Junkyard Heart (REBEL KINGS MC) by Garrett Leigh EPUB & PDF – eBook Details Online
- Status: Available for Free Download
- Authors: Garrett Leigh
- Language: English
- Genre: contemporary romance
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- Size: 2 MB
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Fuck. My. Life.
Tie-dye, chickpeas, and hessian. I scowled at the wigwams and peace
signs and wondered how the hell I’d ended up at a bloody hippie love-in at
10 a.m. on a Saturday morning.
You know how.
My gaze fell on the broad shoulders of my favourite brother, and I
suppressed a heavy sigh. Gaz had assumed I’d have nothing better to do
than lug his junk around Porth Ewan’s annual jam festival and, sadly, he’d
been right.
Yeah.
Fuck my life.
I picked up the bulging bag, stuffed with jars of artisan preserves,
pickles, and condiments, and wove my way through the crowds of crusties.
Gaz manned a stall at the back of the food tent, which was in the next field
over, and about as far from the festival’s entrance as possible.
Not impressed, Gaz. Not impressed.
Like he gave a shit. His mile-wide grin when I finally caught up with
him confirmed that he didn’t much care that I’d dragged my hungover self
out of bed to be his bitch. “Over there, mate.” He winked. “Then you can
help me here. Davey’s gone for breakfast.”
“Are you taking the piss?” I dumped the bag at his feet. “I’m not
staying. I only brought these because Ma bribed me with a fry-up.”
Gaz rolled his eyes. “Such a mammy’s boy. At least stick around for a
bit, show me some love.”
“What do you need my love for?” I pointed at the Free Hugs sign
attached to the pork pie stall a few metres away. “There’s plenty to go
round.”
“Brat.”
Gaz looked like he wanted to call me worse, but a potential customer
distracted him, and he was happily diverted, plying them with my
stepmother’s scones, smothered in his signature rhubarb conserve.
Only Gaz could make WI-style jam and chutney cool. With his funky
glasses and scruffy beard, he was the epitome of the wanky hipsters I’d left
London to escape.
And the rest.
The image of my ex cosying up to his beautiful wife flashed into my
mind. I pushed it away. Fuck that shit. It had been six months. I was over it
. . . honest.
“Wake up, you grumpy arse.” Gaz nudged me. I’d missed him handing
the reins to our middle brother, Davey, and invading my personal space.
“What are you up to for the rest of the day?”
“Being busy. I’ve got a job on tonight. Band gig in Porth Luck.”
“That’s good.” Gaz seemed thoughtful, which was always dangerous. “I
meant other than work, though. Seriously, bro. You need to get out more.
Eat, drink, get laid.”
“I got drunk last night, thanks very much.”
I left out the part where I’d been home alone.
Gaz ribbed me a little longer before I escaped under the pretence of
having a look around, though the smirk he treated me to—and the dead arm
that came with it—left me in little doubt that he’d seen through my bullshit.
Not that I cared. This was my time to not give a crap. As a kid, I’d spent
most of my school holidays following my dad around these stupid festivals,
watching him flog the tiny onions he pickled in the derelict barn on the
family farm. But I wasn’t a child anymore, and I didn’t have the patience
for this bollocks.
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