by Marata Eros
I walk to her door, slide the latch, and open it.
I feel Rose before she slides her arms around my waist. God. Tenderness wells up inside me. I fight it. And lose.
I slide my hands over the tops of hers.
“Be careful.” Her breath is warm at my back.
“Always.” I move away from her fingers.
Toughest shit I've ever done.
*
“I know I fucked up!” Trainer wails. “But this detail? Fuck me!”
I'm forking Chinese food in my craw with abandon, watching Trainer swab the puke-and-cum-soaked decks.
“Nope!” I say, raising a chopstick. The oriental design on the side reminds me of a knot. I work it in my head while I dress Trainer down.
“Rose Christo is my property. Repeat after me.”
Trainer's lips flatten. “Fuck,” he mutters.
Wring picks chicken chow mien from his teeth. “Do it, fucktard.”
“Rose Christo is your property.” Sullen, he spits it out. Five hours of cleaning up post-party gore will do it.
“Nice pronoun switch. Didn't know if you'd fuck that up too.” This, from Snare. Mr. English.
I send a hard glance his way. “Hey”—he spreads his hands inoffensively away from his body—“while you guys were fucking around in the Middle East, I was getting my schooling.”
Fucking around. Right. “What-fucking-ever,” I say, glaring at him while I twist and stab the noodles.
“You really promised Rose you wouldn't be there at the hearing?” Wring asks, his eyes dark with disbelief.
“I promised her I wouldn't show my face.”
“Ah,” Wring says. “That's different.”
I point chopsticks at him. “Damn straight.” I chug half a beer and set it down on the table that stands in the middle of the club.
Trainer's gloved up to the elbows.
I don't even wanna see what's in the bucket.
Last night's party, which I missed while I was fucking Rose all night, had been a panty dropping, boozing orgy.
Fucking Trainer dropped the ball, falling asleep on his watch and missing Diablo breaking and entering at Rose's, letting him tie my girl up and put that word on her body.
It wasn't if Diablo would die—but when. He’s a dead man walking.
I know it.
The club knows it.
Deep down, Rose knows it. Maybe a part of her doesn't want to kill Charlie's dad. But he's nothing but a sperm donor.
“Lariat's watching Rose. But he's not happy about picking belly lint because ya thought you'd snooze.”
Trainer blows out a frustrated exhale. “How many times do I have to say I fucked up?” He slaps gloved hands on his thighs.
Disgusting shit stays on his jeans. He looks down and curses.
Wring works the lump of food around in this mouth. “More,” he says.
Trainer sighs, defeated.
I hop off the stool at the bar, load my arms with trash, and chuck it all in the bag at Trainer's side.
I stretch, reaching for the ceiling. I tap it, heels hitting the ground, stiff from all the stress. “Fuck, tense as fuck with all this shit going on with Rose.”
Lariat's text comes in. Picture's worth a thousand words. It's a photo of Rose moving through the front doors of the bank.
High heels, tight skirt. Instant hard-on.
I text back: Thanks. Autocorrect is so used to my one-word replies, it has it filled in after the T.
“What are you doing, Noose?”
I flip Snare off. “Working, asshole. Some of us actually do that. Besides, I gotta be there tomorrow, putting in extra time at the shop.” Road Kill has their own mechanic—me.
Always been wired that way. Even during my foster care years, when every fucking thing was sideways, I could just put shit together—or take it apart. My life was in ruins, but parts worked. Cars and bikes, they make sense.
Besides, the auto repair outfit is a fucking awesome front for all kinds of shit the club dabbles in. I'm more than a money runner. Snare is our sergeant-at-arms, but I chose not to be.
I don't have an off switch. That I was able to turn off and not kill Diablo was a miracle.
Pretty soon, there won't be a switch around that can turn me off killing that fucker.
8
Rose
Naomi's large hazel eyes appear to float above the partition that separates our stations.
“You look different.” She shrugs, biting absently on her thumbnail. “Don't know what it is—but I'd say you got laid if I didn't know better.”
