by Marata Eros
“Ya know you’ll have to throw down for her, right?”
“Yeah.” I hadn’t realized until right then that I had always planned to thrown down for her.
Somewhere in the primal part of my brain, I’d already decided she was mine, even if I wasn’t aware in the forward part of my brain.
I remember meeting Temp and thinking she was built to fuck. Now I believe something more.
That she was made to be mine.
Temp
“I’m sorry. God, this is so beyond unprofessional.”
“Hey,” Candace says, taking my hand, and I let her, “my brother’s a pain in the ass.”
I look up.
“But he’s a good man, Temp. And let me tell you something—he’s never been serious with anyone in our entire lives. He probably didn’t know what to do with you.”
“It doesn’t excuse him digging around about me.”
Candace shakes her head, and now that early morning has arrived, I notice she and Puck have the same color hair.
Fresh tears begin to crawl down my face like hot insects. “Shit.” I swipe at them and hurt my cheekbone instead of drying my face. That makes me cry harder.
“And as far as professional goes, you’re technically already through with our family. This thing with you and Puck is way after the fact.”
“I suppose that’s true.”
“Definitely.”
“And...” I cover my face with my hands and really start bawling.
“What?” Candace asks, clearly distressed, putting her arms around me. We hug awkwardly across the front seat as the engine idles outside my apartment.
“I didn’t use protection!” I wail, feeling ridiculous for spilling my guts to Puck’s sister and not being able to stop.
“Oh shit,” Candace says, pulling away from me, her intense golden gaze searching my face. “When?”
I roll my eyes and laugh, holding up two fingers.
“Hmm,” Candace says. “So what are you telling me? Except my brother was really a dumbass.”
I shouldn’t tell her. But I do. “I’m late.”
Her face pales slightly. “Oh my God.” Candace grips my hands. “Are you usually regular?”
I sniff in my grief. “Like a clock.”
“Fuck,” Candace whispers.
Nodding miserably, I agree, “Yeah.”
“Does Puck know?”
“Oh my God—after what happened, I cut him off at the knees. No. I’m all freaked out. I had this thing happen with this psychotic client then another thing with another guy.” I quickly tell her.
“I saw your face, obviously, but Puck told me some of it. We’re pretty close.”
I nod. “Anyway, then I began this thing with Puck.”
“A relationship.”
We look at each other again, and I say, “Yes.”
“Good, at least you admit it.”
“Admit what?” I feel my face screw into a frown.
“That you’re serious.”
“I am serious about Puck.” I was serious when I gave him my virginity. Just wish I’d known what I was getting into. Maybe nobody does when they enter a relationship. Trust feels like such a leap of faith.
Candace releases an exhale that sounds like she was holding her breath. “Good.” Her eyes are earnest. “Because he seems like a hard man, but I’ll let you in on a little secret... He’s needed to be.”
I swallow hard. “I know what happened with your father.”
The pause between us swells, her eyes tightening. “I imagine you would know quite a bit because of Calem’s placement.”
“Yes.” But didn’t let the innuendos and whispers lie. I dug until I found the horror the two siblings lived through.
“Then you would also understand why Puck doesn’t trust easily.”
I understood that so well. But... “I feel like he betrayed me.”
Candace gives a low chuckle. “Honey, he’s a biker now. He’s in the biggest MC in the tri-state area. They’re not lily white. Puck would need to vet you. Make sure that if he wants you as property”—she makes little air quotes—“that you don’t have baggage that would be harmful to the club.”
“Oh,” I say in a small voice. “I thought he was just...” I give a helpless shrug. “Not trusting the relationship or us, giving what we had, time. Because when I did finally feel comfortable, I could’ve told him about the—” My inhale is labored. “Rape,” I finish in a bare whisper.
Candace doesn’t ply me for details.
“Now you know.”
“Yeah, now I know.” I meet her eyes. “I’m still hurt. It’s better to know the why, but Puck still got information about me that I wasn’t ready to tell.”
Candace covers my hand. “I know. Viper and I had our share of misunderstandings at first.”
I nod stupidly. Fucking duh. I would give anything to have Puck in front of me right now. I lost my damned head and said stupid things.
I couldn’t trust first. I was suspicious instead. My mind fills with regret.
“Hey, stop.”
I look at Candace.
“It’ll all work out. I’ll talk to my dumb brother.”
I burst into a fit of relieved giggles.
Candace grins.
“And I’ll tell him you want to clear things up later? Say tonight?”
I nod, giving a small smile. “Yeah, I think that’s okay.” I’m still pissed at him, but there might be bigger things to consider than my bruised pride.
“Now...” Candace eyes me a critically. “You look like shit. All beat-up and snotty. Why don’t you go take a hot shower and fall into bed? After a few hours’ sleep, it’ll all look better.”
Candace glances at her cell. “Nothing good ever happens at the witching hour.”
Her comment gives me a shiver.
“What?” she asks, studying my face.
“Nothing.” I pop the lever of the car handle, having a thought that Mom would’ve said a goose just walked over her grave.
My soul’s wrung out like a used washrag. I said too much then cried even more, but after giving a tired wave to Candace, I can’t help thinking she would make a great friend. And my traitorous mind tacks on possible sister-in-law, too.
