Puck: Dark Motorcycle Club / MC SEAL Romance (Road Kill MC Book 9)

by Marata Eros

  I hold up a palm, not wanting to talk about that so soon after Puck and I had our... interlude. “Don’t go there, Kendra.”

  Her face hardens. “Fine. But don’t expect me to be thrilled you just gave yourself to fucking Puck.”

  “ʻFucking Puckʼ?” I snort.

  She waves that away. “Yeah. Fuck the rhyming.” Kendra plugs hands to hips and tips her head back, blowing a hair off the bridge of her nose with a noisy exhale. “And what’s with the dumb coffees?”

  Oh yeah. I vaguely remember those decorating her dresser. “Puck brought them.”

  “They’re cold and full.” Kendra arches an eyebrow.

  My face heats. “Well... we didn’t get around to drinking them.”

  “Duh.” Kendra just stares at me. “Tell me why.”

  I brush invisible lint off my black leggings. “I don’t know.”

  “That’s not a great answer.”

  I shake my head. “There’s something there.”

  “Yeah, you’re hot, and Puck wants in.”

  Frowning, I say, “That’s crude, even for you, Kendra.”

  She nods. “Yup, but I didn’t sign up as your BFF to sugarcoat shit. I’m here as a defender of Charlotte.”

  Shit, she’s using my real name. Things are down and dirty.

  “I’ve never met anyone who’s as tough as you—and as fragile. Does Puck know?”

  I slide my jaw from side to side. “Hell no.”

  “He deserves to know, Temp.”

  No, he doesn’t. He’ll think less of me. Shame coats my guts. My mind.

  My everything.

  Kendra scrutinizes my face, not missing a thing. Not that it’s all that difficult. “It’s not your fault, baby.”

  Slow tears crawl relentlessly down my face.

  The traitorous fuckers.

  Kendra rushes me then, like sacking a quarterback. Her bony arms come around me, and I rest the good part of my profile against her shoulder, her collarbone digging into my cheekbone.

  “You’re not very comfortable,” I say, crying around my laughter.

  “Fuck off. I’m loyal as a flea on a dog.”

  “Nice analogy.”

  We laugh, and the moment passes. Like many past moments.

  After a full minute of looking deeply into my eyes, she says, “I’m putting you on notice. I’ll kill him if he hurts you, Temp.”

  I know she means it. I think it’ll kill me too. The hurt.

  “I’m stronger than that,” I lie.

  Kendra touches two fingers to her forehead. “Oh yeah.” She nods once. “Here ya are.”

  Then her fingers fall to her heart. “It’s here I’m worried about.”

  Me too.

  Puck

  “I did it.”

  Denni looks at me, pushing up eyeglasses that are completely clear, revealing her pale-green eyes to perfection. They swim with an emotion I can’t name.

  “What did you do, Puck?”

  “I slept with a woman.”

  She chuckles, relaxing against the back of her overstuffed leather chair and crossing her legs, plucking those clear glasses off her face so they dangle from her fingers. “That is no accomplishment for you, William. You’ve done a lot of that.” Denise Small restates the facts in a very neutral tone, without a hint of judgement.

  Our eyes meet.

  Hers fill with a new emotion. One I can name.

  Understanding.

  Denni’s chin rises a centimeter. “Tell me.”

  “Her name’s Temp.”

  “The social worker?” Her brows screw together, and Denni sets her pen and notebook on her lap, forgotten for the moment.

  “Yeah.”

  “What triggered you to exhaust this, Puck?”

  I shrug. “Seemed like if I didn’t try, there would never be another chance. I knew when I first met Temp, there was something there.”

  “Have you mentioned this to anyone else?”

  “Yeah. My bro, Noose.”

  “Your biker friend?”

  “Yes.”

  “What does he think?”

  I give her a sharp look. Most people dismiss the club and all the opinions of everyone there.

  Road Kill MC was sometimes all I had beside Candi, and Denni doesn’t discount anything I say. That’s one of the reasons I come here even when every shred of my being resists.

  She waits patiently, only our breathing to mark the time between us.