That's the thing—she doesn't know better.
“I-I…” I stare down at my hands. My money drawer has been organized—twice. I have nothing to do but endure her uncanny intuition.
“Whoa, is it the hearing?” Naomi's compassionate eyes try to read my mood.
It's not the hearing, not really. I don't want to tell her about Noose. Confessing about him makes him—us—real. Naomi knows Anna was beaten to death and about her association with bikers. It would seem beyond dumb for me to go down that same path.
Yet, here I am.
Naomi and I are pretty close. We both began working at the bank straight out of high school. That was before everyone had to have at least two years of college to handle money in a financial institution.
It's unusual for us not to text each other over the weekend. Even though I have Charlie, Naomi and I still do stuff together. I'm sometimes envious of her free life.
I'd never give up Charlie, though.
I didn’t text over the weekend, and that got me on the Naomi Radar. My eyes flick to the clock. Almost nine thirty. Not near enough time for all I want to say—or all that I don't. I take a deep breath then let it out slowly. “Let's talk at lunch, okay?”
Her ginger eyebrows shoot up. “I don't know if I can stand waiting. Must be an earful.”
I look at her. “Definitely. But…” I pause for a handful of seconds, “it's a good earful, and no, I'm not that worried about the hearing. I think Drake will show up, be himself, and the judge will see through him. Besides, I've already been awarded full custody of Charlie once.”
Naomi rolls her lip between her teeth, messing up her lipstick. Her curly hair bobs as she nods. “Yeah.” She winds her hair into a knot. We look like twins. But hers is a wild, thickly coiled frothy mass of curls.
She doesn't say the rest. Naomi doesn't need to. Drake was being held in jail at the time of that first hearing, under suspicion of murder.
Of course, he got off. But by that time, the judge had awarded Charlie to Anna’s closest relative. Me.
The one who wasn't incarcerated. But because Drake was never convicted, he basically has a clean slate. It's like the first hearing all over again.
Carla will have Charlie, so I don't have to worry. Her written testimony to my skills as a parent are part of my paperwork.
My parents will be there too. For Anna. For me.
I shake my head. I wore my hair down for once, and it slides along my shoulders with the movement. “No. Not worried.”
Naomi nods, pasting a reassuring smile on her face. “I want all the gossip at lunch.” She leans over the partition as customers begin to file in. “But when does anything exciting happen to Rose Christo?” She winks.
Heat rises to my face, and Naomi gives a little squeal before plopping down in her teller chair. “Love it!” she sings softly.
I can't look at her. I would give too much away.
I slide my sign out of the hole in the window as the first customer approaches.
*
Naomi's freakishly large eyes blink. Flecks of green appear to hover within the irises. “You've got to be kidding me!”
We're eating our lunch underneath a giant old maple that was saved when the bank was built. Its vibrant orange and red leaves look like flames against the deep blue sky. The picnic table wood is scarred and rough underneath my fingertips. I press them into the surface anyway, daring
to look at her face.
“No. I'm not kidding.”
“Rose—okay, I have been pressuring you into ending your dry spell. Nick was forever ago, and with what happened to Anna…”
I don't fill the silence right away. The birds and cars rushing outside the fence are a whir of white noise.
I unclasp my fingers. “I fought it. I did. In the end, I couldn't anymore.” I feel defensive. If I could just screw guys casually, this wouldn't be a big deal. But when I sleep with a man, there's heart involved.
Naomi plants her hands on her hips. “I know what your problem is—you've got a case of pussy fever.”
I spit out my parfait onto the lawn. Chunks of apricot yogurt hit the blades of grass, and I slap my palm over my mouth, horrified. “Oh my God, look what you made me do!”
Naomi giggles, crossing her arms over her mostly flat chest. I have a pang of envy then shelve it. Noose loves my huge boobs. Glad someone does.
“Tell me I'm wrong.” Her eyebrows rise in a coy sweep.
God. I look down at my nearly empty bowl of fruit, nuts, and yogurt as though intensely interested in what's left of my food.