I wince. Talk about putting the cart before the horse.
Trudging to my apartment, I scan my immediate vicinity. Apparently, I’m not that tired. Nobody’s anywhere this early on a Saturday morning. The silence is almost eerie.
I remember what Puck told me. Be aware of your surroundings. Ah yeah—I need to text him too. I really need to text him.
I rummage through my suitcase of a purse Candace grabbed for me before I left Puck’s, feeling around for my phone.
There! I flip it around and swipe the screen. Critical battery. Fucking figures.
Sighing, I jam the thing back in my purse and hike the stairs to the second floor. I'll plug it into my charger when I get inside and text Puck.
I get to the door and turn the knob. My door’s unlocked, I have time to think before it’s torn out of my hands.
I’m only frozen for a moment.
There’s a different man this time. Two.
Dropping my purse, I make short work of the first one, even with no shoes, bra, or pants.
I don’t even have time to scream—I’m too focused on surviving.
I don’t think of Puck.
Or anything.
I remember the attack in vivid detail, what it cost me, and how much I don’t want to pay that price again.
But like before, something takes me by surprise, and it’s what ultimately ruins all notions of hope.
Frightened noises break through the strikes I lay on my opponent, and my eyes leave him for a crucial second.
A beaten Kendra is tied to one of my favorite chairs in the corner with a crude gag shoved in her mouth. Her eyes move to my shoulder, telling me someone is behind me.
I duck, and turning at the last instant, I shoot
my foot out, hitting the kneecap of my attacker as my arms whip out to gain balance from the unplanned strike.
Ritchie. I recognize him before the other man grabs my exposed limb, wrenching it behind me at a cruel angle.
I find my voice then, screaming through the pain before it steals my breath.
Fists rain down on my body.
I worry for my baby as I fall. The sound of Kendra’s muffled screaming fades as unconsciousness settles over me like a suffocating blanket of black.
Chapter 21
Storm
Fucking bitches. And of course, good old Storm’s going to be the one who guards one.
Like I give two shits and a fuck about the detail. About the bitch.
Nice not to pretend anymore. Nice to just ride, fuck, sleep, and shit. Not necessarily in that order.
I’m just another Road Kill MC brother now. Simpler. And my exotic tastes are tolerated. Usually.
As I scan the horizon, an exhausted exhale plows out of me. Fucking dawn. The whitish light breaks over the landscape, sliding into the crevices of the half-helmet I wear. Cool air that promises to be warm as the day ages presses in at every gap in the little bit of clothing I wear.
And the weapons, as well. They feel like heavy chunks of ice as they leach away my body temperature in concession to the outdoors.
Charlotte Temperance lives in barely average digs where humanity is stacked like sardines in a homogenized, early-2000s apartment complex.
I know the area well. One of my fucked-up foster families lived only two blocks from this location.
As I roll into the parking lot, my gaze roams the barren asphalt and beyond. Huh. Not as much of a shithole as when I spent an unimpressive nine months here between ninth and tenth grades.
I keep coasting, and exit the parking lot, giving the illusion I’m just passing through.
Having been a former fed has its advantages.
For one, I have an enhanced concealed-carry permit. I can go into all fifty states, and no one can do dick about my right to carry.
I employ that privilege now, grabbing my Glock 42 and using the crossbody I have in an efficient retraction.
Retying my dark-brown hair onto the nape of my neck because of the blast it got from riding, I narrow my eyes, studying the way I came and, beyond that, the apartment Puck’s bitch lives in.
Jesus, this is dumb.
Like usual before I go on a run, for the brothers or the feds, I remove the well-worn picture of my mom from my interior pocket.
I lean back in the molded bike seat and go through the motions as I always do.
Lovingly, I trace the curves of a young face, so much like my own, except for the kinky hair and the obvious gender differences. She’s the only bitch I’ll ever love.
Even if she did abandon me.
Feeling that familiar melancholy seep into me, I gingerly tuck the photo back into the interior pocket of my cut then zip it shut.
Giving the pocket a ritualistic pat, I swing my leg over the seat.
I unbuckle my helmet and set it down where my ass just rested.
I begin to walk toward Temp’s residence.
When I’m closer, that cop’s intuition, or whatever it might be, comes online. A slithering sensation of being late for the party crawls over my skin.
Abandoning stealth, I race for the steps then take them two at a time.
At the top, I’m unsurprised to find the door standing wide open.
With my left foot at the threshold, I use my right to kick the door in hard. It whacks the wall, resolving the question of whether a perp stands behind it.
Deep down, I know the answer is no. The place has been ransacked in a false way. I know what organic tossing looks like, and this ain’t it.
The silence is empty. I don’t understand how I know the difference, but that basic human presence—and whether or not it’s there—is something I determine easily by gut instinct alone. That’s not something the FBI trained me to notice, intuit, or rationalize. It’s just a thing that’s within me.
The intruders clearly wanted my cop instincts to assume it was a robbery.
My FBI eyes see a kidnapping.
Because severed zip ties litter the corner of the room, and as I walk to that spot, gun naked in my grip, I take in a red-white-and-blue bandana.
