Unholy Trinity (Rebel Kings MC #6)

by Garrett Leigh

McGovern. That was his name. He had curly surfer hair and big eyes. I’d never seen him in daylight, so I didn’t know the colour, but every time we met in a brutal scrap like this, I saw him any moment I wasn’t preoccupied with not getting killed. And as the years rolled by, those moments grew less and less. Only my kids kept me from letting a King wrap a brick around my skull.

My next sweep of the scene was for a mop of blond curls, and my heart gave a little lurch when I found it. When I found him, fighting like a fuckin’ gladiator, all wild hair and sun-kissed muscles. Fuck me. I didn’t need any help defining my sexuality—that horse had bolted years ago—but it had been a long time since I’d set eyes on a man who made my blood rush like he did.

We locked eyes, chests heaving, skin smeared with dirt and blood. Three fights scattered the ground between us, but the heat that surged inside me had nothing to do with the violence in the air, and the skip in my heart accelerated, sending my pulse straight to my fuckin’ ears. A clattering roar that swamped every sense until it was just me and him staring at each other across a messy biker brawl.

McGovern’s attention was on his men, checking their injuries. Their state of mind. Embracing them, and I swear to god, he planted a smacker on the cheek of the enforcer Priest had been boneheaded enough to call baby. That dude was kinda hot too, but whatever he had to offer was dulled by the beauty of the man beside him.

McGovern. McGovern. His name became a drumbeat in my chest, a welcome distraction from the clusterfuck my existence had become six years ago when my unbending, principled twin brother had unwittingly chucked a grenade under his life. I was still lying flat over that fucker. Every damn day. But staring at the blond-haired, blue-eyed dreamboat across the way made it easier for the long seconds I got away with it.

He didn’t have his blade, but he still carried a pipe and those fuckers hurt. A fact as real to me as a summer sky being the same colour as McGovern’s eyes. A fact that didn’t matter. Cos I didn’t give a shit. If playing Priest saved a woman I’d never met from the curse of his dirty hands, I’d take whatever he threw at me until the end of fuckin’ time. And McGovern? I’d keep him for my dreams.

He was six foot five, with dark blond hair, and eyes as green as the sea glass Rubi’s parents used to make jewellery from. Deep eyes that crinkled at the sides when he laughed—a phenomenon regular enough to be addictive, and rare enough that I knew he was as good as Decoy at concealing his moods. Didn’t blame him. After the decade Locke Halliwell had survived, I didn’t blame him for anything. But he wasn’t as good at hiding his feelings as he thought he was. Or maybe he was learning to let go. Recovering. Either way, despite his easy grin, I knew he was annoyed. Annoyed with me.

“What about you? You gonna sit out here all night?” “It’s my job.” “No, it isn’t.” Locke snorted and went back to his cigarette. It was my cue to walk on by. To push through the door to my woman, but everything about us traipsed my feet closer to where Locke reclined against the wall, one booted foot kicked up against the plasterboard.

“At least go inside. She gets lonely too, you know.” “Then stay.” His deep voice made my lungs feel smaller. As if he was asking me to stay with him—with them both—and I gritted my teeth around the heat that barrelled through me. I hadn’t seen Orla since the early hours of this morning. Leaving her again was already killing me. Add in the weight of Locke’s sexy-as-fuck disapproval and I was a royal mess.

“What about you?” “What about me?” Locke crushed his smoke in an ashtray and pushed off the wall, narrowing the distance between us in two strides of his long legs, the Gemini tat on his neck reeling me in. The other dark ink that crept above his collar. The sheer height of him as he towered over me, backing me against Orla’s door, making use of the extra inches I was pretty sure he had everywhere.

He smelled of smoke, clean cotton, and the lemon Fanta he drank when he was tired, three things I’d deduced so fast that Orla reckoned it was a primal man thing, biological proof of my attraction to him, and with him this close, the theory had legs. I literally ached to lay hands on him. To press my face into his neck and breathe him in. Did I want him to fuck me?

Want. What a strange fucking word. Sometimes I knew what it meant. Others, I just heard my dad’s voice in my head, telling me that liking dick was a sin, and I was still learning to let my sexuality be whatever God had meant it to be. That I loved Orla, and she set me on fire in every fucking way. But this dude, man. Fucking hell. He wasn’t even touching me and I was shook, and in the three seconds it took for my brain to shor...