  “He said to go for it. Not to be a pussy,” I admit with an abrupt laugh.

  Her smile is instant and genuine. “Perfect.”

  My smile is just as real. “So you don’t think it’s a bad thing?”

  “No.” Denni seems to hesitate.

  “But?” I ask, suddenly tense.

  “I’ll be frank here, William.”

  “Puck,” I correct absently.

  “Yes.” Denni leans forward and straightens her long skirt, setting her glasses on a small table beside her chair. “In my experience, dysfunctional people seek each other like magnets. You are working through problems, Puck. But what is Temp’s background?”

  I don’t know. I know the obvious stuff, like her job title and the things she’s told me about her ancestry. I’m ashamed to admit I was a taker in our relationship. So far, what have I given? The revelation makes my skin burn. I feel the heat rise to my face when I think of how I told Temp I would date her, like I was giving her a gift by dating her, but that isn’t how I meant. it.

  Fuck. After I already sexed her. Wrong order, fucker.

  Denni’s eyes move over my features. “I would encourage you to find out with whom you’re dealing.”

  I’m taken aback. “What do you mean exactly?”

  “I mean that Temp might have secrets, like you have secrets.”

  The things I’ve confided to her boil between us for a moment, so heavy in the air that I could reach out and grab them like steam.

  After a deep breath, my shoulders roll into a shrug. “So?”

  “My first priority is you. Temp doesn’t matter to me,” Denni states.

  Holy shit. Kinda harsh.

  “I see that you believe that sentiment might be too strong.”

  Need to get ahold of my expression.

  Denni taps my knee briefly to get my attention, and I start. “Don’t shut down. I’m merely being as transparent as possible. In an effort to deepen your therapy, I will never lie to you, even if sometimes my truths are bald.”

  “Bald?”

  “Without a covering. Bare. Naked, if you will.”

  My gut becomes writhing snakes. “Are you saying that Temp and I won’t work?”

  “No. I’m saying you need to practice self-preservation and set limits with her that will vet her as a human being.”

  “Temp’s a fine human being,” I say, an image of plunging into her soft body filling my mind.

  I shift my weight as a quarter boner rises at the fresh memory of us together. Goddamned dicks are so fucking uncooperative.

  Especially mine.

  “I’m only encouraging you to exert caution, Puck.”

  Absently, I nod. “I will, but, doc?”

  Denni smiles but doesn’t correct me. “Yes?”

  “I’m gone on this girl. I feel like Temp already owns me.” I place my hand above my heart.

  “And that is precisely why I caution you.”

  “For what?” I ask.

  “Your protection, Puck. You could kill with your bare hands.”

  I have. Her verbal shifting of gears draws a frown.

  “You’re an expert in weaponry and near-prodigy level with discerning a person’s intent. Some of that is God-given; some of it was born of circumstance.”

  Am I that easy to read? Again, I hear that pause she does when there’s more to say. “But?”

  “Your psyche is fragile, and your trust has been horribly compromised.”

  I can’t argue with the truth.

  “She’s a
woman, though. I had problems with...” I hesitate over this next then toss it out before I puss out. “A man.”

  Denni nods. “The soul doesn’t always distinguish between gender. In the end, sometimes trust is simply trust. And lessons learned when we’re young, transition across all barriers—gender, race, age, time—all.

  “She’s not just a woman then?” I ask.

  Denni shakes her head, giving me a gentle smile. “She’s a chance, Puck.”

  A chance.

  She doesn’t have to say a chance at what. There are so many options to fill the blank that my mind does it automatically.

  Happiness.

  Hope.

  And at the end of the day, a life.

  The thing I crave most of all.

  Chapter 11

  Ritchie

  Hearing Derek’s words, I grip the receiver hard. Instantly, I regret the action, biting my lip to choke back the moan of pain.

  That fucking cunt.

  My pinky finger hurts like hell. Something that small and insignificant should be no big fucking deal.

