Iron & Bone (Lock & Key #3)

by Cat Porter

  He brushed my hair away from my wet face. “You’re welcome.”

  I hated that I’d hurt his feelings. I hated the things I’d said. “Boner—”

  He rubbed his hand across my throat, gripping it, collaring it. “I’m right here, baby. But you’ve got to want this, too. You’ve got to choose it.”

  We made a quick stir-fry with strips of pork, red peppers, and carrots, along with a romaine lettuce salad on the side. I had fully expected to find only cans of beer and maybe an empty egg carton in his refrigerator. But no, Boner actually had a few real food supplies.

  We ate at his square kitchen table, me telling him stories about Becca when she was younger, him telling me a few funny stories about when he had been a prospect.

  We cleaned up, and he took my hand and led me up the stairs to his room. Butterflies fluttered in my belly, and it wasn’t the baby. I felt like the proverbial virgin on her wedding night.

  I had packed something special in my overnight bag for this evening, even though I’d almost talked myself out of it at the last minute. Now, I was glad that I had bought it just in case we ever had a whole night to ourselves. I went into his bathroom to change.

  The sting of guilt from seeing the disappointment in his eyes earlier over my reaction to him setting up a nursery for Becca still hadn’t worn off. I was determined to make it up to him.

  I swung open the bathroom door and entered his bedroom.

  “Fuck me. What are you wearing?”

  “It’s called a baby-doll nightie.”

  “Baby-doll?”

  “Mmhmm…” I shifted my hips and toyed with the pink satin ribbon between my breasts that held together the ivory sheer open front apron-style robe that just brushed over my hips. A pale pink thong completed the look.

  “Are you trying to kill me?” he said from the bed where he was lying down.

  “I wanted to turn you on.”

  He groaned, a hand rubbing across his forehead.

  “Do you like it?” I hummed that Madonna song as I straddled his body on the bed.

  “Jill.” His voice was a warning. His hands rushed up my bare thighs, and he ground his erection against me.

  My fingers ran up his chest. “I’m sensing you like this look.”

  His thumb grazed the patch of delicate fabric between my legs, and heat uncoiled inside me.

  “Do you like wearing it for me?” His voice was husky, low. His thumb circled, applying more pressure.

  My breath got shorter, and my hips rocked gently against his. “Hell yes.”

  “You want me, Jillee?” Two of his fingers slid underneath the satin fabric of the panty and dipped up and down over my wetness. “‘Cause I want every inch of you, Firefly.”

  My lids hooded my eyes. I couldn’t form words.

  His free hand pulled on the elastic of my thong. “I like that you did this for me, but you don’t have to hook me, Firefly. I’m already hooked.”

  He took his fingers away, and the stretchy fabric snapped against my skin. I let out a whimper at the mild sting.

  “It’s icing on my already frosted cake.” He sucked on his fingers.

  “G-good.” My voice shook.

  He ripped off his shirt, and I helped him pull down his pants, tossing them to the floor. Sheer, blissful nakedness. His natural state. I loved his body. Lean and muscular, angrily inked, taut, and ready.

  “Get back on me and turn around. I want to enjoy my present.”

  Still kneeling on the bed, I turned around and straddled him again, shimmying my tush at him.

  He muttered a few choice expletives under his breath, a hand gripping my ass cheek.

  I peeked over my shoulder. He stroked himself with one hand. I took in the sight of him, his jaw slack, the muscles of his chest and arms straining as he rubbed his thick length, his eyes on me. My knees weakened, my heart beating wildly in my chest.

  “Back up over me. Get close.”

  I turned around again and inched back over his chest, my ass in the air. His fingertips traced patterns over my skin.

  He let out a low moan. “What did you do down here?” A fingertip grazed through my little line of curls. “Fuck,” he growled, his hand cupping me.

  Score for the airstrip.

  Two of his fingers slid inside me, curving just where they should, stroking rhythmically. I cried out in return, the ability to form words beyond me as his fingers explored and beat out a rhythm, calling me to a primal ritual. I leaned over and nuzzled his stiff balls.

  “Give me that pussy,” he said, his voice rough.

