Biker Stepbrother by Rossi St. James Page B

rumbled, and I shook my head. He was probably still passed out in bed. Three words summed up the only things Nash Daughtry loved in this world: booze, bikes, and broads. And at twenty-one, all three of those things were readily available to him any time he liked.
    I strutted down the hall of the apartment we shared for the past seven years. The day I turned eighteen I got us out of that hellhole trailer Big Nash had us living in and moved us to a neighborhood in Bolton with good schools. For the first time in our young lives, we knew what it was like to have hot water, ice cold air conditioning, and a kitchen free of roaches and other critters. It was nothing fancy by most people’s standards, but the day we moved in I’d never seen my kid brother smile so big.
    Big Nash didn’t give two shits either, that was the sad part. He’d helped us move, seemingly glad to be rid of the two burdens he’d been saddled with the day our mother died of a heroin overdose.
    Apparently to our father, eighteen was a perfectly acceptable time to spread your wings and fly away, even if a guy was still in high school. And he didn’t care that I took my brother with me, though I suspect he was well aware Little Nash was better off with me anyway.
    I knocked on his bedroom door and let myself in, half expecting to see some buck naked girl twined up in a mess of musty bed sheets.
    His bed was empty.
    I checked my watch. Nine o’clock. Nash never slept anywhere but his own bed. He’d been that way his whole life. He was very particular about where he stayed, and he’d been known to ditch sleepovers as a kid and walk home in the dead of night just to stay in his own bed.
    “Gray!” his voice yelled from down the hall as the door to our place opened and slammed so hard it rattled the walls.
    “You stayed out last night,” I said with an entertained smirk as I strutted to the living room. “Who was the lucky lady?”
    My face fell when I saw that Nash didn’t have the confident swagger of a man who’d been balls deep in tight pussy all night. His ashen face was bathed in trepidation. He held a hand out, as if to stop me from coming closer.
    “Look at me, Gray,” he said, his voice nearly shaking. “I’m going to ask you a question, and I need you to answer me honestly.”
    “Always do.”
    Nash lowered his hand, resting it on his hip and hanging his head to the ground as if to gather his thoughts. He raised his head, our matching green eyes locking. “Where were you last night?”
    “Is this some kind of a joke?” I asked with a laugh.
    Nash raised his eyebrows.
    “I was home,” I said. “Came home after the chapter meeting. Ordered a pizza. Drank some beer. Passed out.”
    It was just a typical Tuesday night for me. I lived a simple existence on purpose. My tumultuous, unpredictable childhood morphed me into a man who lived for the comfort and familiarity of his routines. And going out every night got old about the time I turned twenty-two anyway. A man could only get liquored up and fucked six ways to Sunday so many times before it lost its luster.
    “Can anyone attest to that?” Nash asked, brows still raised.
    “Shit, Nash, now you’ve got me all worried,” I said, raking a hair through my dark hair. “Stop pussy footin’ around and tell me what the fuck you’re asking me about. We’re not speaking the same language right now.”
    “Big Nash is dead,” Nash blurted. “Rumor is you killed him.”
    Nash’s words were a blow to the head and a shot to the heart all at the same time. I shook my head. “Never liked the guy, but I’m not the killin’ type. You know that.”
    My lack of sadness told me what I already knew. His death meant nothing to me, but it meant something to the group of fifty men he presided over. Big Nash Daughtry was the president of the Hell Valley MC which consisted of fifty loyal, ruthless rebels-without-a-cause who would bash in the skulls of anyone who dared touch a hair on the head of