Irish Read online

  (Tarnished Souls MC)

  Book 3

  By: Dusty Lassetter

  Irish

  a Tarnished Souls MC novel

  Copyright ©2017 by Dusty Lassetter

  All rights reserve. No part of this publication may be reproduced, distributed, or transmitted in any form or by any means. Without prior permission from the author. The scanning, uploading, and distribution of this book via the internet or via other means without the permission of the publisher is illegal and punishable by law.

  This book is a work of fiction. Names, characters, establishments, organizations, and incidents are wither products of the author’s imagination or are used fictitiously to give a sense of authenticity.

  Irish

  This tiny black box I’ve got concealed in my jacket pocket doesn’t weigh me down like I thought it would. I’ve been waiting outside my girl’s house for twenty minutes. Each passing second gives me more confidence in knowing she is the one I am meant to spend the rest of my life with. After tonight, the world will know she belongs to me, and I to her.

  As soon as Ashley steps onto the pebble walkway, the different colored stones outlining a path directly to me, she tries to hide the look of guilt and sadness on her face. If I was a betting man I would put money on her parents giving her grief about being with me. I pride myself in being a charismatic Irish man that people instantly love, but my charms have done nothing to melt the ice surrounding her parent’s hearts. Ashley is the apple of their eye. The basket they have placed all their eggs in. Her dad owns a string of bakeries around Texas and expects Ashley to take over the family business when he retires. Seeing their brilliant and motivated daughter with an immigrant that rides around on a motorcycle doesn’t exactly please them.

  “That frown on your face is starting to make me think you’re not happy to see me,” I growl into the night air as I lunge forward. Pulling her into my arms, I sweep her off her feet and begin twirling us around until my ears are satisfied with the sound of her laughter.

  “I ate spaghetti, Tony,” she laughs out in a sorry attempt to get me to stop. Thinking she is lying, but not willing to bet on it, I place her back on the stable ground. When her cloudy blue eyes look into mine, all the worry from before is gone. Knowing I am the cause for her joy makes me feel like the king of the world.

  “You’re beautiful,” I whisper while trailing my finger across the outline of her delicate jaw. Ashley scrunches up her nose because she’s never been good at taking compliments before wiggling out of my embrace to dig something out of her small purse.

  “I got you something at the store today,” she utters, concentrating hard on finding the object she is searching for. “It’s nothing really, but I thought you would love it.”

  Her eyes light up with pleasure as she removes her hand from the bag, fingers sealed tight around the small gift. “I know how much you like toothpicks,” she starts saying while slowly opening her clenched fist. “So, when I saw these cinnamon flavored ones, I just had to buy them.”

  Ashley knows my need to chew on toothpicks comes from more than just liking them. When I was younger, living in Ireland, I was diagnosed with ADHD. My parents refused to acknowledge that I had a problem, so eventually I had to find a way to manage it myself. Unlike most people, I have a hard time concentrating, and as if that isn’t annoying enough, my body always feels like I’ve drank fifteen cups of coffee. The constant movement, even if it is to only chew on a toothpick, helps stop the circus that is going on in my head.

  “You truly love me,” I joke.

  “Maybe,” she says, winking at me as I reach forward to take the sweet offering she has. Quickly ripping into the package, I find the fattest stick and pop it into my mouth.

  Ashley is waiting for me to tell her I like them. The look she is giving me reminds me of a young pup. Stretching a smile across my face, that makes my cheeks hurt, I let her know just how much I am enjoying it.

  “Are we ready to go?” She asks. “I’m getting tired of my parents watching us through the window.”

  Looking in the direction of the house, I see the curtains in the kitchen window swaying. Her parents weren’t smart enough to turn the lights off before peeping on us like perverts in a bush, and their lack of stalking skills makes my smile grow.

  “Put your helmet on,” I command.