“I was here this morning.” “For an hour.” An hour of fucking my girl as the sun rose. I had no regrets. But . . . “To know my every move, you must be awake too.” “Or Orla tells me. Cos she’s worried about you.” Plausible. Orla and Locke were together most days, and he was easy to talk to. Unless it was to tell him you couldn’t close your eyes without picturing his mouth on your woman. Fuck my life.

I didn’t want to figure anything out with Mateo. I wanted to drag Locke inside with me and pull Orla into his strong arms so they could keep each other safe and whole until I came home. But I didn’t know how to articulate that, and Locke was done with the conversation. He lit another smoke and turned his back on me. I opened Orla’s door and slipped inside, shutting him out, and it felt so fucking wrong, it was a physical pain in my chest. A hurt only one person could shift.

Rubbing the open wound, I moved through Orla’s flat, following the sound of the shower running. Following my goddamn heart, even though it felt like I’d left a piece of myself in the hallway.

The water shut off as I neared the bathroom. Orla emerged in a cloud of steam, one crimson towel hiding her tattooed curves from me, another twisted around her long, dark hair. Water still glistened on her body, swathes of milky skin that after years and years of yearning was mine to touch whenev...

O’Brian to the bone, she had ink on her tits. Vintage roses and skulls. Daggers on her collarbones. I traced it all with my tongue until I found her mouth and claimed her there too. Her kiss was the only one I’d known my whole damn life. Sure, I’d fucked other people. She had too. But she was the only soul on earth I’d ever given myself to like this. These filthy-sweet moments where her breath became mine, the velvet sweep of her tongue enough to sway me on my fucking feet.

Orla reached the bed. She was a few steps ahead of me, but the second her back hit that mattress I was on her, my clothed body to her naked one. Faded denim and an old Pogues tee to her soft, inked curves. My hands were everywhere, sweeping her damp skin with my rough palms, knowing she could take it. Revelling in the fact that she loved it. That she loved me.

I reached back and grabbed the collar of my T-shirt, yanking the thing over my head in a movement more fluid than I truly felt. Locke had me fragile already. Orla had me in pieces at her feet. Between her legs. Whatever.

I loved this shit. If I never fucked her again, I’d die happy with my mouth on her. While Locke fucks her. A groan escaped me. I teased Orla’s clit with my tongue and her back arched, her gaze still fixed on me like she heard every dirty thought passing through my messed-up brain. Maybe she did. I knew she had these fantasies about Locke too. She’d told me. Like I’d told her. Was she thinking of him as I searched out the magic spots that craved my touch? It was the weirdest thing that I kinda hoped she was. That her wanting him made me want her more. That me wanting him made me want to fucking devour her.

Twenty minutes later, Nash emerged from Orla’s flat with flushed cheeks and sex-mussed hair. With tight jeans and the scent of her all over him. Fuckin’ hell. I closed my eyes for a hot second, forcing myself to breathe through my mouth and not picture every depraved thing they might’ve done to match the sounds that had filtered through the wall. Goddamn, why was everything about these two pure fuckin’ sex?

Nash’s boots brought him closer and I found myself fighting a brand-new battle. If I didn’t open my eyes and look at him, he’d touch me to find out why. If I looked at him right now, I’d burst into flames. Amazing. I’d faced worse dilemmas in my life, but that didn’t make this one any less painful.

Also, I kinda wanted him to touch me. Nash had warm, rough hands that felt good on my skin, even through the Kings crewneck that stood between his palm and the bare tingling skin of my shoulder. Cos I didn’t open my eyes. Course I didn’t. Cos I wanted this. I wanted him, and the fact tha...

“Hey.” Nash squeezed my arm. “It’s all sorted. Mateo’s in with Orla. You can go home for the night.” I opened my eyes. “Home?” Nash gave me that easy grin. The one that, combined with his smoky Irish brogue, made me want to slam him against the wall and kiss the shit out of him.

Outside, fresh air hit me. I breathed it in, counting the seconds before he reached for me again. Cos I knew he would. Touch was Nash’s superpower. I made it to my hog before he caught up with me, throwing a leg over, using the damn thing as a shield to stop me doing something stupid. Like hauling him in for a kiss. Dragging him back upstairs so we could— “You don’t have to protect me too.”

Nash and his big heart seemed genuinely aggrieved. It made me want to rub the worry lines from his eyes with the pad of my thumb, and I gripped my helmet harder.