  I moved further up the bed, and his tongue lapped at me. I jerked in his hold, my head falling forward, and I cried out at the lavish, sensual caress of his lips, the pressure and suck of his mouth. The pleasure was so delicate and so intense, all at once. Suddenly, his mouth turned savage, and I gasped loudly, my hands curling in the sheets, my body on fire. His hands held me in an urgent, painful grip, my breasts brushing the coarse hair on his legs. I felt shameless and wild and vulnerable all at once.

  His fingers left me and rubbed my throbbing clit, punishing me with a fierce wall of pleasure. “Want my cock in you now.”

  There was that savage impatience. A buzz of adrenaline shot through me.

  I lifted off him, turned, and straddled him again, sliding his cock inside my wetness. “Yes!” I rolled my hips over him again and again, my hands planted on his chest.

  I held his burning eyes as I found my rhythm, steadying myself on his chest. His hands slid over my undulating ass, keeping us close and tight together.

  “Fuck me, Jill. Fuck me good, sweetheart.” His voice was hoarse.

  “I want to…make you…come…hard,” I said on several gasp-filled breaths.

  “Always do for you, Firefly. Only you, only you.”

  His one hand grabbed ahold of the tie of my sheer lingerie and tugged on it. The material fell open, exposing my swaying breasts. He took one in his palm, roughly kneading it. I moved faster over him, the sensations leading me on, his hungry gaze chasing after me.

  “Firefly,” he breathed, his corded neck straining. “Baby.”

  I was lost in my rhythm, lost in the force of my body’s response.

  The fingers of his one hand went into my mouth, and, grabbing his arm, I sucked on them for dear life. Their salty taste, the thick skin made my need more sharp, more fervent, more desperate.

  He thrust into me harder. “Fly, baby.”

  I flew, and all the bright pieces that were me were his to throw across his night sky and capture whenever he wanted.

  “ARVIN HIDES THIS SHIT, WILLY. I’m telling you. I have never seen this kind of range of early Indian and Harley parts. Fucking unbelievable.” I opened up the back of my truck.

  A knowing grin lit up Willy’s face. “The man certainly has a very particular supply.”

  “I think he only likes to sell to Willy,” Butler said, laughing. “I bet he hides it from everybody else.”

  “There is that, too,” Willy said, settling on his bike, putting on his gloves. “He sure doesn’t give us any discounts, but I’m still grateful.”

  “So am I.” I shoved a box of vintage headlamps into the truck. Butler and I loaded my truck with the rest of the engine parts and the rusted frame we’d just bought from Arvin Hooper, an Army veteran buddy of Willy’s who lived outside of Spearfish.

  We were working on a special made-to-order bike and had contacted Arvin. Sure enough, he’d had a few prime parts we were after. We’d also found some specialty items Lock and I had wanted for the shop.

  Willy adjusted his goggles, his lid fitted over his thick gray hair brushing down his neck. “Let’s get on home.”

  I stared at him as he gunned his engine.

  In my first years as a Jack, Willy and Wreck used to say that very same phrase when we’d be on the last leg of a long run. To me, it had always been a throwaway saying, old-fashioned, a cliché. I’d be exhausted from hours in the saddle, from too much p
artying, only wanting a couple of beers to knock me out and a real bed to collapse on. I’d roll my eyes and groan when I’d hear it come out of their mouths.

  Looking back on it, it was the way those two used to say that phrase along with a quick, purposeful glance at each other, each and every time. It was as if they had known something the rest of us didn’t.

  Those words had never sounded so good to me.

  I raised my chin at Butler. “Let’s get on home.”

  Butler got into the passenger side and slammed the door shut.

  My phone rang. Dawes. “Hey, we’re just leaving.”

  His sharp intake of breath over the line made me still. My hand clutched the door of my truck. “Dawes?”

  “You gotta get back quick, man.”

  “What is it?”

  “Mindy. It’s Mindy.” His voice was low, almost choking.

  “What about her? She causing problems again?”

  “No. Someone shut her mouth for her.”

  “What?”

  “We found her this morning on the back gate off the track.”