  “Yes, sir,” she immediately replies, reaching for the custom hot pink creation she conned me into buying her. I remember the first time I asked her to take a ride with me. We had just met at a club in downtown Austin. That was eight months ago. I was out celebrating my twenty-third birthday, and she was there to celebrate her friend’s engagement. I asked Ashley if I could take her home on the back of my bike, promising the ride of her life. When she asked me what color helmet I had, I remember thinking she was crazy, but I answered anyway. The excuse that black wouldn’t go with her pink dress was laughable, but I was determined to get what I wanted. The next day I had the helmet painted pink with white butterflies just to make sure it was extra girly before going to the address her drunk friend gave me. I will never forget the look on her face when I knocked on her door, pink helmet in hand, and asked her to go for a ride.

  Once she places her arms around my abdomen, and molds the front of her body to my back I twist the throttle. The sound of my baby roaring its agreement to the night sky reminds me of how perfect tonight is going to be. The smile on my face grows as I allow the moon to guide me toward my destination, my wheels eating up the asphalt.

  Irish

  How did I end up here?

  That’s a question people often ask themselves when they’re not happy with the way their life is going. Right now, at this very moment, I would compare my situation to a walk in the park, but not the lovely stroll you’re imagining. I don’t smell fresh flowers blooming to allow the sun’s rays in, and I don’t feel the wind breezing through my hair in a delightful way. No, that’s far from the scene I’m picturing in my head. My park, the one I’m stomping through, is filled with piles of dog shit that my newly cleaned boots keep stepping in, the smell stinging my nose and eyes.

  When I hear the telltale sign of my door opening, the rusty hinges make it impossible for anyone to sneak up on me, I start mentally preparing myself to deal with the self-centered drama queen that is my wife.

  Allison Jones, who now signs her name Allison Conroy, is a mistake I’m starting to think I will never stop paying for. We’ve been married for two years now. Our honeymoon only lasted one day before I realized what a huge error in judgment I had made. At the time, I was angry and hurt when the woman I loved turned down my proposal, so I acted on emotion instead of logic.

  With my back to the door, I can’t see Allison enter my room, sauntering in like she belongs here. I guess one could argue legally she does, but we both know neither of us married for love. Like I mentioned before, Allison is self-centered. I don’t think I’ve ever seen her express any emotion other than love for herself and jealousy of her twin sister, Ashley. Out of the two, Ashley was always the smartest, most levelheaded, and her parent’s favorite. Allison was always playing catch up. Her rebellious attitude was all she had to get their attention. I believe deep down there is a woman people could tolerate, but she’s been this way for so long I don’t think she knows how to be her true self.

  “Irish.”

  The way my name catches in her throat, like she is struggling to talk, has me sitting up and turning in her direction. My once sluggish mind, tired from the multiple leads I’ve been following to find Ashley, now on full alert.

  “What happened?” I ask, trying to squint enough to see her through the limited light coming from the open doorway.

  “They found Ashley.”

  Instantly, I’m on my feet and out the do
or. If one of my brothers found Ashley she will be here, in the clubhouse, scared and needing to see a familiar face.

  “Irish!” Allison shouts at my retreating back, but I don’t bother turning around or slowing down. Wearing nothing but my boxers, I walk into the main room of the clubhouse. When I don’t see Ashely, or anyone of the members, I start to think the evil bitch lied to me knowing how I would react. Then, my eyes skim over the large window that allows everyone to see into Buck’s office. My brothers, all the officers of our club, are standing in the room with two women. One I recognize as Mia, by her long black hair cascading down her back, but the redhead that is curled into herself, with a blanket gripped in her closed fists, is unfamiliar.

  “Irish,” Allison breathes out, capturing my attention.

  “You fuckin’ lied. That’s not Ashley,” I growl at her because the hope that was blooming in my chest is now crushed into nothing but dust.

  “You’re right, that’s not the Ashley we knew, but that is my sister.”