“Hey. What’s wrong?” Nash’s humour faded and he bypassed my every defence, dropping an arm around my shoulders before I could evade him. Not that I wanted to evade him. Nash’s inked and ripped arm was some kind of perfect. He had muscles on muscles that were somehow lean and brawny at the same time, and he smelled of guitars and fuckin’ marshmallows or some shit. And he smelled of her. These sexy motherfuckers. They pushed every button I had without even trying.

He got in my face more, brightening my day with his messy waves, scruffy beard, and eyes that cared. It was too easy to let my hand drift to his waist, fingers slipping into his belt loop, thumb seeking out the bare skin that was as much of him as I’d ever let myself have. “I’m good. Just sulking over you working all night when you should be with her.” Nash leaned into my touch.

My restraint deserted me. I wrenched him close enough that I felt the stone column he was packing in his jeans. Resisted palming it by the grace of fuckin’ God. Then I pushed him away. “Get on your hog, Nash.” He laughed, but the mellow sound carried the same tension binding my own muscles. This thing between us . . . it burned so good, but every wicked moment left a scar, just like Logan said it would.

I jammed my helmet on with that beauty rattling around my brain. I mean, Lo wasn’t wrong, but the most painful secret I had was that he didn’t have a clue what had fucked me up the most, and he never would. Not if I could help it.

Mateo didn’t want to fuck her, and I wondered what that was like, to look at someone as stop-traffic beautiful as Orla O’Brian and not have the whole fuckin’ universe descend to your dick. These cats who saw her as a surrogate sister didn’t know they were damn born. And there it was. The circle came back around, and it was a truly special thing how my obsession swung from one second to the next. Nash and Orla bookended my sexuality. I loved every gender. I loved it all. But I only felt truly whole when I had them both on my brain. Fucking each other. Fucking me. Or even just laughing. Just living.

The way Nash gazed at her. How she watched over him when he wasn’t paying attention, catching the small things that slipped through the cracks. It was an epic kind of love, the best, and before I’d become a King, I’d only seen it in Logan and his sunshine lover. Now I saw it every day in the men I’d come to count as family, but in them, Nash and Orla, it warmed my fuckin’ heart when I wasn’t incinerating myself with dirtier thoughts.

I caught his wrist. It was September. The nights were still warm and his arms were bare, scorching my palm with raw heat. “At least let me watch from Hill Farm. It’s still too far to get to you, but at least I can see what’s happening.” Nash hesitated for reasons he didn’t divulge, his gaze darting between mine and where my hand gripped him. Then he gave a slow nod.

I turned away from it, from them, ignoring Folk’s quizzical stare. I was a weirdo who got hornier than ever when I was tired, and right now I felt too fuckin’ frayed to control myself. Go to bed. Tempting, but I knew Nash wouldn’t until he’d debriefed at least Saint, and getting my head down while he was still working felt a million kinds of shitty. “You don’t have to protect me too.” Goddamn, he was so wrong about that.

“Hey, sugar.” Long nails skimmed my forearm. “Long night?” I bathed in Orla’s black-cherry scent. It blew my mind that a woman who perpetually smelled so sweet could be so fuckin’ dangerous. “Sorry we didn’t get him home.” That earned me a light thump to my bicep. “That’s what you think I’m worried about right now?” “You’re worried?” I forced myself to look her in the eye. Regretted it in all the best ways.

Nash’s gaze was a chill pill of baby blue. Orla’s was the same molten brown as her brothers, but I never fell head first into Cam or River’s dark stare and resurfaced a different man. I never ached to run my rough hands over their tattooed skin, and it wasn’t because they lacked Orla’s curvy hips and delicate neck. Hell no. The O’Brian gene pool was fine...

She rose up on her toes, stretching that pale, tattooed neck to kiss my cheek. “I hate it when he doesn’t come home, and I miss you when you’re not right there missing him with me, but knowing you’re together makes it easier.” Don’t touch her. My arms had other ideas, circling her waist before I caught myself in the same moment that Nash reached us. His hand grazed my hip, and the heat Orla had brought with her sparked a new flame. For a strangled second, my head spun with images of what I’d do if we were alone. If we were at her place—in her bed. Me and her. Her and him. Him and me. But I pushed it away, all of it, and released her. They’re not yours. And they never would be. I’d spent all my lucky stars on staying alive.

I was distantly aware that we were alone now. That the others had already drifted to the chapel, and without the distraction of other people, Nash’s close proximity added a deeper spin to the whirlwind of Orla and her fleeting kiss. It left me reeling. Reckless. And hating the fact that shitty old ghosts made me feel like shoving him off me. I didn’t like hating things. I liked fun and laughter, especially on Nash.

