Free

by Kristen Ashley

  His hold on me tightened. “It’s gonna be either of those, sweetheart, and what you got to take from that is they’re his choice. You did what you did out of love and concern, and if he doesn’t get that, it’s on him. Not you. If he doesn’t get it’s hard for you to watch what he’s doing to himself and even harder for you to confront him about it, fuck him. I get the need to numb the pain with booze. But if he hasn’t realized by now it’s not gonna work, and you try to point that out and he throws it in your face, that’s him. All him. Not you.”

  “I’m worried, Rush.”

  Another hand squeeze. “I know you are, baby.”

  “They say addiction is hereditary and we both know what became of Diane.”

  “I’m no doctor but I see why that would tweak you even more than you’re already tweaked, but that also has dick to do with you. You gotta let others take responsibility for their actions and decisions or you’ll get buried under them and they’re not even yours.”

  “You’re right,” I muttered.

  “I know.” He did not mutter.

  “And that sucks,” I said.

  “I bet.” That, he muttered.

  I examined his profile. “Are you pissed I took this on?”

  “Rebel, I get pissed you do this shit, I might as well get pissed your eyes are blue.”

  I stared at his profile.

  “It’s you. I could try to change it, but I don’t know why I would. I would not be lookin’ forward to fucking you senseless after we get home from the store if this wasn’t a part of you.”

  I continued to stare at his profile (but I did it squirming a little).

  “Strike that, I probably would. You got a great ass, great legs, great hair, a beautiful mouth and you’re a great lay. But I heard what you were up to, baby. I read in the file why,” he said quietly. “And I was way interested before you got in my face about how I hijacked you and definitely way before I got your nails curled into my ass.”

  Wow.

  “Do not take that as encouragement to keep jacking your shit up in everyone else’s,” he finished on an order.

  “I’ll try to stop jacking up my shit in everyone else’s,” I said softly.

  “You’re totally gonna fail at that,” he murmured.

  I probably was.

  “Who I’m pissed at is Amy,” he declared.

  Now that surprised me.

  “Why?”

  “Landing that shit on you?”

  “She lost her daughter, Rush,” I reminded him carefully.

  “I know. She’s still a grown-ass woman. You got sensitivity to her because she lost her daughter. She has no sensitivity to you that you lost a friend. There’s take and no give, that shit ain’t right.”

  “I think maybe in this scenario I need to have more sensitivity than she does,” I told him.

  “I think you bein’ you, that’s the way you see it. What you gotta get is, it’s not my job to look after Amy and not just because I haven’t met the woman yet. Because it’s my job to look after you. And someone lays the heavy on you, it makes that hard to do.”

  And he just couldn’t help being all . . .

  Rush.

  I strained the limits of the seat belt to lean his way and kiss his jaw.

  He kept his hand tight in mine when I sat back, and he changed the subject again.

  “What are you making me for dinner?”

  “If I’m gonna be fucked senseless, all I’ll have in me is dialing in our Chinese delivery order.”

  “Works for me.”

  Just that easy.

  I’d had a lot of hard. Not struggle, just hard.

  My parents didn’t get me. They’d never understood me. A creative soul was like the workings of the mind of Stephen Hawking to them. And it went without saying, what they didn’t understand, they abhorred, and they didn’t mind acting on that.

  And I had to watch Diesel bear the burden of knowing they totally would not get him.

  Not to mention, generally, I grew up among the strains of small-minded hate couched vaguely in religion and patriotic loyalty.

  I left home, struggled with money and paying dues and kissing ass until I made enough of a name for myself, I could strike out on my own.

  Then my friend was murdered, and I allowed myself to get pulled under.

  “What are you thinking?” Rush asked.

  “That I like that you get me.”

  He said nothing.

  Just held my hand.

  “Molly is gonna love you,” I shared.

  “Good,” he murmured.

  “Though Molly loves almost everybody,” I added.

  “I see why you two get along so good.”

  Nice.