  “What are you talking about?”

  “We found her body hanging off the old gate. There was a crowbar on the ground, covered in blood and—fuck, it’s bad, man. It’s bad.” His voice shook. “Jump is freaking out.”

  My eyes squeezed shut. “Where do you have her now?”

  He cleared his throat, sniffing in air. “Dealing with it. What the fuck is going on, Boner?” Dawes whispered hoarsely.

  “Do what you got to do. We’re just leaving now.”

  “Okay, okay.”

  I got us back to Meager in record time.

  “Holy fuck,” muttered Butler at the photo Dawes had taken of Mindy’s body hanging off the fence. An unwanted doll ditched in the garbage teetering on the edge of the can.

  Her face was unrecognizable, her long brown hair matted with blood, and her clothes were ripped and soaked in red, her body broken.

  I deleted the photo.

  “This isn’t Catch. He’s crazy, but he isn’t vicious like this,” Butler said. “This is just fucking over the top. You’re gonna have to work hard to convince me this is him.”

  “It’s not him,” I said.

  “Well, it’s a fucking message. Someone’s watching us. Are they fucking with Jump? The whole thing with Alicia put Mindy on the map.”

  “She was leaving town,” said Dawes, his arms wrapped around his middle. “One of the girls said Mindy had already packed up her shit at her apartment and was planning on leaving this weekend. Just like she had been told to do. What the fuck?”

  I stared at the crowbar at my feet in the grass, my eyes following the long line, the curve of its head. I recognized the incisions, the notches on the lower left edge. My hands flexed on instinct.

  It was my crowbar.

  My piece of iron was covered in so much blood and bone—and not just Mindy’s. Etched with marks from my many early successes. I had left it behind in Denver, a wild, stupid gesture. A fuck-you to Inès. A fuck-you to Alejandro Calderone.

  And now, he was fucking me right back.

  “PERFECT,” I murmured to myself.

  Six new T-shirts for Boner, washed and ready to be worn. Three black and three charcoal-gray T-shirts, each one bearing a different graphic design—discreet, hip, nothing too crazy trendy. One had Johnny Cash’s name and guitar on it in a faded print. Two of them sported Harley-Davidson graphics that I’d picked up from the store in Rapid. One was from his favorite local craft brewery. The other two were simple V-necks that were a fitted cut, close to the torso, a little sexier than the usual boxy, loose fit. I folded them, smoothing out the fabric on each one, and made a neat square pile on his bed.

  Boner had given me a key to his house so that I could drop off a few things, if I wanted, to make life easier for us. Being able to spend time together was a last-minute thing usually. I’d brought over a small package of diapers, a toothbrush, underwear, the baby-doll nightie, and a pair of comfy leggings and a T-shirt to keep handy here in his room.

  I went through the drawer with his T-shirts and took out the really old, faded, and worn ones. At least ten of them. I planned on putting these in a corner of another drawer, just in case he didn’t want to part with them. I knew better than to dictate fashion to a man like Boner who seemed only comfortable in a certain zone. I wanted him to find the new ones in the morning when he went to get dressed, and hopefully, he’d enjoy the surprise.

  On the whole, his clothes were arranged neatly. It was pretty darn impressive. I kept all the things I’d brought over tucked in a tote bag in his closet. I didn’t want to make any sort of mess or create visual disorder in here.

  Something hard slid against the wood of the drawer, and I peeked over the edge of it. A small photograph in a simple brass frame. A woman and a boy with very short hair. Oh, those eyes. They both had the same incredible large, luminescent green eyes.

  Boner and his mother. It had to be.

  She was beautiful. Dark hair, slender face, pale skin. She stood behind him, her arms wrapped over his chest, her face pressed against his. Same heart-stopping, sincere smile. A huge smile. Boner’s arms were raised and wrapped around his mother’s neck. Eager for her touch, delighting in her affection. He was gloriously happy.

  My ribs squeezed. What had happened to this boy?

  It wasn’t that Boner didn’t smile or laugh or enjoy himself, he did. Outwardly, he seemed very content with his life, but this sort of beaming, excited joy was not the man I knew. The man I knew was careful, guarded, his soul reined in, not on display. Here, the joy was positively electric.