“I can't.” I sound glum, even to myself.
“Has he been violent?” she asks quietly.
I jerk my head up, meeting her eyes. Toward me? No. I shake my head.
“Of the three and a half billion men in the world, you chose this guy. And I have an advantage.” She stabs empty air with her finger. “I saw him and his scary friend when they came in last week. And what the fuck is this?” Naomi hisses, getting a head of steam worked up.
I push my food away.
“You don't screw anyone for four years, and then boom—biker guy hits the scene, and it's bury the tool time?”
I laugh. “Tell me how it really is, Naomi.”
Her lips twitch.
I'm not thrilled about how fast things have moved, but I never felt so alive until I met Noose. I try to explain the inexplicable. “He makes me feel safe, sexed up—happy,” I whisper.
“Oh my God!” Naomi slaps her hands over her mouth. Continuing to speak from behind her fingers, she says, “Are you saying you love him? This Noose guy—and give me a break with the name.” She flips her palm out.
Definitely. “Maybe.” My eyes flick to hers. “He was in the Navy—a Navy Seal.” I attempt a semi-explanation.
Naomi whistles, setting down her sandwich. “They are so hot—Seals.” She gets a dreamy look.
I blush, thinking about how hot Noose was with his body inside mine. I don't know if it had anything to do with him being a Seal or not. I think it had everything to do with him. Noose is an undeniable force. Sex appeal doesn't cover what he brings. I shiver.
Naomi plops her elbows one the table top. “So what do they do when they're Seals?” She tosses a Cheeto into her mouth, and little orange crumbs sprinkle the table.
I lift a shoulder. “He wouldn't say much.” I laugh, thinking about Noose's efforts at being chatty. Non-existent. “He's not a big talker.” My lips lift at the corners.
Naomi's nose scrunches. “Uh-huh. Gathered that, girlfriend.” Her low chuckle brings my blush back to life.
I think through what Noose told me: what's okay to say, what might not be. “He did say that he's an expert knotter.”
“So the man can speak?” Naomi asks slyly.
“Knock it off. Yes, he can speak.” That makes me think of his tongue, of course. I swallow.
“What do you mean ʻknotsʼ?” She knits her fingers together, propping her chin in the web her fingers make.
The nose bursting above my body is singed into my memory: blood falling like warm red rain over the metallic-blue dress Drake forced me to wear. “Ah… he can make different knots.”
She shrugs. “Why is that a big thing?”
Strong arms cradle Drake's neck, thick wrists twisting the rope. The knots at either end are anchors for strangulation.
“I think ropes are considered weapons in hand-to-hand combat,” I manage, sucking myself out of the memory like it’s quicksand.
Her face lights with understanding. “Oh! Like a knife or something?”
“Something like that.” My heartbeats trip over one another.
Naomi waggles her eyebrows. “Has possibilities.”
I think of the pantyhose Drake used to tie me down, and shake my head. “Probably not.” I release a trembling breath, repressing a shudder.
“Totally for me. I could so get into some tie-me-down shenanigans.” Naomi sounds wistful.
I laugh. Naomi's sense of humor is contagious.
Her smile fades as she moves her eyes to a point beyond my shoulder. “Don't look now, but creeper Ned is keeping tabs on us.”
I don't bother turning around. Dick. “Ignore him. I can't be one second past break of I get the ax.”
Naomi rolls her eyes. “True dat.”
Before I know it, lunch is over, and the rest of the day keeps me busy with clients. I wasn't struck by lightning for confessing the sin of Noose.
Ned didn't give me fifty lashes.
It's not until I get home and Charlie's tucked into bed that I have time to think.
My cell is dark.
Noose, where are you?
A week ago, I was just sleeping, eating, and existing.
Now I'm like a planet whose orbit has shifted to circle around one thing, one man.
Maybe the real sin was not living before.
*
I'm up and getting ready two hours before the hearing at ten o’clock, so nervous that my fingers tremble as I apply my makeup.
