Lariat

by Marata Eros

  Two male attorneys stay on the ground, looking up at him as if he has gone legitimately berserk.

  Which is not a completely absurd thought.

  “Angel, who is this?” Brad asks, delicately touching himself as though he’s broken.

  Brad is a consummate actor, as many of us need to be in court. I prefer not to pretend at every other moment of my life and resent his intrusion.

  But I can’t fault him. I had a meltdown, albeit warranted. My face is beaten up, and I just found out my client died in jail. Everything points to things not being okay. Brad was within his rights as a colleague to show concern.

  Just the thought of Mini dying brings a fresh wave of tears.

  I cover my face with my hands. In one fell swoop, I’ve managed to give every bad impression I can come up with to my coworkers. And that is on top of the disaster I survived and Mini’s death.

  “Did he do that to your face?” Brad asks, standing and glaring an accusation at Lariat.

  An expression of disbelief washes over Lariat’s face. “Should’ve stayed on your ass, pussy.”

  Oh my God.

  I slap a palm on the wall and hoist myself to my feet, watching Maryanne dial 911. “Maryanne, put the phone down.”

  Her eyes widen, and she quickly shakes her head. Her eyes peg Lariat as if he’s certifiable.

  But not all things are as they appear.

  “I have this under control.” My voice only shakes a little, and I put my hand against my tender side.

  Brad looks at me. His pale-blond good looks got him places that intelligence failed him. He would be wise to keep his mouth shut if he has any idea of what Lariat is or of the man’s potential.

  Of course, Brad doesn’t. “Maryanne, disregard what Angel just said. This man’s abused her, and she’s obviously consenting, so get the police here now.”

  I walk toward Maryanne with every intention of grabbing that receiver and keeping this little disaster contained.

  But then things go from bad to worse.

  Brad reaches out to me, hooks an arm around my waist, and draws me close. I whimper from pain as his lips press against the shell of my ear. “He’s dangerous. Stay with me until the police come.”

  Lariat’s gaze takes in the hand around my waist, and he smiles. It’s not a joyous smile; it’s predatory.

  My body tenses at his expression. “Let go, Brad.”

  “Absolutely not. He’s deranged.”

  But Lariat is coming.

  I rip out of Brad’s hold and stumble Lariat’s way. He begins to move around me, his eyes intent on Brad.

  From behind, I wrap my arms around his waist, whipping against him from his momentum alone.

  Lariat hesitates.

  “Please,” I whisper. “Don’t.”

  His hands cover mine, and he holds me against him. “Who is this dickhead?” he grates.

  My heart is trying to beat out of my chest. “My coworker. Another attorney.”

  “Who are you to investigate our relationship?” Brad interjects in his cultured voice as if he has the biggest death wish on Earth.

  Shit.

  Lariat gently sets me aside, walks two paces, and neatly punches Brad in the jaw as though he’s swatting a fly with his fist.

  Brad folds, and that’s my cue to wilt on the spot. I cave to my knees on the floor.

  This can’t be happening.

  Then the wail of sirens break up the fun. This is a real-life nightmare.

  Maryanne comes beside me, kneeling. “Are you okay?” But her eyes stray to Lariat, who stands with his fists at his side, circling his neck as though he’s trying to get the kinks out.

  I nod quickly, gripping her hand. “Lariat doesn’t know.”

  Maryanne’s overly plucked brows come together in a snarl of confused flesh. “Lariat?”

  “Shane Dreyfus.”

  Lariat looks at me as the cops start surrounding our building.

  “That’s Shane Dreyfus—the cousin?”

  I nod.

  “Oh boy.” Maryanne’s voice is disheartened. “Did he hurt you?” Her eyes cover every inch of my battered face.

  I shake my head. “No. He helped me.” Saved me.

  Lariat meets my eyes. “I’m here to shell out the cash for the bail.” His dark eyes narrow as he scans the knot of cops with their guns drawn, and he just as quickly dismisses them.

  I’m out of my depth now.

  I do remember that I was worried about seeing him before I got in the taxi. The thought is almost enough to keep the hysterical bubble of laughter contained.

