Page 1 of Kissin Irish by Morgan
Chapter 1
Irish
Sweat swamped my vision as Horror swung my bloodied arm up over my head, declaring me the victor. Still, I spotted Charlotte clear as day through the wire. She came. Her chestnut hair bounced around her as she took part in the crowd cheering for me. My chest felt tight before elation took over. Better than the prize money, my ex’s husband died a month ago, freeing her. She’d said she’d never leave the old man for me. No, I didn’t kill him. Club didn’t touch him either. The man had a fortune. Jammy bastard I was, old fella died in his sleep.
“Shiiit, man. You’re one lucky son of a bitch.” Thorn slapped my bare back when I entered the locker room.
Wiping my face with the towel hanging on my neck, I panted out, “Luck had nothing to do with it. And I’ll beat your arse next week, I will.”
“Like hell.” My brother Thorn stood twice my size. Weight class meant nothing at Royal Road. Flexing his biceps, he stared down at me. His newly pierced eyebrow raised, daring me to argue with him.
In bits from the match, I simply punched past his elbow to head to the showers.
As I stripped of my shorts, Thorn went on, “You won’t beat me, for real. You won’t even get your ass whupped. Kingpin won’t dare let you fight me next, let alone Goliath after that… even if you were to get lucky. You’re matched against some weekender, scrawny thing compared to the mighty Thorn.” He bellowed a deep laugh after referring to himself in the third person as he often did. “You’re on a winning streak, and we’ve got to keep these bets coming in.”
Next, they’d be wanting me to throw a fight. I wouldn’t think about his remarks. Not now, I had a lass waiting for me. After my quick shower, I wrapped a towel around my waist and rounded the corner to bump into Villain, our Sergeant at Arms. Nearly dropping my towel, I cursed under my breath. Fecking guard had been waiting for me. A visit from Villain was never a good thing. Responsible for the club’s security, seeing Villain was akin to the police showing up on your doorstep.
“Buy me a Guinness first.” I leered at him.
“Looks like I don’t need to.” He spoke of my obvious erection.
What could I say, sometimes beating the shit out of a fella turned me on? But this time who waited for me at the bar was to blame. Ignoring his presence, I started to dress. I didn’t want to keep Charlotte waiting long.
Villain turned his back to me. “Irish. We need to chat.”
“Couldn’t wait until I was dressed. Or did you just want to see my hairy arse?”
“It’s about your party tonight.”
“It’s not my party.” The club’s annual St. Patrick’s Day Bash started before I became a member of the Royal Bastards MC. “Yeah, yeah, I’m Irish. Might be confusing for a melter like you, because my real name is Patrick and all, but I ain’t a saint.”
“It’s a good thing for you, I have no idea what kind of Irish bullshit a melter is.” Villain argued, “These folks didn’t come to Royal Road tonight for the green beer. They’re celebrating your eleventh win. Fuck. Why didn’t we dub you Lucky?”
Most of us earned our road names while we we’re prospects, the lowest men on the club’s totem pole. Because Lucky was generic and taken, Kingpin, our President, had said and he also decided, I had the Luck of the Irish, meaning it in the original, derogatory sense, of course. During the gold rush of old, Irish miners were the richest, so folks would say these fools were merely lucky. Meaning, just dumb luck. No skill involved. And back then while I was probate, when I was nicknamed Irish, Kingpin had been right to use it in that sense. I’d just escaped a fiery motorcycle crash with my life while my buddy Barney lost his. It didn’t help, I’d just come over from Ireland and was a ginger to boot. However, times had changed. I’d fought hard for the Royal Bastards here in Nashville, in the ring and on the road.
Villain explained, “We’re over capacity. But I don’t give a rat’s ass about that. The ladies are here in droves emptying their pockets. Industry ladies.” He meant the entertainment industry. “And Nashville’s players are here for the easy pickings. You look like you’re about to shack up with that gold digger, the women won’t be back next week.”
“Wise up about my lass. She’s had a hard life, just like the rest of us. She did what she had to.” Aye, Charlotte married a rich seventy-year-old man, but she had her reasons. “You’re a dry shite, you are. Now, I’m not just your fighter but your lover. Are you going to be my pimp, Villain?”
Rubbing his fists, the man cracked his neck. He wanted to punch me, but he wouldn’t. Apparently, I was worth too much to the club at the moment. Villain confirmed it. “Right now, you’re winning, but your luck will run out soon.” A smile appeared on his all-American, pretty boy face that if I didn’t know him, I’d dismiss. After all, that’s how he got his name. Clean-cut, blond hair and eyes blue as a clear sky, with a chiseled jaw to boot, he resembled some 60’s comic book superhero even in his leather cut and ripped jeans. Not the villain he truly was. “Keep your dealings with Charlotte Jones private until your loss,” he snarled before stomping away.
“I will, yeah,” I replied, which meant I wouldn’t, but he never understood me. As long as I’ve been here in the states, I hadn’t completely dropped my Irish accent or slang. I made an effort most of the time. I’d picked up my brother’s southern sayings, but after a fight or having a drink, I was right back in Ireland.
But I wasn’t. I called Royal Road home now. Known for its parties, Royal Road was a one stop shop for a good time. With its bar, casino, shows and the fights, one rarely had a need to head into Nashville. The food wasn’t half bad either. The strippers were the best in the city. Then there was the basement, when it had been operating. The special events like tonight really drew the crowds. My fight paired with their St. Patrick’s Day Bash, there’d be a hape of people tonight.
Sliding on my colors with our three-piece patch, I knew I was fortunate to be one of them. At Royal Road, as one of the men making this party possible and alive all together. What’s more, fate had finally smiled down and returned Charlotte to me.
Chapter 2
Out in the bar, my Charlotte stood out like a sore thumb. That was something these Tennessee boys said a whole a lot. Everything stuck out like a sore thumb. You’d think there were lots of folks slamming their hands in things.
Amongst the biker babes in their leather and chains, my lass wore a soft flowing green shirt with her jean shorts, in honor of the holiday. Charlotte had legs for days. That’s a phrase I understood all too well. But it was her grin that struck me. Too many scowls on the women around here. Her easy smile brightened the dark room like a beacon. I made my way to her.
The crowd slowed me down as patrons congratulated me on the win.
“Great fight, man.”
“Fucking sick.”
