Lariat

by Marata Eros

  But I don’t know if I want to commit to that either. Heaving another raw exhale, I straighten and walk around the back of the pickup. I jerk the door open, hoist myself inside, then crank her over and roar out of there.

  My head is filled with thoughts.

  Thoughts of Angel.

  *

  I hear the truck start then rumble away from the curb, and I know Lariat has left.

  I breathe a sigh of relief.

  No matter how much I want Lariat—and I’m not so much a fool I can self-delude about him—we’re not good for each other. We’re from different backgrounds.

  I’m thoughtful and conservative.

  He’s crude and violent.

  But he was tender with me. The phrase whispers through my mind.

  I flip the covers back and wince at how sore I am. I guess that’s what I get for screwing three times in twenty-four hours and oh yeah, one time against a wall. Good lord.

  Thank God I get the shot and don’t have to worry about pregnancy.

  I would be a terrible mom, what with the foster system as example. I shove the memories of that man far away.

  Counseling gave me my life back, but sometimes, the body remembers that which we most wish to forget.

  Why Lariat doesn’t make my normal triggers rise, I don’t know. He should. It could simply be that he saved me before anything happened between us. He breached one of the biggest barriers I have. What male has ever just protected me for its own sake?

  None.

  Until Lariat. He saw a man hurting me and couldn’t abide it. When I couldn’t deny our chemistry, I didn’t try.

  I stand, walk to the shower, and turn it on.

  This time, I brush out my hair first and shampoo it twice. I rewash all my parts again, and that delicious soreness reminds me of how Lariat felt as he moved inside of me.

  Powerful, tender, and constant.

  I was so wrung out, I fell asleep with him beside me. Another first.

  However, he and I have secrets. I can tell. A person who has horrors in her background can easily spot it in someone else.

  I know Lariat has seen horrors. They might not be the same brand as mine, but they’re still horrible.

  I won’t ask. I can’t. If I try to get close to him, heal him of his wounds, then I have to revisit my own.

  No fucking way.

  I dry off and wrap my hair in a towel. Then I drape a robe on and cinch it tight.

  I pad across my room, pluck my cell out of my now beat-up handbag, and Google the towing company.

  Someone answers on a Sunday, thank God.

  Do I know it’ll be extra to change out the tires so my smart car will roll to the mechanics?

  Yes.

  Do I know it’ll be double the hourly rate because it’s a Sunday?

  My shoulders tighten.

  Yes, I answer.

  If it was the good old days, I would slam the phone receiver down, but that’s in the past. All I can do now is tap the end button on my phone with an angry index jab.

  My insurance company is going to love this.

  I walk out into the living room and flop on the couch. Normally on a Sunday, I do some crafty thing. As a guilty pleasure, I like to refinish antique furniture or make glass beaded jewelry. But today, my body aches from getting tossed around, and my pussy throbs for one man.

  Lariat.

  A guy who took off after I swallowed his cum and shared the most intimate hours of my life with.

  He snuck off like a thief in the night, without a goodbye or a piss-off.

  He just left.

  A single, scalding tear trails down my face, sliding between the neckline of my thick, terry cloth robe and pooling in the hollow of my collarbone.

  Several more join the first until I’m actually crying. I cry in a way I haven’t since that first time I was raped in my new foster home.

  Somehow, this sadness is worse because the promise of happiness is lost. Whereas the terrible hurts of my past were always what they were—terrible. With Lariat, for a brief and shining moment, I allowed that crack in my armor to widen. He slid in when I was unguarded.

  Lariat gave me hope.

  Then stole it away.

  So that’s how I spend my Sunday, crying over what might have been and trying not to cry over what has already happened.

  *

  I jam the car into neutral and kill the engine. I hop out and jog into the new Road Kill digs. I love the old building Vipe finessed in here, bypassing the county fools and fucks, even letting the girlie greenhouse the old ladies insisted on happen. The place looks tight. And it is. Security was put in by Noose, and quadruple-checked by me, Wring, and Snare. It’s airtight. If fuckers get in, they’re like cockroaches—they ain’t coming out. The thought makes me bark out a laugh because I’m thinking of the Bloods and the Tommys of this world.

