by Marata Eros
“And what the hell’s with that mixed-signal bullshittery anyway?” Kendra flops backward against the chair, and a stray sunbeam pokes at her hastily assembled hairstyle, causing her dishwater-blond hair to brighten. The trick of the light showcases her perfectly, playing up her pert, slightly turned-up nose and arched golden brows.
“I don’t know, but look at me getting drunk because of an absolute fantasy of a possible relationship. I’m clearly delusional.”
Kendra snorts. “Bullshit, Temp. There was something. You’re so practical, you make my teeth ache. This fucker strung you along.”
I stubbornly shake my head again. “No. I can’t go into details because they fall under confidentiality laws, but I know this guy doesn’t fuck people.”
“Pfft. I think he fucks plenty of people. He’s got a rep a mile long.”
“What?” I say, dazed, not having inferred anything sexual. Leave it to Kendra to pull that inference out of the universe.
Kendra nods. “You dodged a big fat fifty-caliber bullet.”
I lift my empty bottle as commentary.
“Okay, ya drunk.” Kendra sighs.
“I’m Irish.”
Kendra is half-standing and turns. “The Irish say if you can hang on to a blade of grass, you’re golden—not drunk at all.”
I feel my brows rise. “Um, I don’t think it’s said exactly like that. And for the record, you’re not a bit Irish.”
Kendra smirks. “Whatever.” She tosses her hand in the air as she walks to the fridge.
Her behind is my view as she rummages for another beer. “God, you’re emptying my stash, you lush.”
“Consider it therapeutic. And stop whining.”
“Ah-huh.”
Kendra comes back with her stemless glass full of wine and my fourth and fifth bottles of beer.
“You’re gonna have to stay over.”
I pop the lid. “Yup. Don’t have a job until Monday anyway.”
“What’s Antoinette going to say?”
“Mom’s going to shit,” I confirm.
Kendra’s lips curl. “Loved how you broke Ritchie’s finger.”
I smile. “It was easy.”
She grimaces. “Nothing about your job is easy. It’s all terrible.”
I meet Kendra’s eyes, and the light that had speared her hair earlier coats one eye, making it appear to burn like low amber-hued fire.
“Except when I have a Calem Morgan.”
We clink beer bottle to wine glass together.
“And that kid was Puck’s younger brother, right?” she asks, more like confirmation that an actual question.
I nod.
“And the daddy was a rich psycho?”
Wincing, I swig beer. “He was.”
“Maybe shit went down with the dad when he was young.” Kendra lifts her shoulder and lets it drop.
That’s what was whispered, but none of us knew details. Those who would know things weren’t talking. But Viper killed Calem’s dad.
I jerk my face up, seizing a moment of drunken clarity. “What is this rep that Puck has?”
“Fucks any vag that walks by,” she states in her unfiltered way.
I suck in a breath. Even for K, the comment is pretty raw.
Her face softens. “I’m sorry, baby, but that’s the word around town.”
“You’re kinda friends with one of the wives of the MC crew—Road Kill, right?”
Kendra nods. “Yeah. I mean, kinda. I’m friends with Naomi, who’s friends with Rose from when they worked at the same bank together. And Rose is married to Noose, some ex-SEAL dude who’s part of the same club that Puck’s in.”
“Puck’s a cop.”
“Ex-cop, sweet thing.”
Yeah. Ex.
“So Rose knows the men pretty well and tells my girl Naomi stuff, and ya know, I get the inside scoop on some of the guys.”
I swirl the beer inside my bottle. Finally, I say, “Okay, shit—tell me.”
“Well, here’s the thing. He’s older.”
I jerk my head back. “I didn’t really consider his age.”
“He’s not a grandpa with a walker. I think he’s like, late thirties? Anyways”—Kendra waves that fact away, nearly knocking over her red blend—“like I said, this Rose chick has made mention that he goes through the clubwhores like water.”
Unfamiliar with the term, I feel my brows pinch. “What’s a clubwhore?”