  But not quite.

  How can I tell him Mini is dead? The cops flow in and start screaming that he needs to get down. His knees hit the polished marble floor.

  I flow to my feet in a move so smooth that I surprise myself and apparently everyone else around me.

  I go to Lariat. The cops shout at me to stay away, but I sink to my heels.

  Lariat’s hands are knotted behind his head. “Stay away, Angel,” he says in a gentle but gruff tone.

  “No,” I whisper. I grab him, wrapping my arms around him as if he’s the last solid thing in the world.

  I’ve caused this mess, and now I have two people I’m responsible for.

  I have to make this right somehow. “I’m so sorry,” I whisper against his hair, which is still damp from a shower.

  He gives me a one-armed hug. “Nothing to be sorry for, babe. Life’s a crapshoot, and I won’t be played.”

  I look up at him, shoving every bit of how confused, hurt, overwhelmed, and hopelessly gone over him I am into my gaze. “I’m not playing you.”

  “Neither am I.”

  “Hands fucking up!” screams a female cop.

  Lariat unthreads his fingers, and his heavily muscled arms rise.

  I stand. “He’s okay!”

  Lariat stands too, towering over me, and moves to lace his hands over his head again.

  “Hands raised,” a cop says, moving in.

  Lariat complies, but I can’t let go of him. Just an hour ago, I was counting my blessings that he wasn’t with me.

  “Ma’am, step away.”

  I hold on, my breath a stubborn ball inside my lungs. My heartbeats stall out.

  “It’s okay,” Lariat says. “I’ll be out inside of an hour. Babe, let go.”

  Maryanne touches my back, and I start as though I’ve just woken from a horribly vivid dream.

  She extracts me from Lariat, and they swarm him like angry bees, bringing the giant of a man to his knees a second time.

  I weep.

  Brad smiles.

  And something fragile inside me dies. I can’t name what it is or why it’s there, only that the loss of it suffocates me.

  The police haul Lariat into a waiting squad car, and all I can think of is that he doesn’t know Mini is dead.

  And deep down, I know her death is my fault. Somehow, if I hadn’t been involved, she would be alive.

  Maryanne holds me while I ruin my careful makeup job. Every trace of the beating is revealed like painted wounds on my face.

  Chapter 10

  Lariat

  I lied.

  The club lawyer has me bailed out in about forty minutes. I told Angel it would be an hour.

  I grunt. Pudwackers.

  I probably shouldn’t have tapped old Brad. It felt great, though. He was looking at me as though I was dog shit on the bottom of his shoe.

  Pansy doesn’t even know that I signed up to protect his right to be him. That ignorance must be bliss for the Brads of the world.

  “Your relatively recent honorable discharge coupled with your decorated service made things easy, but Lariat…”

  Our club lawyer pauses as I head out to the truck a prospect ran over here for me. I sigh as I take in the truck, missing my Harley. What I wouldn’t give for the wind at my back and the ride between my thighs.

  My exhale is harsh. “Yeah.”

  God, I want a smoke.


  “You can’t just go into an establishment such as that and start fist oʼ cuffs.”

  I cock my head, barking out a laugh. “What kind of fucked-up expression is that?”

  Al’s lips thin. “What I’m saying is a bar fight can happen a hundred times, and Vincent won’t need to pick up the phone. But one fight in a high-visibility law firm will do it every time.”

  Right. “Gotcha.”

  His earnest expression matches the eyes that search my face. “What were you thinking?”

  That’s the point. I wasn’t. I just saw Angel’s pinched, pale face and realized she was not breathing and that everything and everyone in that office was in some kind of uproar.

  “Got involved in some class A bullshittery.”

  Al’s wispy eyebrows rise, and I am reminded of how much he looks like an owl. Any second, I expect a hoot to plow through those thin lips.

  Putting my hand on the door handle of the truck, I answer the unspoken question. “This is about my cousin, Mini. Chick at the law firm, Angela Monroe, is her lawyer. She got a hold of me, asking if I could front the bail.” I lift a shoulder. “So I met up with her at Garcia’s last Saturday.”