  Nope. As shit turns out, I need that finger for all kinds of stupid shit I didn’t realize until I tried to do something with it—like wiping my ass. Had to be my right hand too. And right now, I’m pissed, so I’d squeezed the communication thing in the prison visitor’s section without thinking about it because I was feeling teed off.

  Don’t matter.

  I made bail, and that’s the only shit I care about. And the only reason I’m getting a rapid release is that stupid bitch social worker tangled with me and gave me leverage.

  And because I knew who to pay off.

  But right now, my ass is chafed because this dumb fuck couldn’t knock some sense into that chink bitch.

  She won’t stay down. She’s just one of those people who don’t know when to quit.

  “I’m telling you, Lionel”—Derek leans forward—“I was lucky to get my ass outta there without getting it beat and being the evidence our enterprise don’t need.”

  A disgruntled snort shoots out of me. I guess there’s that. I scrub my good hand over my face a couple of times and give a harsh exhale, thinking back over Derek’s story. “Who the fuck was this cop?”

  Derek smirks, stretching the skin over his repaired harelip, making a bubble of flesh form at the intersection of the cupid’s bow. He leans back and lifts a shoulder dismissively. “Ex-cop. Don’t know why he was there. Looked into shit, and he’s riding with that MC outfit.”

  I know my clubs, gangs, pimps, and players. I take a stab at which MC, figuring the biggest in the region. “Road Kill?”

  Derek nods.

  I tap my fingers on the cheap faux-wood Formica counter that’s in front of me and stare at Derek through the plexiglass. He’s holding a receiver that matches mine, resembling old-fashioned phones from back in the day, pre-cell types.

  I stop drumming, and planting my elbows, I lean forward. “Fuck. Word on the street is that MC is a problem for legit crime to break in. Fucking dictators. Think the territory is all theirs. Peeing in corners and that shit.” I beam him with a stare. “Don’t try for that bitch again until I get outta here. You made your play and blew it.”

  Derek pulls an offended face, his malformed lip making the expression into a sneer.

  I point my finger at him and repeat, “You blew it.”

  His answer is a defensive hissing whisper, “You didn’t tell me she was dangerous.”

  I feel my expression turn savage, and whatever Derek sees on my face causes him to lean away from the partition. “Charlotte Temperance will be less dangerous with a couple of men on her.”

  I smirk. Or in her.

  Slowly, Derek begins to grin too.

  “We’ll get her outta our business. We’ve paid off a lot of her type already.” I fold my arms over my considerable gut. “But she’s one of ʼem who can’t be bought. Gonna make an example of ʼer.”

  “Fuck yeah.” Derek jerks backward, hitting the back of the cheap metal visitor’s chair. Planting his feet wide, he raps his knuckles sharply on the tabletop.

  My eyes shift to his abused throat. A wild kaleidoscope of chartreuse, purple, and sickly yellow form a starburst just off-center of his Adam’s apple.

  The little bitch did that.

  Chenille will pay too, by giving it away without a cut for a while. But we can’t stock the fillies in the stable with this Charlotte cunt in the way.

  So we simply move her out of the way.

  “That Harvey is a numpty,” Mom grumbles.

  Sitting at the dining room table, my legs crisscross applesauce, I roll my eyes, giving her a sidelong look. “He’s also my boss.”

  Dad glances at us over the top of his iPad, and his eyes, so similar to my own except for the color, glitter with amusement. “Now, honey, you understand what your mother means.”

  I know exactly what she means. And she’s right. But I need the job, and I love when I’m rewarded for my hard work by making sure another kid doesn’t slip between the cracks.

  Like Calem Morgan.

  Everything in my career is now defined by after Calem and before Calem.

  He was more than a feather in my cap. That little boy was a reward to my soul.

  “Your man couldn’t look at that mug of yours and see that our darling was given the business end?” Mom grunts, smacking the potatoes she’s peeling instead of sliding the blade to remove the skin. Nevertheless, the peels respond to the abuse, releasing from the pale flesh of the potato, then she drops them into the trash can.