“It’s a chick that hands out the vag to whoever is there.”
God. I gulp. Sounds awful.
Kendra’s brows pop, and she puts a slender finger on her chin. “Don’t judge the pussy, Temp.”
I blink.
“Some of us just like dick, period.”
Shrugging, I concede, “I like dick too.”
We smile together.
“Just not regularly,” she adds.
I can’t really give a truthful answer to that, so I offer her a vague statement instead. “I love the idea of sex, but the man attached to the penis matters.”
“I don’t know why. It doesn’t matter to them.” Kendra makes a disgruntled noise.
“We’ll have to agree to disagree. I think men are human beings too.”
I suppress a shiver. Most. Not all.
“God, there you go with the equality speech.” Kendra rolls her eyes.
“I can’t get past needing to have feelings for the man who’s a potential doer of Temp.”
Kendra flips a palm up. “There ya go, complicating matters.”
“Yeah.” I don’t hold back the forlorn note in my voice. “I didn’t take Puck for being a player.”
“I don’t think he’s a ʻplayer.ʼ I think he’s runner.”
“A ʻrunnerʼ?”
She gives a brisk nod. “Yeah, a dude at that age that’s banging everything because he can?” Kendra shakes her head. “He’s running from something. And you”—she points at me—“got him sprinting.”
“I didn’t do anything. I just said how I felt.”
She shrugs her narrow shoulders. “And that was too much. Probably because all the free pussy at the club was a non-commitment, and then your exotic ass comes pirouetting by and wipes his thoughts clean. Can’t think. Can’t deal. Has to run.”
“Didn’t think about it that way.”
“Hard to think when every bit of how you feel sits on your face, then you fuck it up even worse by telling him where you stand.”
I groan and finish off the beer, popping the lid on my certifiable last one. “Yeah. I was so dumb.”
“And so beat-up.” Kendra laughs. “Remember, you still have to survive the weekend after your parents. Antoinette especially. That’s gonna suck donkey dicks.”
I bark out a laugh, getting a crystal clear visual that’s gross and hilarious. “Don’t bother with a shred of maturity.”
“Nope.” Kendra makes a guillotine gesture across her throat. “Maturity is not my thing. Not embracing that shit.”
I hold up my palm, and Kendra high-fives my drunken ass.
“Crap,” I say suddenly. “I left my gear in the car.”
Kendra shoots me a crooked smile then laughs. “No shit? You were pretty sure you were going to have a drunk-fest at my place and have to stay over?” Her left eyebrow shoots up.
“Yeah. I mean, you know the way I am. I wouldn’t have one drink and drive.”
Kendra sweeps her eyes over the five empty beer bottles lining her table and guffaws. “You cleaned out my six-pack.”
“Only because you started with me then switched to wine, like a traitor. Bitch,” I mutter, standing.
I sway.
“Whoa, cowgirl. Can you make it out to your car?” She’s only half-kidding.
“Yup!” I say, holding up a finger. “I broke that fucker’s finger, remember? I can do the walk of shame to my car and braille my way back to your door.”
Kendra's expression is unsure.
I wave her off and move to the front door. I ge
t through the door and shut it.
Leaning against the solid weight, my hand still on the knob, I can admit to myself that I’m three beers past my limit.
Oh, well.
I get to the stairwell, look down at the six steps, and pause. Shit. I’m going to have to hang on to the rail and everything.
Nice going, Temp. So far, I’ve been rejected by the guy who will do anyone, taken my unwanted vacation from my job, and gone to my BFF’s house and gotten hammered on beer.
Peering from the second floor landing, I spot my car, though. It’s the only beat-up VW rabbit in the visitor’s lot. Hell—I can do this. Nobody with a name like Temperance turns out to be a wimp.
That would be so much easier to believe if I hadn’t had five beers in an hour and a half.
Gripping the handrail, I stumble down the stairs and get to the sidewalk. Turning, I glance up at Kendra’s apartment and sigh. At least she had enough courtesy not to watch my moronic attempts at walking.