  “D and Mad are totally gonna put you through the wringer,” I told him. “You’ll have to prove your salt.”

  “Nothin’s worth it, you don’t have to earn it somehow.”

  Oh, he was earning it all right.

  I pulled his hand to my thigh.

  He released my fingers to curl his on my leg, claiming my flesh.

  I just rested my hand on top of his.

  Because that felt good.

  “Go.”

  God.

  “Go.”

  God.

  “Go, baby,” Rush growled in my ear.

  Fingers wrapped around the top of his low headboard, the fingers of my other hand curled around the back of his neck, on my knees, ass tilted, taking Rush’s cock, with one of his hands between my legs, finger circling my clit, the other at my breast, rolling my nipple. My head fell back to his shoulder and I went.

  A couple of seconds later, I heard and felt Rush go too.

  Yeah, he was the coolest guy I’d ever met.

  And he was really good in bed.

  “Eugenie?”

  “Cole?”

  “Eugenie?”

  “Cole?”

  “Cole’s a kickass name, Rebel. But Eugenie?”

  “I didn’t give myself that middle name, Rush. And we’ve already established my parents are losers.”

  He grinned at me.

  Meryl had been briefed. I was sending her my notes tomorrow morning.

  There were Chinese delivery cartons all over the floor.

  And beer bottles.

  But we were naked, tangled up together on our sides, facing each other in bed.

  “No one calls you Cole?” I asked.

  “Mom used to, when she was pissed at me. Dad sometimes. Tab on occasion,” he answered. “But mostly no.”

  I pressed deeper into him, so his arms got tighter around me.

  “That’s kind of a waste. Cole is a kickass name, honey.”

  He grinned in my face. “I know.”

  “Is your dad’s real name Tack?”

  He shook his head on the pillow. “Nope. Kane.”

  “That’s a kickass name too.”

  “Yeah. Tab and Shy named their boy after him.”

  “Sweet,” I whispered.

  But secretly, I was kinda ticked they got to it first.

  “Though everyone calls him Playboy,” he shared.

  That was surprising.

  “How old is he?”

  “He’s a baby, but he’s still a flirt.”

  I smiled at him and said, “You boys are into your nicknames.”

  “Biker names. Street names.” He gathered me closer. “Old lady names.”

  “Tyra is Cherry,” I told him what he knew.

  “To the men. Dad calls her Red.”

  It wasn’t original.

  But it was cool.

  “I’m not a Punk,” I announced.

  “Babe, don’t fight it. It lands on you, no getting rid of it. Speck’s been trying to get us to call him Doomsday for years now, and that shit is never gonna happen.”

  I giggled. “Doomsday?”

  He smiled at me. “Yep.”

  “How’d he get the name Speck?”

  Rush shut up.

  Oo, thi
s was going to be good.

  “How’d he get that name, Rush?”

  “You don’t wanna know.”

  “I do.”

  “Trust me.”

  I pushed into him until he fell to his back and I was lying down his side, my face in his. “Tell me.”

  He gave in.

  I knew he would.

  Easy.

  “He was a recruit, goin’ at a biker bunny on the couch in the Compound. Hound walked in, surprised him. He pulled out and kinda came, but didn’t, shooting a little on her shirt. Wasn’t there. Not in the know about what his normal wad is. Don’t wanna know. But Hound was there. And he became Speck.”

  I giggled more.

  “So don’t bitch about Punk. At least you’re not Speck.” He paused. “Or Spunk,” he finished.

  Gulk.

  “Totally not gonna bitch about Punk after that,” I told him.

  His hands moved over my ass, his eyes doing the same over my face, and he murmured, “Things get kinda wild with us, babe.”

  “This is not a surprise, babe,” I replied.

  “You gotta roll with it.”

  “I’m down with that.”

  His gaze kept roaming my face.

  Then he turned me and covered me.

  “I’m not gonna fuck you on the couch in the Compound,” he promised.

