Read Online Nordic Lessons by Christine Edwards - Free Book Online
Authors: Christine Edwards
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he already take off on the errand?”
“Left about five minutes ago to get that helmet you wanted from Lars’ shop. I got your back, brother.” A black iron crowbar drops repeatedly against his left palm in a smacking motion. He’s primed to bring the heat if necessary. Knowing these jokers, it’s a definite possibility.
I stare into his eyes and say in a serious tone, “Let’s get this fucking over and done with.”
I push up and off my rolling stool, flinging my thick, flame-retardant gray gloves to the floor in supreme annoyance.
Dag. What the fuck? Haven’t seen the asshole in three years and now he shows up at my garage, interrupting my work? This is bullshit and he’d better have a good reason for being here, on my property.
I take the lead and step out of the wide double-bay door of the garage. Out of the corner of my eye, I see Bern, not but a foot away from me, keeping close. I could handle all three of these dipshits if it came down to the wire, but having him here is certainly an added bonus.
Purposefully stopping ten feet away, I cross my arms against my chest and widen my stance. The dominant gesture is second nature to me. I take in the three supremely fine custom choppers that are parked in a triangle, with Dag’s ride at the tip. They’re sweet rides … but mine are undoubtedly better, surpass them in both design and quality. His two brawny brothers are seated on their cycles. Dag is the only one who’s dismounted. They look like a bunch of thugs. And that’s right on the money.
He’s standing stock still, arrogantly before me. I take him in, noting that he looks nearly the same as the last time we had a run-in. Yeah, the same. The split lip I gave him during our last tangle has healed up real good, with not even a mark.
Too fucking bad for that ….
He’s always been a pretty boy, too pretty to be a biker really. Icy blue eyes, typical of many in Norway, highlight a chiseled, oblong-shaped face covered with a hefty amount of stubble. His golden blond hair hangs loose and wavy, brushed back off his face to hang right at his jacket collar. He’s tall, nearly as tall as me, but not quite. He’s always been lean to the point of lanky. He looks like some fucking metrosexual twat posing as a biker. Dick. I take a slow breath and get down to business.
I lift my chin in a quick jerk, a blatant indicator that I’m more than ready to have this dumb-ass encounter over and done.
“Mikkel.” His low, stern voice cuts through the cool afternoon air.
“Dag.” I grind the name out as if it’s crushed glass inside my mouth.
He tilts his head and watches me closely. I know him all too well. He’s trying to pull some stupid psychological bullshit.
I take in a deep breath of annoyance and state calmly, “Spit it out, Dag. Got shit to do.”
I watch his two boys jerk back at my rude comment. They know full and well that no one addresses their club president like that and walks away unharmed.
No one but me, that is.
Dag plasters on a fake smile that he’s trying to pass off as carefree, but I can see the tightness around the corners of his eyes and the tension in his fisted hands. He’s pissed. Good.
“One of our rides got nicked outside of our clubhouse last night. You happen to know anything about it, Mikkel?”
I look up to the sky for a second to get a grip on the rage that’s streaming through my veins at the accusation.
I dip my chin and fix him with a malevolent glare as I lean in and hiss, “Seriously? You’re here to bust my balls because one of your boys can’t keep a tether on his ride? What else do you want to know? Maybe if one of my brothers is banging one of your skank-ass old ladies?”
His eyes narrow in fury as he grates out, “I’d watch yourself, Mikkel.” My name is basically spit out of his mouth in disgust.
I lean in even closer to him, unfolding my arms and planting my hands firmly on my hips. “That a threat, old friend?” I growl. I purposefully
“Left about five minutes ago to get that helmet you wanted from Lars’ shop. I got your back, brother.” A black iron crowbar drops repeatedly against his left palm in a smacking motion. He’s primed to bring the heat if necessary. Knowing these jokers, it’s a definite possibility.
I stare into his eyes and say in a serious tone, “Let’s get this fucking over and done with.”
I push up and off my rolling stool, flinging my thick, flame-retardant gray gloves to the floor in supreme annoyance.
Dag. What the fuck? Haven’t seen the asshole in three years and now he shows up at my garage, interrupting my work? This is bullshit and he’d better have a good reason for being here, on my property.
I take the lead and step out of the wide double-bay door of the garage. Out of the corner of my eye, I see Bern, not but a foot away from me, keeping close. I could handle all three of these dipshits if it came down to the wire, but having him here is certainly an added bonus.
Purposefully stopping ten feet away, I cross my arms against my chest and widen my stance. The dominant gesture is second nature to me. I take in the three supremely fine custom choppers that are parked in a triangle, with Dag’s ride at the tip. They’re sweet rides … but mine are undoubtedly better, surpass them in both design and quality. His two brawny brothers are seated on their cycles. Dag is the only one who’s dismounted. They look like a bunch of thugs. And that’s right on the money.
He’s standing stock still, arrogantly before me. I take him in, noting that he looks nearly the same as the last time we had a run-in. Yeah, the same. The split lip I gave him during our last tangle has healed up real good, with not even a mark.
Too fucking bad for that ….
He’s always been a pretty boy, too pretty to be a biker really. Icy blue eyes, typical of many in Norway, highlight a chiseled, oblong-shaped face covered with a hefty amount of stubble. His golden blond hair hangs loose and wavy, brushed back off his face to hang right at his jacket collar. He’s tall, nearly as tall as me, but not quite. He’s always been lean to the point of lanky. He looks like some fucking metrosexual twat posing as a biker. Dick. I take a slow breath and get down to business.
I lift my chin in a quick jerk, a blatant indicator that I’m more than ready to have this dumb-ass encounter over and done.
“Mikkel.” His low, stern voice cuts through the cool afternoon air.
“Dag.” I grind the name out as if it’s crushed glass inside my mouth.
He tilts his head and watches me closely. I know him all too well. He’s trying to pull some stupid psychological bullshit.
I take in a deep breath of annoyance and state calmly, “Spit it out, Dag. Got shit to do.”
I watch his two boys jerk back at my rude comment. They know full and well that no one addresses their club president like that and walks away unharmed.
No one but me, that is.
Dag plasters on a fake smile that he’s trying to pass off as carefree, but I can see the tightness around the corners of his eyes and the tension in his fisted hands. He’s pissed. Good.
“One of our rides got nicked outside of our clubhouse last night. You happen to know anything about it, Mikkel?”
I look up to the sky for a second to get a grip on the rage that’s streaming through my veins at the accusation.
I dip my chin and fix him with a malevolent glare as I lean in and hiss, “Seriously? You’re here to bust my balls because one of your boys can’t keep a tether on his ride? What else do you want to know? Maybe if one of my brothers is banging one of your skank-ass old ladies?”
His eyes narrow in fury as he grates out, “I’d watch yourself, Mikkel.” My name is basically spit out of his mouth in disgust.
I lean in even closer to him, unfolding my arms and planting my hands firmly on my hips. “That a threat, old friend?” I growl. I purposefully
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