  I punch in the code and open the solid steel door then stroll through. It clanks closed behind me, and I survey the landscape.

  Lots of half-naked chicks are sprawled out with some brothers, snoring and in various degrees of compromise. Bras, panties, and the stray cut are scattered around like lost leaves from a tree.

  I kick a random boot as I walk by, enjoying a brother sitting straight up with a shock of hair on one side and a matted-down mess on the other.

  Trainer sees it’s me and gives me the stiff middle finger, one blurred and bloodshot eye zeroing in on my form.

  Right back atchya. I lift my own salute, and with a grin, he flops back down, half on top of some skank-of-the-moment from Saturday night.

  She yelps and jumps up. A nice set of tits jiggles around. One bra strap is looped on an arm, and the rest dangles like a forgotten flag of lace from her shoulder.

  I snort. “Church in”—I glance down at my cell—“five minutes, Romeo.”

  Trainer jerks up again like a half-lit zombie. “Fuck!” he bellows

  The sweet butt lurches up, tits swinging.

  “Huh?” she asks in a daze then promptly falls on her ass, flashing pussy all over the club. Then she turns a little green around the edges.

  Here we go.

  The sweet butt upchucks between Trainer’s legs.

  Fuck me. “Nice,” I drawl.

  “Come fucking on!” Trainer roars, staggering to his feet, puke lacing the insides of his thighs.

  I lift an eyebrow. “Look on the bright side, you got clothes on.”

  His bright hazel eyes latch on to me with clear irritation. “Oh yeah, so motherfucking funny, Lariat.”

  Totally hilarious. In fact, it gives me a funny bone that won’t quit.

  Of course, that lasts about one point five seconds when I remember I have to face Vipe and the brothers about stepping in the middle of a big pile of mob shit.

  Yeah.

  I turn away from Trainer, poor fuck, and walk to the back of the new building. Right next to Doc’s office is our new official church meeting room.

  I slap open the solid core wood door, and the guys are all there, except Trainer.

  “Trainer will be here in a sec. He’s got a little vomit detail to figure out.”

  Wring snorts, giving a rueful shake of his head. “Dumb fuck. Some shit never changes.”

  I nod. No denying that shit. Nobody on the Earth is a better dude than Trainer, but clever is not his middle name.

  “Okay.” Viper levels his pale baby blues on my ass and cracks the gavel. Hard.

  Fuck.

  My insides grumble again for food, loudly.

  Noose raises an eyebrow. I usually eat up, so my growling stomach is noteworthy.

  Gotta fuel my big ass.

  Leaning forward on his elbows, Vipe begins, clearly ignoring my belly issue. “Great job on the last gun take. Really. Now that the Bloods are all scattered to the four corners of the Earth like the cockroaches they are—due to the last mess, courtesy of Wring—we’ve got a bigger slice of the pie.” His watery gaze flows over the brothers, and everyone gives
Viper attention. Not only is he the prez, but he’s seen stuff. War. And he’s got intuition to spare.

  Wring tenses, hearing the reproach in the reference to how he saved a woman tapped to be a Blood whore for that particular nasty gang. The situation ended well, but it could have just as easily bitten the club in the ass.

  Viper lets the comment swell and gain momentum then brings the machete down on my neck. “Now we got Lariat.” He steeples his fingers, looking directly at me.

  “I don’t know what the fuck it is, but you boys can’t seem to keep your finger outta the get fucked pie.” He slaps his palms on the table.

  His eyes are all for me.

  “Lariat tells me his long-lost cousin has come out of the woodwork, and a fancy-schmancy lawyer reaches out, says, ʻgive me money to spring her,ʼ and you meet.” He nods about ten times, rolling his lip inside his teeth and tapping his fingers on the polished wood tabletop. “Then wham!” he roars, and we all grimace as one. “She gets beat by a mob dick. Our brother Lariat gets a load of that noise and determines it won’t happen on his watch.” He turns his attention to me and raises his eyebrows.