  I can see the sincerity in her cloudy eyes, and when she looks past me, glancing into the window I was just focused on, her face visibly pales.

  Leaving her there to process her own emotions, I walk toward Buck’s office door. Quickly punching in the code that will release the door’s lock, the understanding of what is happening starts to make my palms sweat. I haven’t seen Ashley since the night I asked her to marry me and she said no. It took only twenty-four hours for me to marry her sister, and ruin anything we had. Shortly after my mistake I hightailed it out of town like a pussy, afraid to see the look of hurt and anger our betrayal had surely brought her.

  When I walk into the room everyone’s eyes turn toward me, the new man entering the area, except the single pair I desperately seek. The woman, I don’t recognize, sitting in a chair next to Mia looks like the Bride of Frankenstein. Her bare skin is covered with tiny punctures that leave a terrifying design. My unbelieving eyes follow the trail of holes on her skin. She looks like a frail doll that someone patched up, except there is no thread to finish the illusion.

  “Teller and Scarlett caught Slasher and his new VP dropping her off at his bike,” Buck informs me. “The sick bastards got away.”

  I say nothing because for the first time in my life I am speechless.

  I can visibly see the world around me slow down. Like someone is taking father time’s clock and lazily winding it forward. My hearing becomes muffled. Buck’s voice is no longer intelligible. The sound of it is starting to irritate me because all my mind wants to focus on is the love of my life, sitting a few feet away, looking detached from everything going on around her.

  My concentration is soon broken when Buck places his hand on my bare shoulder, giving it a squeeze. The action is enough to get my attention. “Where is Allison?” He asks the question with a hint of concern in his voice, probably because he’s having to repeat himself.

  “Leave us,” I barely manage to get the words out. The lump of emotion lodged in my throat makes it difficult to speak loud enough for everyone to hear me, so I have to forcefully clear my throat before giving my command again.

  “LEAVE US,” I growl out.

  “Irish,” Hammer says while trying to take a step toward me. “She needs help that you can’t give her.”

  Hammer and Buck are the only two members that know the truth about my fucked up marriage, and past. I know he is speaking from a place of concern, for both Ashley and myself, but the last thing I want right now is him telling me what she needs.

  I don’t bother using anymore words to get my point across. With the glare I send everyone, they know there is no conversation to have. I’m usually the laidback guy that everyone can get along with. I listen to reason and process important circumstances better than most, but this is personal.

  “We’ll be at the bar if you need us,” Taz declares, surprising me with his immediate cooperation. Ever since he manned up and claimed Serenity, he’s been a lot more understanding. Before this shit storm changed his life, he would have demanded I know my place and let this be a club matter. Now he sees that some things are more important than the club life.

  Once the door shuts behind the last body to exit, I take a single step in the direction of Ashley. She doesn’t flinch, doesn’t so much as give any sign that she is aware of my being here. Staring at her longer than I should, I realize I’m actually afraid to try to engage with her. What if she doesn’t want to be around me? What if she is happily lost in her mind, and I completely break her by forcing her back into reality?

  There is only one way to find out the answers to my questions, and the words I want to speak are on the tip of my tongue. When we were together, there was a phrase I would say in Irish to express just how much I loved her. She always enjoyed hearing it, and would light up brighter than any firework when I did say it.

  “Mo Anam Cara.”

  My soul mate.

  I say it loud enough for her to hear, and just when I’m about to repeat myself, her head slowly rises. Instead of seeing her beautiful cloudy blue eyes, I am met with fake green irises that hold no pain, just confusion. She looks lost, the furrow of her brow revealing just how bewildered she is.

  “Tony.”

  My name comes out raspy and painful sounding, and my mind instantly conjures up the several reasons why her voice is raw. My fists quickly clench at my side as I picture her being tortured by the hands of my enemy.

  “Tony, I’m scared,” she whispers, melting away all my anger. I need to be fully focused on her, not consumed with rage for a man that is living on borrowed time.