  “Thanks for that,” I teased.

  “Might feel you up.”

  I grinned up in his handsome face as I moved my hands on his warm skin.

  Thus I caught his beautiful eyes going lazy.

  “Gonna eat you now, though,” he told me.

  My hands stopped moving as I trembled beneath him.

  He touched his mouth to mine then he slid down my body.

  It was Rush who spread my legs.

  But I didn’t fight him.

  I had both hands flat to the headboard over my head, pushing my body down rhythmically, my ass cradled in the V of Rush’s thighs, my focus hazy, my eyes on him as he knelt between my legs, thrusting inside.

  His eyes were on me, all over me, both hands gripping my hips, yanking me into his cock.

  “You ready to get busy, sweetheart?” he crooned.

  This wasn’t getting busy?

  “Yeah,” I breathed.

  I gasped as he lifted up to just his knees, taking my hips with him.

  He powered in harder, holding me to take his drives, dropping his head to watch me do it.

  God, that was hot.

  “Sweet pussy,” he murmured.

  Hot.

  “Rush,” I whimpered, pushing harder into the headboard to get more.

  His eyes came to mine. “Clit, Rebel.”

  I did as bid, moving one hand to roll my finger on my clit.

  Awesome.

  My neck bent back and my knees lifted.

  “Yeah, baby,” he grunted.

  I rolled into his quickening thrusts.

  His hands went behind my knees, holding them high, spreading them wider.

  My head straightened and my gaze caught his.

  “Rush,” I whispered.

  His attention locked on my face.

  And he fucked me.

  Hard.

  My back arched, my hand between my legs flew behind me, slamming into the headboard. I flattened it and pounded into him, my lips parting and my eyes closing as it overtook me.

  “You down?” he asked thickly as I started slowly skidding out of my climax.

  My eyelids fluttered.

  “Rebel, you down?”

  I licked my lips.

  “Babe, look at me.”

  I fought to focus on him.

  “Rebel, watch me fuckin’ you,” he growled.

  I focused on him.

  God.

  His face dark. His eyes shadowed. The muscles in his chest and biceps bunching. His abs and hips surging with a rhythmic beauty that was power and maleness and grace all rolled into one.

  Okay, maybe I was beginning to understand the concept of porn.

  “You’re beautiful,” I whispered.

  “Baby, you got the wrong view,” he returned roughly.

  Nice response.

  “Fuck me,” I urged, even if my body was already bouncing, taking his thrusts.

  He did as I urged, but harder.

  I slid my hand back between my legs and with the tips of my fingers felt in another way him taking me.

  We felt great.

  “Fuck me, Rush.”

  He let my legs go, bent over me, gathered me in is arms, lifted me to him, then pounded me down as he drove up, grunting in my neck where he’d buried his face.

  I rounded him with my legs at his hips, my arms at his shoulders, and held on for the ride.

  His hand fisted in my hair as he ground me into his cock and tagged my earlobe in his teeth before he let it go and groaned heavily in my ear.

  I clutched him with everything I had as his hips twitched up into mine a few times before he settled back on his calves and held me to him, still connected.

  His lips moved on my neck, but I did nothing, just breathed him in, his tang, the hint of leather, and held him back, tight to me.

  He eventually pulled his head away and I took my cue, giving him my mouth.

  He kissed me, deep and long, before he broke it.

  “Get rid of this condom, be right back,” he whispered.

  “Okay,” I whispered back.

  He touched his mouth to mine again before he pulled me off him, set me gently in bed, then exited it and walked to the bathroom.

  I watched.

  I stretched after he disappeared.

  And I smiled when he came back.

  “Green, you.”

  “Red. So . . . coffee.”

  “Cream, no sugar. You.”

  “Black, no sugar. Food.”

  “Tacos. You.”

  “My dad’s pancakes. Alternate, steak. Now movies.”

  “Crouching Tiger, Hidden Dragon. You.”

  “The Way of the Gun.”

