking trailer, Green.” Crash grins at me.

I can’t argue with him, so I don’t bother.

Wolf leans his elbows on the table. “So you gonna hire a maid to keep the place clean?”

I know he’s only half-joking. “Yeah. Gonna make her dress in