Grabbing my key fob from my pocket, I jingle them. Feeling useful and genius, I make my way to my vehicle, noticing in the ultra-aware way only the truly tipsy can, how the pressure of my back left tire is low.
Jesus. Now what? Car trouble?
A hand lands on my shoulder and turns me. In the process, I almost fall on my ass.
A face I don’t recognize peers down and me. “Charlotte Temperance?”
Is this even happening? I’m not exactly at my best. “Yeah,” I slur, planting my hands on my hips, half for balance and half because I’m pissed off. “Who wants to know?”
The guy smiles from underneath a hood pulled low over his brow. One of his canines is missing.
Narrowing his eyes, he swings his face back and his hood drops, allowing a lank strand of hair to follow suit and join the mess of his already-slicked-back hair.
“Got a message for ya.”
My fingertips tingle with my delayed unease.
I’m just drunk enough to lack all my upper reasoning. God protects drunks and children.
I do a repeat of what I did with Puck today but in a different location. Let’s face it—I wasn’t willing to truly hurt Puck.
I slam my knuckles into his windpipe. It’s easier with this guy because he’s shorter than Puck and Ritchie.
But he’s still a man, and I’m still a small woman. A drunk small woman.
Grabbing at his throat, he chokes. But he still gets breath, unfortunately.
The move causes me to stagger backward.
One of his hand's comes away from his throat and he manages to backhand me.
Sends me on my ass, and I cry out as the impact jars me to almost sober. The guy hit me exactly where Ritchie nailed me, and the newest insult throbs over the old.
Something liquid and hot slides down my face like tears. Blood. The heat sinks into the newest insult like acid. I begin to crawl away toward my car, not thinking about anything but the fact that, by some miracle, I still have my keys in my hand.
Another hand grabs me, and I instinctively throw my arms in front of my battered face, holding off the beating.
It’s not another assailant, though.
But Puck, of all people.
I have no resources of neutrality. I’ve been beaten. Again. I don’t do the smart thing, of course.
Instead, I burst into tears.
I sob as his arms reach underneath me, lifting me effortlessly from the rough asphalt parking lot.
“Shhh, I have you.” His voice reaches me, but my head is already lolling against his chest.
If William Morgan wanted to do me harm, he sure could. There’s never been a time in my life where I’ve been more vulnerable.
My body or my mind.
His arms feel like my dad’s used to be when I’d fall asleep on our couch and he would carry me to bed.
But these arms hold more than that sense of comfort. I feel as though I should have always been in them. Wrapped. Held.
Protected.
Chapter 6
Puck
Earlier
I shrug, and Noose grins. What a fucker he is. Why did I ever think to open my yap and admit anything of a personal nature?
Because I’m dumber than a box of rocks—that’s why.
“Hey dude, I know this chick.” He snaps his fingers. “She’s friends with Rose’s friend, Naomi.” Then he shakes his head. “Nah, that’s not right. Her friend is friends with Rose’s friend, Naomi.”
“What the fuck?” I nearly shout.
Noose’s eyes go to slits. “Chill, fucker. Just saying we’re all connected.” He whirls his finger in a circle. “Ya know, small world and that happy shit.”
“Jesus.”
He smirks. “Can’t walk on water, sorry.”
I roll my eyes. “You know, I was hoping for some degree of maturity, Noose.”
He jerks his jaw back. “Fuck that. It’s all fun and fucking games until someone loses an eye.”
“How is that even relevant?” I lift my eyebrows.
Noose jerks his shoulders high. “Don’t know, but my gramps used to say it all the time, and I dug the expression. The only normal family member I had.” He grunts.
Normal. Yeah right.
We’re sitting out on the back steps of the club on a low, wide back concrete step. Uncomfortable as fuck, it’s at least private. The thing stands like an unspoken therapy step or something.
“As I see it, it’s meant to be, or some poetic shit like that.” Noose rubs an eye with his knuckle, looking like he’s hungover when I know he’s not. It’s just the symptoms of being the father of twins—deep circles with a slightly bruised appearance hang under his eyes. “Anyways, Temp...” He jerks his brows high.