Forcing the bad away, I brought my hand to his face and smoothed the worry lines from his eyes. Gave his lips a little nudge, turning his frown upside down. “I do trust you.” Despite his forced grin, Nash’s gaze remained earnest, like he was waiting for more. But it was all I had. On some level, I knew he had more of my story in his head than I’d ever told him, but I’d pushed past that conversation so often that I didn’t know how to stop.

Rubi reached over and mussed his hair. “No stamina, Nashie.” Nash yawned. “No dinner more like. Maybe that’s why it took me too long to notice.” He shot me an apologetic frown. “I was more worried about keeping you out all night for no reason.” “It wasn’t no reason, Nash.” Our gazes locked for a charged second, like they always did when I said his name. Couldn’t say why, just that his name on my lips got to him, and I fuckin’ loved it enough to say it far too often.

I needed two hands for the restless angel in my arms, and it hit me harder than I was prepared for that I was holding someone else’s kid when my own needed me more. She doesn’t need you. You taught her not to, remember?

“I say yes.” Folk reached for Decoy’s hand. “So do I.” The atmosphere shifted. A heartbeat. A shaky breath. Then tension I’d thought was all mine evaporated and Nash was in front of me before I could blink. He hauled me into a tight embrace that didn’t give me wood only because Rubi crashed it. “Yes, Locktipuss.” Rubi pounded my back. “Talking about fucking edging.” Nash laughed. His chest vibrated against mine and it was all I could do to unstick my tongue from the roof of my mouth.

An envelope sailed over my head and landed on the bar. It hit the old wood with a thwack, my name scrawled on the wrinkled brown paper in the chaotic handwriting I knew to be Nash’s. Then I felt him. That heat at the base of my spine. The warmth in my chest that scared me so much more than wanting to bang his pretty brains out did. He appeared beside me like a phantom hug, a tired grin lighting his face.

I pursed my lips, unable to entirely disagree with him, but all the while hating the fact that he probably wouldn’t sleep for hours yet. “I—” “No.” “You don’t know what I was going to say.” Nash leaned in, his mouth so close I could’ve kissed him if we’d been different men with different lives.

Restraint made me shake. I balled my hands into fists and licked my lips, heart stuttering as Nash tracked my tongue with his hot gaze, inhaling a sharp breath through his nose. God, I wanted him. Always had, since the very first second I’d laid eyes on him. I wanted to lick his skin. I wanted to bite his damn throat. I wanted to kiss him so badly my body turned to molten stone. “Locke.” “Don’t say my fuckin’ name like that.” “Then go to bed. Before I get Orla to drag you there.”

Nash’s bearded jaw called to me. I slid my hand along it and ducked the three inches I had on him, brushing my lips over his cheekbone with the sweetest, lightest kiss. “Go. I’ll get some sleep, I promise.” I straightened up before he could react and made myself walk away from him. But goddamn, leaving him hanging was as hard as my fuckin’ dick.

When I was little, Cam was so annoying, I asked God for a new brother. He sent me River. Half the size, twice as irritating. Messy in ways I’d never imagined until he became the human tornado he remained to this day.

Our mother was dead. But I couldn’t deny she’d left a legacy of awesome men behind. Men who cooked, cleaned, and mostly took care of their own chores. If only she’d taught them how to be selfish. My gaze drifted to the window and the vacant spot where Nash’s V-Rod should’ve been, but he wasn’t here. Wherever he’d gone with Rubi and Folk that morning, he wasn’t back yet. And Locke was gone too. To see his kids, I assumed. It was the only reason he ever rode out alone. Shouldn’t be riding alone.

Cam opened his mouth to respond. Saint stepped between us and swiped my knife. He turned his back on Cam and held my gaze for a long second before he found his words. “Will you come somewhere with me?” “Now?” “It’s close.” Well, all right then. Saint didn’t ask much of me in return for the love he didn’t give any other woman. If he wanted me to accompany him to Dublin and back before dinner, I’d do it.

I got out of the car and Locke’s hand came, as it always did when we were out, to the small of my back, not touching, just hovering. Teasing. Sometimes I ached to grab his hand and force it to my skin, but I’d never do it. Locke had choices. He deserved them—he needed them, even if the reality of him passing me to Saint made me want to punch everyone in the dick.