  I chewed on my lip. I was supposed to be putting clothes in his drawers, not inspecting his personal items.

  I put the frame back in the bottom of the drawer, and my fingertips brushed soft suede. I pushed back the shirts, and pulled out a black suede pouch with small round bead-like shapes inside it. I tugged opened the silken drawstrings on the pouch and drew out a long necklace with a series of dark red stones. I held it up, and two chains dangled in the air before me. It was broken. This was a Roman Catholic rosary. But there was no cross pendant hanging from it. The cross was missing.

  I fingered the end of the rosary. Was it his mother’s?

  There was a violence in the missing cross and the broken chain. My imagination was running away with me. Maybe this was just some trinket he’d picked up somewhere?

  But no. I’d seen his house. There were no frivolous or sentimental objects, no decorations anywhere. Boner wore jewelry, but it was always silver chains or leather cords with small charms like a snake or his One-Eyed Jack skull. This was an authentic rosary, too, not one of those trendy-necklace type ones.

  I tucked the rosary back into the pouch.

  “What are you doing?”

  I pivoted at the sound of his voice, my lungs pinching in my chest.

  “Oh! I was—I did some laundry, and I was just putting it away for you.”

  He filled the doorway, staring at me, his hair full around his face ending just past his shoulders, his dark brows forming a ridge over those green eyes, his lips pursed under his mustache.

  Heart-stoppingly beautiful. Heart-stoppingly threatening.

  “Laundry?” His deep voice snapped at me. “I don’t want you doing my laundry. You don’t have to do that shit for me. Been doing it all my life. Don’t have to have a woman do it for me.”

  “Actually, I, uh, went shopping, and I got you a few new T-shirts. I washed them, and I was just putting them away for you. I wanted you to be surprised when you got dressed.”

  “Oh. ” His lips twisted, his jaw set. “Thanks.”

  “You’re welcome.”

  “What’s in your hand, Jill?”

  Shit. The suede pouch was in my grip. I held it up. “I found this. I’m sorry. I didn’t mean to—”

  He quickly closed the distance between us and plucked the pouch from my hands.

  “I’m sorry
.”

  “It’s fine.”

  “Bone, it’s obviously not fine. You’re—”

  “I’m, what?”

  “Is it your mother’s?” I asked. “The rosary?”

  His face darkened. “Yeah, it was hers.”

  “It’s missing the cross.”

  His eyes leveled with mine, and I braced. “I ripped it off her hands in her coffin, and the cross got torn off.”

  My breath caught.

  That sharp-edged honesty, that unmistakable frankness was as an iron bell clanging loudly. An ugly, jarring sound, but it was truth, and it had to be told.

  “The stones are lovely. Are they garnets?” I asked.

  “Yeah, garnets.” His shoulders dropped. “She loved that deep red color. It was her favorite.” He tucked the pouch in the drawer and slammed it closed.

  “What was your mother’s name?”

  “Maria Angelica,” he said slowly.

  The slight lilt in his pronunciation skipped through me.

  “That’s beautiful.”

  “It is. She was beautiful, too.”

  For a moment, his face had a faraway look to it, his tired gaze drifting before returning to me. The need to wash the sorrow off him came over me.

  But how?

  His face remained grim. I’d pissed him off with my questions. I shouldn’t have been such a Curious George.

  He shifted his weight. “I was on my way to see you. Sy and Bear are gonna be watching over you. I’d put you on lockdown, but that isn’t going to work too well with Tania being out of town again. No daycare or classes for Becca for a while. You don’t do any driving. The boys will. You need to take Rae somewhere or go to the supermarket, call Alicia. She’ll organize something with the old ladies.”

  “What is it? What’s wrong?”

  “Just do as I said.” His voice was firm, cold.

  “I will.” My lungs contracted. “But—”

  “You need to trust me.”

  “YOU’RE NOT HUNGRY?” I stared at his full bowl of black bean chili I’d made for us. It was untouched, the melted grated cheddar cheese on top looking more like melted plastic.