I nod, yes, he’s got the name right.
“So Temp, she’s the social worker who got you Calem, and ya got a boner by just looking at her.”
I run my fingers through my short hair. “God, Noose.”
“Refute it, wise ass.”
Shit. “Can’t.” I shoot out a rough exhale, crossing my arms at his unpolished, spot-on discernment.
He swings a palm at me like he’s saying, See? “So you get a snake in your drawers from some social worker broad who gives you the bro, then you don’t see her again until you”—he brings a palm to the place where his heart beats in his chest—“run into her.” He snorts, dropping his fingers from the air quotes he made about me running into her. “So then she sorta admits that she’s into you, and you give her the heave-ho brush-off. Nice.” He nods as though agreeing with himself. “Talk about a moron move.”
Yeah. “Made me nervous.”
Noose slims his smoky eyes down on me. “You’re never nervous, Puck. You’re as solid a player with the ladies as I’ve ever seen.” He lifts a finger, and the cigarette he lit in a two-second pause of conversation dumps ash on the ground beside us. “In fact, we all know about your stamina. You can get your Johnson stiff every half hour. So what’s the problem with cute little Temp?”
I stuff my hands in my pockets and lean against the door, unwilling to submit to the ass-numbery of the concrete step.
“What?” Noose also leans back against the wall of the outside of the building and crosses his boots at the ankle. Tipping his head backward, he shoots out smoke rings in rapid succession. Noose lowers his face, jerking his jaw at me. Enunciating slowly, he says, “You think this girl could be something?”
I do, and I’m so scared to think about what that means, my mouth is dry. “I got a shrink, ya know.”
“I know.” Noose grins through the haze of smoke standing between us. “Not the same as a bro, though.”
True.
“Denni’s cool, but I haven’t been able to spit this Temp thing out fully. I just glossed over Temp.”
Noose blows out a stream of smoke and lights the next cigarette with the old one.
“Great habit,” I note.
Noose flips me the bird and clicks his Zippo lighter shut before pocketing it w
ithin the interior of his cut.
I laugh.
“When I saw Rose that first time at the bank, I knew. I didn’t want to admit it here.” He touches his chest. “Tried to drown out her noise, her whatever it was, with the bitches like Crystal or whoever would suck me off or fuck me so I could forget her.”
“But she got under your skin?” I guess since they’re now married and four kids deep, including her nephew, Charlie.
Noose lifts his fist, and I bump it.
“Oh yeah. Never thought feeling that way was possible. Feeling at all, really. When I really knew fighting the thing was totally futile was when I couldn’t see myself with anyone but Rose. She’s had three of my babies, and I still can’t get her out of my mind. The thought of losing her?” He shakes his head. “Hate that fucking vulnerability. Hate the thought of Rose not being impaled on my cock, worse.” He chuckles. “Or it’s a tie.”
A hoarse laugh shoots out of me. “Noose, you do have a way with words.”
“Yeah,” he says tranquilly.
We stare at each other.
“Anything I say not make sense?” he asks after a long moment of silence.
I shake my head.
“No, I pretty much want her impaled.” I laugh despite myself.
“Figured.” Noose gets a crooked grin. “With you mooning around this past month, Vipe and I figured it was about the pussy.”
“Hey, you dickhead, that’s not fair. Viper is my neighbor.”
“No”—Noose stares at me dead on—“you don’t give shit away. You dragging around says something to those who know you well.”
I shake my head, studying my boots. “I don’t know if I can make this right. And I’ll look like a fool going back on being casual. I played that as well as I could.”
“And where’d that get ya? You’re not a player. Not really.” Noose shrugs, flicking the butt on the cement step. He hammers the smoldering cig beneath his thick-treaded sole. “So just keep quiet and stay miserable. Wonder about what guy she’s banging.”
I whip my face to him, a geyser of adrenaline singing through me.