  “Don’t be. I’m here to protect you now.”

  “What happened to me?” She asks while looking down at all the tiny pricks in her skin. “Was I in an accident?”

  “Yes,” I answer automatically. I know it’s stupid, but I can’t bring myself to regret my response. It’s obvious by the look of worry and confusion on her face that she has no recollection of what truly happened. Slasher has fucked with her head so much that her mind is blocking out all the memories she has with him.

  She sits there silently staring at her injuries for several minutes, and I find myself waiting for her brain to piece together the puzzle. There is no accident, automobile or fall, that could cause those wounds.

  “Was I driving? Is anyone else hurt?”

  “No one else was hurt,” I reply, eating up the space between us by taking three steps forward. Kneeling on my knees, the knowledge that I am barely clothed not lost on me, I grip the sides of her chair.

  “What do you remember, Ashley?”

  She considers my eyes, concentrating hard on my question before a small smile comes to her lips. “I remember you picking me up to take me somewhere special. I gave you the toothpicks, and then we left.” Without warning, her smile falls, and tears start pooling in her eyes, “Oh my God, did we have an accident on your bike? Is she okay?”

  The “she”, Ashley is referring to is my Harley, and I try not to let the fear her words bring to my soul show on my face. The memory she is describing happened two years ago. I think Hammer was right. Ashley needs help, and it’s not the kind I can provide.

  Ashley

  Anthony, the man that I have been dating for the past eight months is currently staring at me like I’ve grown another head. The bewildered look in his beautiful green eyes would be amusing if it weren’t for the worry lines that have formed around them. I know this man better than he knows himself, and I’m starting to see that there is something important he is hiding. Burrowing further into the blanket to block out the cold his lack of truthfulness brings me, I try my hardest to remember the events that brought me here.

  I’m sitting in an office that I’ve never seen before. Looking out of the window to my left, I can clearly see a room full of leather clad men, drinking and talking amongst themselves. Scattered in-between them are a handful of women, but there is only one that captures my attention.

  “Tony, why is Allison i
n a room full of men that look like bikers?” I ask the question hoping a smile will come to his face at the description I used. There must be a misunderstanding going on. While I don’t doubt my sister would get involved with criminals, I know Tony would never do that.

  “Don’t worry about them right now. I need you to try to remember everything you did from the time you woke up this morning to now,” he commands. The desperation in his voice makes it impossible to argue, even though I’ve clearly told him what I can recall.

  Closing my eyes to help concentrate, my mind starts to skim through images of my day. I went to lunch with my sister, and we got into an argument over mom and dad. She’s always accusing me of making her look bad to them, but she does that all by herself. After eating, I went home to study before Tony was supposed to pick me up. I remember hearing his motorcycle pulling up and my dad complaining about the noise it makes. Then, I was in Tony’s arms.

  “I already told you,” I say when there is nothing new that comes to mind.

  He gets a look of sorrow on his face before he takes a strand of my hair. Twirling it through his fingers, he gestures for me to look down at it. There, in-between his callused digits, sits a piece of red hair. I must have dyed my hair, but I don’t recall doing that, nor do I think I ever would. I loved my natural hair color.

  “Why is my hair red?”

  “The same reason your eyes are green,” Tony replies, dropping the strand of hair he was holding before giving me his full attention again.

  “What’s going on?” I question, the coolness in his voice causing a cold sensation to flood my bloodstream. It suddenly dawns on me that I am sitting in this unknown room, completely naked, and Tony is not acting like we’ve been in an accident. In fact, there are no indications that he was involved in a crash at all.

  “I want to go home,” I whisper.

  I am on the verge of having a panic attack. Tony’s ears instantly register the emotion in my tone causing him to raise his large hand, cupping the side of my face with a tenderness I hadn’t known I was craving. His green eyes are silently telling me to trust him, and my mind isn’t putting up a fight. He loves me, this I do know, without a doubt.