  “Yeah,” I confirm cautiously.

  He sweeps his palm toward me.

  “He says ʻyeah.ʼ”

  I scowl.

  “So he saves Miss Hot Pants Lawyer, and it’s a twofer because Lariat saves her then gets the full motherfucking attention of the local mob.”

  Vipe begins clapping, and Trainer walks in right then.

  He starts clapping too. “What are we clapping for?”

  “Knock it off, ya mouth breather. Lariat’s getting his ass chewed,” Noose states helpfully.

  I glare at Noose. “Thanks, ya dick.”

  His middle finger hikes. “Welcome.”

  “Boys,” Vipe warns.

  The silence swells. “Now, tell me this or forever hold your fucking peace. Is this all I need to know? You saved the lawyer broad, and she’s in charge of getting…”

  “Mini,” I answer deftly.

  He nods. “Mini outta the slammer for wasting Hubby?”

  My silence is filled with lies by omission. “Yeah.”

  “Okay,” Vipe says. “We’ll deal with the mob fucks if it comes up. Thank fuck. For once, pussy isn’t involved. That’d complicate shit to death.” He swipes a hand over his salt-and-pepper, closely shorn hair.

  His eyes sweep us. “Now, onto shit that matters.”

  Nooses’s eyes travel my face. He smells a rat.

  My palms dampen.

  Yeah, it’s me.

  Chapter 9

  Angel

  I give a last critical look at my reflection and sigh. Not much I can do with my face. It looks exactly like what it is:

  A woman trying to cover up a beating with a skillful makeup job.

  I wear a long maxi skirt today. There’s no getting around it. I woke up this morning feeling even more beaten up than yesterday. My waistband is very close to the sight where Tommy kicked me. So I wear a looser skirt that’s totally too casual for the office but won’t make me wince every time I turn. I keep forgetting what bruised ribs feel like; it’s been a while.

  At least they’re not broken.

  I grit my teeth, dreading having to deal with Lariat again as I’ll see him at the office first thing to collect bail.

  Oh well, I have to pull up my big girl panties and deal. I straighten my fitted, dark-navy blouse, which perfectly sets off the exact color of the skirt, and slide my feet into ballet flats of the same tone. It’s a very monochromatic look for me. The skirt barely clears the ground. I bought a tall size, so my clothes actually look good on me because they fit.

  My eyes rise to my reflection again. The bruise is dark, but the furthest borders of the contusion are already starting to fade to yellow, like the edges of burning paper.

  A honk blares, and I move to the door so I can peek out from behind the slatted wood blinds.

  A glaring gold taxi waits. The exhaust is a reminder that autumn is here, but only in the mornings. By two o’clock, it’ll be sixty-five degrees.

  That’s why I leave my coat and quickly lift another purse, one not trashed by the beating fun of Saturday, and carefully put it on my shoulder, mindful of my ribs. I open the door, lock it, and stuff my keys in the front pocket of my handbag.

  I walk to the taxi and, for the first time, find myself warily searching the street, looking for Tommy or anyone like him.

  I hop into the cab, and a guy with a greasy baseball cap meets my eyes in the rearview mirror.

  “Where to?” He pops a series of bubbles that snap like firecrackers, and my shoulders tense. “Budget Car Rental,” I answer evenly.

  His olive-colored eyes flick to the rearview mirror. “Address?”

  I answer, and Mr. Personality grunts a reply.

  Five long minutes later, I arrive, pick up my rental car, and make arrangements with my insurance company as I drive to work.

  By the time I hit the front door of my office, I’m in a foul mood. My face looks like shit, my body hurts whenever I turn, and I anticipate having to explain what happened about fifty-two and a half times.

  Or at least I thought I did.

  People are scrambling in the office. Maryanne, the firm’s secretary, is racing around.

  What the hell is happening?

  She sees me and stops short. “Thank God,” she groans, jogging over to me.

  What now?

  “I’ve been trying to reach you.”

  My phone is shattered from when I dropped my purse in the Tommy event, and I feel like an amputee without it. “I dropped my phone; it’s broken.” Probably the first of many white lies.