  I wait for a second, and Al nods. Clearly, he knows the place.

  “Anyway, she shows, and things go all right. We agree to meet at her swank office today so I can make bail for Mini.” I spread my arms. “Go to leave the joint, and she’s getting the shit knocked outta her.”

  Now it’s Al’s turn to sigh. “By whom?”

  “Mob lackey.”

  Al actually slides a palm over his face. Twice. “Local family?”

  “Sounds like.”

  “And what did you, in your infinite wisdom, decide was the best course of action?”

  I glare at him. “Kicked his ass. Don’t like men who hurt women.”

  “I don’t either, Mr. Dreyfus, but this introduces a many-layered problem.”

  “Yeah,” I admit.

  “We have a count of—”

  “Fist o’ cuffs.”

  A ghost of a smile hovers then drops. “Aggravated assault. If Mr. Devon does not drop charges, it could go far. After all, he is an attorney.”

  Well, damn. “I assumed he was hurting Angel.”

  His one eyebrow hikes again. “And who is she to you?”

  “Nobody,” I say defensively. Just a chick I fucked. Three times.

  Yeah, I’ll keep that small detail out of the convo for now.

  “I make it my job to know everything I can about each club member. I know everything about you that has any record. Your family history, your time in the service, your accolades, medals, health record—I even know your IQ.”

  I go quiet. So did the navy. It was standard testing for SEALs. They can’t have any dunce caps. I badly hold the snicker in.

  “You’re extremely bright, Mr. Dreyfus. Too bright to be caught up in this kind of affair. I can’t say this to some of the brothers, as Vincent refers to his merry little band of bikers.” His look is sharp, missing nothing.

  I wouldn’t refer to us that way, either. But then again, I don’t talk like this mouthpiece, either. I hate that he knows all that shit about me, but I guess if he didn’t, Al couldn’t get us off the various hooks we hang ourselves on.

  “You’re not going to go and blab all your Lariat intel to everyone, are ya?”

  He shakes his head. “I am only restating the facts. Not even from my perspective. Your father scored off the charts for spatial ability, mechanical, and mathematic aptitudes.”

  God, I need a smoke. I pat my pocket down and remember I’ve got a stale pack in the glove box. Ignoring Al, I jerk open the car door. It shrieks in protest. I twist the metal knob on the glove box, and it pops open.

  Maps and a bunch of other papers and shit fly out. I grab the pack, tap it open, and clamp a cig between my lips.

  I turn on the truck and smack the lighter hard.

  “As did his son,” Al says over the roar of the engine.

  The lighter spouts out, and I press the glowing end to my cig. It ignites.

  I drag deeply, feeling instantly better, and shoot the whole billowy mess into the sky. “So?” I ask.

  Al crosses his arms, and I know when a man is getting ready to dig in his heels and make some kind of point. “Vincent needs you. You’re the backbone of the club. You and Snare. He keeps guard, and you make sure the money is liquid and solid—legitimate.”

  I smirk. “You’re saying I’m too valuable to spout off whenever the urge strikes?”

  His expression is relieved. “That is precisely what I’m saying.”

  “Sorry, Al. No can do. Got a woman involved.”

  He looks pained. “There are over three billion women in the world, Mr. Dreyfus. Why must you choose the one woman that seems to have complicated circumstances surrounding her?”

  I shrug. “Just lucky, I guess.” Besides, I don’t feel as though I’ve chosen anyone. I feel as if fate has just sort of chucked her in front of me, and I have to see it through.

  “Think with your head, Mr. Dreyfus.”

  “Call me Lariat.”

  Al inclines his head. “Bail was easy this time, Lariat, because you’ve managed to fly under the radar, as the saying goes. Until now. But if you keep cropping up in the wrong places at the wrong times, it won’t be easy at all. And those kinds of events will bring unwanted attention to Road Kill MC.”

  Al is putting me on notice. I fling the cig, and it lands on the asphalt outside the police station, smoldering. I grind it with the toe of my deeply treaded boots, killing the flame.