I pick up my lipstick. It's the red Drake used to write on my body.
I drop it like I've been burned.
The brilliant red tube rolls across my wood vanity and clatters to the floor. I pick it up in a pincer grip and toss it into the garbage.
Don't think I'll ever be wearing that shade again.
I smooth my palms over my outfit for the twentieth time, staring into the mirror: navy skirt and pumps, nude hose, and a stacked heel, three inches. The cream shell blouse should wash me out, but because my hair has the faintest touch of red, it makes my coloring appear richer. My eyes are velvet brown in the sea of my fair skin.
I don't want to look like I'm trying too hard, so I wear part of my hair in a loose barrette at the crown of my head, leaving it to dry naturally.
Anything past this is just procrastination.
I haven't heard from Noose. He took me at my word, giving me space until after the hearing.
I wish he hadn't listened.
Picking up a lock of hair, I twine it around my finger, yanking it lightly, only to release and twine again.
“Come on, Rose.” I walk to the mirror, smacking my lips with their nude gloss, working up my courage.
I don't want to see Drake. Ever.
I don't want him to have Charlie more.
Moving through the house, I pick up my purse at the side table nearest the front door and walk through. I lock it and walk deliberately to my Smart car. I glance inside. All the paperwork is sitting in a manila folder on the passenger seat.
Nothing is going to interfere with my success in keeping Charlie if I can help it.
*
“All rise,” a bored voice calls out.
I stand, Mom's hand gripping mine tightly enough to hurt, my other latched onto the back of the smooth, rolled wooden bench seat ahead of me.
“Mom,” I whisper urgently, and her hold lessens. My fingers cramp, and I flex them.
I can't help looking around. Telling myself I'm looking to see who's here, I'm really looking for Noose.
A week ago, there was no Noose, Rose. I clench my eyes shut, controlling my breathing and establishing calm.
“Judge Jetson presiding.” He walks in, black robes sweeping his ankles like black water. The judge is super young. I don't know if that's good or bad for me.
After I make a final check and come up without a Noose sighting, a
breath slides out of me. Disappointment and relief collide into an uncomfortable tightness in my chest.
I shake off the disquiet, hunting for Drake. My eyes scan the crowd, made up mainly of people whose cases are scheduled to be heard after mine, and don't see him.
Could I be so lucky? Did he suddenly get cold feet? Then my gaze halts, stumbling over Drake.
No wonder I didn't recognize him.
He looks utterly unlike Drake. Gone is the greasy long hair and the I-don't-bathe look.
In its place is a crisp brown turtleneck that conveniently hides the rope burn. His hair is styled closely to his head. Drake's wearing glasses that make him appear educated and regal. He has a sports jacket in a fine tweed that picks up the chocolate color of his turtleneck.
Only his eyes look the same. Deadly. Cold.
They turn on me.
His smile says so much as his gaze taunts me. Mainly, I see I win in that stare.
“Son of a bitch,” Dad whispers beside me.
Yes. That.
Anna's killer gives me and my family an ersatz salute.
My stomach rolls. In that moment, I could kill him myself.
I take my place before the judge, Drake's uncomfortably close presence just feet from where I stand.
The judge listens to each side, carefully going through my paperwork.
Drake has a fancy lawyer who’s sleek and refined, and I suddenly know who dressed and groomed Drake.
My attorney is state-appointed, with a rumpled suit and uninterested disposition. Sharp unease uncoils inside me.
Judge Jetson finally looks at me. “I'm not sure why Mr. Corbin has not been given some visitation before now.”
I balk but manage to throw out the most important point. “He was in jail at the time of the last hearing, Judge Jetson.”
His eyes latch on to my boobs, and I know. A slight curl to the lips. A tilt of the head. Holy crap, the judge is in their pocket. Why didn't it ever occur to me that this could be possible? When Drake couldn't break me, he would grease the right palm. A perfect contingency.
The judge flips the top of the folder of my carefully organized paperwork closed and taps a finger on top. His pale-blue eyes meet mine.