  Good choice.

  “Song,” he said.

  “Vintage, ‘Life in the Fast Lane.’ Not as vintage, ‘Elderly Woman Behind the Counter in a Small Town.’ Somewhat recent, ‘White Trash Millionaire.’”

  “Babe.” He grinned. “Black Stone Cherry?”

  I grinned back and said, “You.”

  “Vintage, ‘Midnight Rider.’ Totally bad but still good, ‘Party Hard.’ Underrated, ‘Play Guitar.’ Inspired, ‘Bittersweet Symphony.’ Love song, ‘Where Dirt and Water Collide.’”

  “The White Buffalo,” I whispered.

  “‘Wish It Was True.’”

  “‘The Observatory.’”

  “‘I Got You.’”

  We stared at each other through the shadows cut by moonlight, finding ourselves connecting in new ways that were not as exciting as giving each other orgasms, but they were just as important.

  “Vacation,” he said.

  “Beach. You.”

  “Long stretch of road, my girl on the back of my bike.”

  How did that sound better than a beach?

  “Mountains or city?” he asked.

  “Mountains. You.”

  “Totally. Girl name,” he said.

  That came as a surprise.

  A sweet one.

  I melted into him.

  “Clara,” I said softly. “You.”

  “Amity. Now boy.”

  “Boone. You.”

  “Rhodes. So, how many?”

  “Two.”

  “Two.”

  God.

  We so worked.

  And Rhodes was a cool name.

  Not as cool as Kane.

  Still.

  He fell to his back, pulling me on top of him.

  I settled in.

  He slid my hair back and held it in both hands.

  “Winter or summer,” he whispered.

  “Essence’s garden is pretty in the winter, but only if
there’s snow. It’s magical in summer. So summer. You.”

  “Can’t ride a bike every day in the winter.”

  “Yeah,” I replied.

  He kept my hair held back in one hand and moved his other so he could wrap his arm around and hold me at the waist.

  “Never cut your hair,” he murmured.

  “Never cut yours,” I murmured back.

  His face got soft, he used my hair to guide my mouth to his and then he kissed me.

  I just lay on top of him and kissed him back.

  “She wanted to be a therapist.”

  “Yeah?”

  “Yeah. Physical therapy, she thought.”

  His hands moved on me, light, soothing, but he said nothing.

  I burrowed closer.

  “We’d have binge nights. Buy a bunch of junk food. Watch entire movie series. Star Wars, Empire, Return. Godfather one, two and three. Kill Bill. Lord of the Rings. Harry Potter was a whole weekend gluttony sort of thing.”

  Rush remained silent.

  “She liked Whoppers and Doritos. I’m a Milk Duds and Fritos Honey Barbeque girl.”

  Rush started playing with the ends of my hair.

  “I sprained my ankle once, the day before one of her charity runs. She showed that morning with a wheelchair. To this day, I have no idea where she got it. But that was Diane. She came up with the wildest ideas and had it in her to see them through. She pushed me in that chair through the whole race. She came in last. Everyone thought there was something wrong with me and we got this huge ovation when we came over the finish line. We didn’t know how to tell hundreds of people I’d just sprained my ankle, so we went with it. Did it up big. Diane took bows. I blew kisses. We made a big show. Amy stood on the sidelines laughing herself sick. It might not have been nice, but it was funny, and I don’t think I ever laughed that hard or that long in my life.”

  Rush kissed the top of my head.

  I closed my eyes.

  “I miss her,” I whispered.

  “Yeah,” he whispered back.

  “And what sucks more is, I started missing her way before she died.”

  Rush quit playing with my hair and just held me close.

  “Yeah,” he repeated.

  I pushed my face in his throat and thought of Whoppers, Fritos, Han Solo, Uma Thurman, Legolas and how good it felt when your sides hurt because you were laughing so hard.

  Then in Rush’s arms, after nine months of holding on way too tight, I let the bad of Diane go.

  But I held on to the good.