  I walk into Al’s space. Makes him nervous. He pushes his glasses up a skinny nose. His eyes are kind.

  Vipe didn’t hire a dickhead lawyer, but Al is smart, and he gave me the subtlest warning I’ve ever received. But I don’t like it, based on principle.

  “I hear you. But like I said, if someone is hurting a woman, I don’t give a ripe fuck if it’s the president of the United States. He’s going down.”

  Al pinches the bridge of his nose. “Please try, Lariat.”

  I nod. I will. But it’ll be for the club, not because of some lawyer who’s scared I’ll get a spotlight on us.

  He begins to turn away then halts and slowly turns toward me. “There is another matter I almost don’t wish to bring up, but because of the way you… handled some things, I feel as though more knowledge is better in your case.”

  I feel the scowl. I’m in no mood for riddles or other circumspect shit. “Spill it.”

  “Angela Monroe has a checkered past.”

  Really? I’m all ears. “Yeah?”

  He slowly nods. “Juvenile records are normally closed.”

  I snort. “Not to a club lawyer.”

  Al shakes his head. “No,” he says softly.“Sometimes, I follow a hunch up with a bit of green behind it.”

  I get his meaning. He paid someone off to break into sealed records.

  “I wondered why a young woman, fairly fresh out of law school with seemingly everything before her, would be working pro bono, and on cases that seem to involve women almost exclusively. Women with certain backgrounds. There was a commonality there that couldn’t be negated.”

  My heart starts to race. Instinctively, I know I’m not going to like whatever revelation Al is going to lay on me. I pluck another stale smoke out of the pack, crush the empty, hard-top box in my fist, and chuck the ball of trash in the back bed of the pickup.

  The engine purrs at my back, and I hit the lighter again. It’s hot almost instantly, and I light the tip of the smoke then shoot a stream into the air.

  “Angel had a boyfriend that used his fists on her?” I take a second drag.

  I suspected as much.

  “No.”

  I come off the side of the truck I was leaning on. “What?” I realize I’m growling at him, and I try to chill, missing the mark by the width of the Grand Canyon.

  “Her parents were killed when she was younger.�
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  “How young?” I fucking know where this is going, and I don’t want to hear it.

  But I have to.

  “Twelve.”

  “What happened?” I take another drag and hold it as though it’s dope, deep in my lungs.

  “Medical records show an ongoing trend of physical abuse.”

  I release the smoke in a boiling exhale. Sweat stings as it beads on my upper lip. “Sexual?”

  Al dips his chin in a nod so subtle I would’ve missed it had I not been watching. “She was eventually removed from the home. Unfortunately, not before a great deal of trauma was meted.”

  Eventually.

  I swipe my hand across my short hair. Fuck, fuck, fuck.

  “I only tell you this so you know that you’re not dealing with a whole woman. She’s broken. Angela Monroe takes only cases where she can ʻrescueʼ a woman from a similar background.”

  “Angel thinks she’s making a difference.”

  Al nods.

  “Why does this matter to me?”

  Al’s eyes widen, and his palms spread away from his body. “I believed you could make clearer choices.”

  “You saying she’s not worth defending because she’s all fucked up?”

  “No. I only meant”—Al’s head hangs—“that the mob will know these things about her. Easily. They most certainly already do. The violence against Ms. Monroe will escalate as they seek more strident methods of persuasion or coercion. They want something from her, and your involvement endangers too much. Especially since, through our conversation, you’ve made it abundantly clear that you detest violence against women.”

  “Don’t you?” I ask, letting the disbelief bleed through my voice.

  He nods. “Yes. But I’m in no position to stumble across the scenario of a woman being beaten and do anything about it. I could have procured assistance. However, that particular finger of the mob would have done worse to me than what happened to Ms. Monroe.”

  We stare at each other. “You’re saying walk away, let shit play out.”

  “I’m saying it will play out, with or without you as part of it. It would be prudent if you were not party.”

  “I don’t know if I can do that, Al,” I admit softly.

  My memory helpfully conjures up Angel’s face, the golden-emerald eyes, the soft black hair, and the freckles peppering the bridge of her nose.