Sinking to my haunches, I pluck the large triangle of cloth from the floor and note that it’s damp.
Gag, my mind instantly supplies.
Dropping it, I let my gaze travel the living room and into the kitchen, where I find nothing more of interest. I cruise the small apartment, dismissing the upended drawers and obvious decoy bullshit while concentrating on the things that confirms my initial suspicion.
Two females. Both gone. Not just this Temp broad. There was another woman here, as well.
There’s a hairbrush with black hair in the bathroom, but a few dirty-blond strands were still clinging to the bandana. Probably there from it being torn over the female’s head.
Putting my gun up, I grab my cell and punch in Noose’s number.
He brays his salutation at the first ring.
I tell him what I’ve found.
“Puck is going to turn himself inside out,” Noose says the instant I shut my yap.
“Okay. So I didn’t ask details. I didn’t know there were two bitches.”
“What?” Noose asks.
I feel my eyebrows rise. “Yeah. Is Temp his property?”
There’s a pause Noose can’t take back, then he says, “Yeah.”
“Okay,” I answer slowly. “So who’s the other female? Because I got the intel on Temp. She’s part-Asian—black hair, right?”
“Affirmative.”
“So...”
“I’ll ask Puck. He might know. Fuck. He was en pointe. He had a feeling about this bullshit.”
Gut instinct. Got a healthy dose of that myself. Escaped tight spots when I was younger because of the raw gift of male instinct. “Now what?”
“You got some fed you can tap?”
I shake my head then realize he can’t see it. “Nope. Burnt every bridge worth crossing before I left. Didn’t like being law.”
“Or being lawful,” Noose says with a smirk in his voice, but his tone is empty of accusation. “Getting back to it. Puck is a former cop. He’s got that friend—”
“Perry,” I supply. Kind of a smug dick.
Snapping fingers sound. “That’s him. He’ll know shit.”
“Probably.”
“You gonna call Puck with the news?”
My tight grin stretches my face like a slash of plastic. “Negative. Puck and me”—I gesture between my chest and the cell though no one can see me—“we’re not buds.”
“No shit?” Noose chuckles. “Okay, I got this. And, man?”
“Yeah?”
“Thanks. I need somebody on this dirty shit who doesn’t care about mucking it out.”
“I’m your man then.”
I’ve always been that man.
Puck
I fucking knew it. I grip my hair with both hands, wanting to yank it out by the roots.
Dropping my hands, I send my dark cell skittering across the countertop.
“What the hell is going on, Puck?” Candi asks in a low voice.
Effortlessly, she stands with Gabe in her arms. Beneath a thin blanket thrown over the top of her chest, he suckles at her breast, his head partially obscured.
She walks toward me, looking way up. Our height disparity is never more apparent than when she’s barefoot.
Temp’s size.
I clench my eyes for a long second, and when I open them, I say, “Someone took Temp. And from what Noose said, it sounds like they took her friend too. Right now, it’s just conjecture, but I know it’s Kendra.”
I peg my hands on my hips, seeing Temp as I last remember her.
Naked in my arms, surrounding me. In my bed.
Angry in my driveway.
Snaps
hots of her flick through my mind’s eye in rapid succession.
“Fuck,” I say quietly. “I think I love her.”
Candi’s face screws into an expression of shock. “Really?”
I nod miserably. “I never thought I’d love a chick.”
“And I never thought I’d love a man,” she replies instantly.
“Did I hear someone say they’d never love a man?” Viper asks from the doorway.
He’s been leaning there against the heavy wooden doorjamb for God knows how long, and with a shove, his body moves forward as he saunters to us.
“Noose told me,” he says, bending to kiss my sister on the forehead.
His pool-water eyes find me. They’re hard and also compassionate. “Temp was going to be property?”
“Why are you talking about her in past tense?” I advance on Viper, and he backs away from his family and meets my charge, hitting my chest with both hands.
The gesture knocks me back a step.
He’s been hitting the weights, and it shows. He’s no soft fifty-year-old man. Viper’s got something to work at protecting, and like the club, he takes his new role seriously.
“Don’t let that hot head of yours blow, Puck. Listen and listen well.”
With great difficulty, I shut my mouth when what I really want to do is punch him square in the nose.
I glance at baby Gabe and realize this is my nephew’s dad. Shame hits me between the eyes. Need to chill my shit.
“I’m talking about her in the past tense for the same reason you would be if you weren’t in your head. Think.”
I do, and I hate what my experience says. Most kidnap victims are on the clock. “Yeah, it doesn’t look good.”
“Then let’s think about what we know. A prominent social worker is beaten by a client’s boyfriend, who happens to be a lackey for the newest scourge to enter our territory. Then she’s attacked by an unknown a day later. Now she’s a kidnap victim?”
Viper shakes his head.
“The nail in this particular coffin is the other girl being taken. There is no way she’s involved or needs to be silenced because of anything to do with Temp. Why was she taken?” Viper folds his arms across his chest with a small dismissive lift of his shoulder that screams, “Beats me.”
Dawning horror rises like a morbid sunrise inside my mind. “The hooker ring.”