  “I think the state of my face is all that saved me from a formal reprimand.” I pop a grape into my mouth and chew, noticing that my face is just a tiny bit less sore than it was a couple of days ago. “Harvey’s kind of a dick, but he loves me,” I add, though that phrasing might be a bit excessive. Or a lot.

  Mom snorts and continues chopping the potatoes into quarters and plopping them into the boiling water in the gigantic stainless pot.

  Dad sighs.

  I’m not sure if my parents are really on board with my profanity. But at thirty, there’s not much they can do with me. Besides, they love that I’m happy in my job, even if it can be dangerous.

  But today, I’ve already taken Mom’s lashing. She’s one of the thousands of people who signed the petition for allowing social workers to carry a gun.

  For all my martial arts skills and knowledge of hand-to-hand combat, I don’t carry a gun.

  But I should.

  He had a gun. The man who hurt me. That was why he could. Every time the shining steel of a weapon comes into my line of sight, a fine tremor begins in my hands and makes its way to every part of my body. The air seizes in my lungs.

  It’s a panic attack. I know that. I can’t stop it, though. Resisting is like trying not to breathe.

  Willing myself to calm down does nothing. The panic still comes, so now I avoid the gun range and all things guns like my life depends on it.

  But the run-in with Ritchie, then this unknown jerk, has me rethinking things.

  And Wednesday, I get back in the saddle again. I’ll have to become the intermediary between Chenille, Tabby, and the state.

  Chenille can’t or won’t protect Tabby. I know she loves her daughter, but she’s a working girl. And prostitute’s aren’t generally in control of their bodies—or their own futures.

  Ritchie will be back. That creep’s a repeater. He’s been with other clients of mine, always preying on the same type of woman. Young, unsure, and dysfunctional.

  “Charlotte.”

  Mom’s voice is sharp, and my chin jerks up. “Yeah.”

  “I called out to you three times,” she tosses over her shoulder while beating the boiled potatoes with the hand masher.

  I can tell by the way she’s getting after them she’s upset.

  Untangling my limbs, I get up and squeeze Dad’s shoulder as I walk by him.

  Mom’s wearing an apron littered with four leaf clovers
, and her silver hair is a wild riot of curls as curly as my own hair is straight.

  I slide my arms around her waist and lay the good side of my face between her shoulder blades, hugging her too tightly for her to actually work.

  She stops her frenetic mashing and covers my hands with her own.

  “I cannot stand to see you hurt again, Charlotte Temperance.” Mom’s breath hitches, and I know she’s stuffing wet sadness deep inside.

  None of us say aloud which hurt she’s referencing.

  I tighten my hold until we’re one body, and suddenly, Dad’s there, his arms going around us all.

  By a quirk of genetics, Dad ended up defying all odds and topping out at six foot, dwarfing mom and I, who are both five foot three. He uses all that height to encase us in his love.

  His lanky arms wrap us easily, and I’m sandwiched between my parents, the steam of the potatoes cloudy with comfort.

  If I were wearing jeans, I would be unbuttoning them. I’m that full.

  Mom shows her love through food, and apparently, Dad and I show our love by eating all of it.

  “I can’t eat another bite, really—I’m dying.”

  “Not funny, Temp,” Dad growls.

  I ignore him.

  My parents look over my face again.

  “I must ask,” Dad says quietly in Korean.

  Mom scrunches her nose.

  “What?” I answer in Korean, already sullen.

  “David, you know I must object. I’m so rusty.” Mom shoots him her I-mean-business look.

  But Dad’s eyes are locked on me, and he misses my mom’s expression. When he’s really upset, he speaks in Korean. English wasn’t his first language. His mother was a Korean immigrant, who spoke only her mother tongue around him when he was little. I don’t hear any discernible accent on his English, though I know some people hear it, Dad just sounds like Dad.

  “You must carry a gun, Temp,” he states.

  I dip my chin, and a length of dark hair sweeps in front of my face like an impromptu shield.

  “The potential for another incident to happen when you place yourself in danger is there.”

  He doesn’t say anything more.

  We all just breathe around the table. None of us touch the pink elephant in the room. But it sits on all our chests, crushing us.

  Minutes slide past.