  She nods, appearing to completely miss my messed-up face and casual outfit. “Your client…” Maryanne begins, her bottom lip trembling.

  My body goes still. I currently have five clients, but only one that I care deeply for, that Maryanne would think to give this reaction about.

  I stab out a guess. “Mini Dreyfus?”

  Maryanne nods. “I’m so sorry.”

  I grab her arm, and she winces, as do I from the too-abrupt movement of my tender body.

  “What?” My voice is a low roar. Blood whooshes in my ears, and the chaos of the room stops as three other attorneys look up at the same moment from various tasks of frantic conversing to phone calling.

  Whenever a client is involved in violence, it turns the office upside down. We’re all well-versed in each othersʼ clientsʼ cases. It’s imperative for the smooth operation of the law office of Jugtner, Cognate, and Anderson.

  “There was an incident at the jail.”

  “Involving her?” I ask stupidly. My hand floats to my throat as my lungs fill with fire. I realize I’m not breathing.

  Maryanne nods, tears filling her eyes. “I’m so sorry,” she repeats.

  “Tell me.” But my voice is listless to my own ears.

  I already know.

  “She’s dead, Angela.”

  My vision grays at the edges, and I give a frantic look around, throwing my arms out. I manage to stagger over to a plush leather bench, which is deeply divided in diamond shapes and anchored by brass studs.

  I fall into it.

  My great whooping breaths sound like a suffocating siren in the office.

  Hands grab me, and I bat them away. Someone notices my face and asks questions with a mouth that opens and closes, but I don’t hear.

  I. Can’t.

  Breathe.

  “She’s hyperventilating. Call an ambulance!”

  No. No 911 for me.

  That’ll be on my record. And I hate hospitals. I didn’t go for this beat-a-thon from Tommy, and I won’t go now. They file reports.

  Reports get you hurt. It’s not a rational thought process, but it’s one that is so real, I can’t breathe past the thought of it.

  My fingertips bite into the suede-like leather. The bulbous brass upholstery buttons heat under my hands as I concentrate on controll
ing my breathing.

  It’s your fault, Angel.

  Wet heat drips down my face, and I cup my hand over my mouth.

  I can’t breathe. My limbs shake, and I start coughing as my body tries to overcome my mind.

  “Get the fuck out of the way if you want to stay unbroken,” a voice like rough gravel commands.

  I swing my face in the direction of the arguing.

  Oh no.

  Vaguely, through the pinholes of my vision, Lariat appears. His eyes find me, and he shoves one of my colleagues. The man flies, landing hard on his ass and sliding a foot across the floor.

  I stand, still can’t suck breath, and fall back on the couch.

  “What did you do to her?” Lariat roars.

  My mouth is opening and closing like a fish out of water.

  Nobody did anything. I just can’t breathe because somehow, I’m responsible for his cousin’s death.

  “Nothing!” Maryanne tries to say.

  But Lariat makes his way to me like a steam locomotive with a depot in sight.

  He grips my shoulder.

  “What’s going on?” His eyes search my face. “Why aren’t you breathing? Has someone hurt you?” His eyes canvas the room with jet-black poison.

  I shake my head, a wheezing thread of oxygen trying to leak through my lips.

  Lariat’s eyes fall to my mouth, and he leans down. His lips are so close to mine that with a hard thought, they would land.

  Then they do.

  He startles me instantly, and I suck in a gasp, collecting oxygen like a starvation victim.

  My fingertips curl on the edge of the patched leather vest he wears, and feeling returns. My face heats, and my breath comes in a whaling rush.

  Lariat leans back, and my eyes widen as I look at a point behind his shoulder.

  In an instant, he slams his elbow back, much more expertly than I’d done with Tommy. It lands hard, taking another male attorney out of the melee.

  “Lariat,” I choke. Then I groan as my ribs shriek at the demand caused by my rapid, deep inhales.

  He spins, standing simultaneously. “Anybody feeling froggy? Gonna land on my lilypad? Go ahead.” He literally beats his chest.

  The other would-be saviors back away in the first smart move of the day.