Lariat

by Marata Eros

  Trainer’s eyes take on that glazed look we all know so well.

  Christ on a crutch. “Angel put away the local godfather, and now he’s after anyone associated with his lockup. Only witness has already been axed.” I spread my arms wide, letting the innuendo sit there. “In witness protection, no less.”

  “Heard he was hanging around by his guts,” Wring comments in a Sahara desert voice, his glacial eyes rising to meet Viper’s gaze.

  He and Noose fist bump.

  It would take a little more than some intestine swinging to get my former SEAL teammates riled—a hell of a lot more.

  “What a colossal mess,” Vipe says then jerks his chin up. “What about your cousin?”

  I shrug. “I’ve got the money—ʼbout cleaned me out. Took a whole year of running guns after getting my share to get that change. Now it’s going to her. But”—I swipe my hand over my face—“she won’t ditch the bail. Maybe Angel’s even good enough at her job that Mini might get free. God knows if I’d been aware—”

  “Husband was a cowardly fuck,” Snare interjects, and I know he’s thinking of his dad kicking the shit out of him. His old lady too.

  “Juries are sympathetic to that shit,” Storm says, entering the conversation for the first time.

  I glance at him, giving an imperceptible nod. True.

  “Now we have to be on point for these mafia bastards to show up and cause trouble. Because as sure as I’m standing here, they will.” Viper is pissed at me and rightfully so.

  I didn’t come clean about Angel, but I didn’t think it would matter. I still fucked with the mafia snake by beating on that little simp, Tommy. I can’t take that shit back and don’t want to.

  Me having sex with Angel just deepens the mess, but it’s still not enough to warrant the mafia snooping around, if—if—I was to walk away now.

  But I can’t. It’s as if Angel’s a magnet, and I’m slowly being drawn toward her.

  “Hello.” Vipe snaps his fingers in front of my face, and I come back to myself, embarrassed as fuck.

  “Thinking about pussy. Wipes the brain,” Snare says unhelpfully. “Never thought our boy Lariat would become a worshiper.”

  Noose snorts. “Knew he’d cave eventually.”

  We stare at each other again, and I have the certain knowledge that the shit between us has to get figured out. And I can see by his expression that he knows it too.

  “We got your back, Lariat. But not coming clean with this bullshit surrounding how you felt about this girl wasn’t good.”

  And fuck. “There’s more,” I admit.

  “What could be worse than this cluster of a fuck?” Vipe isn’t shouting. Yet.

  I glance at Vipe, then my gaze travels the room. The men lean forward, tense.

  “This goes nowhere, and in fact, I hate saying personal shit I don’t own.”

  My SEAL teammates know what it is to confess. We don’t do it unless it’s a means to an end—an important one.

  “Al—”

  “Club lawyer?” Trainer interrupts.

  I nod, getting back to grinding through the gist of it.

  “He says that he looks into everything to do with the club. Bastard knows my IQ, nationality, former rank, and every little pat on my ass I received in the service. And that’s the tip of the intel iceberg.”

  Noose’s dark-blond eyebrows pop, and he slides his jaw back and forth. “Really? I’ll be damned.”

  “He’s a thorough little mole,” Viper muses. “But what does that have to do with anything?” He lifts his shoulders, arms still folded against his chest.

  “Angela Monroe’s got history. Abused woman history.”

  Snare meets my eyes.

  “That why she takes all these free cases as public defender?” he guesses with uncanny accuracy, getting to the meat of the thing.

  I nod. “I figure.”

  “Did ya know?” Noose asks softly.

  My smile is slanted, insincere.

  “Yeah.”

  “You chumps just gotta get complicated pussy. Every one of you. It’s like a theme.” Viper shakes his head. “Goddamned lawyer. Obviously, she’s smart. Not gonna just bang some biker guy, ʼcuz she can have a rich prick any minute she crooks her finger. But oh no. She’s gotta have a former Navy SEAL badass, whose hands are lethal weapons, and who holds the beans for the club. Further, she’s gotta be mixed up in mob bullshit up the kazoo and have a relative of yours waiting in the wings who needs rescuing too. Perfect. I couldn’t make this shit up.”

  “Sounds kinda bad when you say it like that,” Trainer announces.

  We turn our collective attention his way.

  “It is bad, dumb fuck!” Viper breathes through his anger, hands fisted. “All right, ranting won’t turn back the clock, but damn if it doesn’t feel good. You”—he points at Noose—“get a prospect on this lawyer’s ass because she holds the reins to a brother’s family member.”

  “Mini’s the only family I got,” I confess.

  Viper gives a solemn nod. “I know, and I’m cutting you some slack for not playing father confessor and just telling us you were tapping this girl.”

  My shoulders stiffen. “So when do I have to give you the names and phone numbers of every chick I bang?” I’m getting nice and pissed now, a fine clear rage veiling my vision like an opaque layer of red paint.

  His intense eyes land on me and stay. “You don’t, Lariat. Except when your conduct interferes with club safety because you’re not just banging her. You give a shit.”

  And that’s it, isn’t it? I care. There’s no denying it.

  Snare stands, eyeballing me with intense blue eyes. “For the record, as master-at-arms, I sure would have liked the inside info that you just pounded the fuck out of Mob Boy then banged the chick they fingered. Further, you want a repeat performance, right?” His black hair contrasts with that sapphire gaze, seeming to make his eyes stand out like jewels in his face—hostile ones.

  “Yeah, fuck.” I scrape my palm over my face, pegging my hands on my hips and blowing a rough exhale out like a cannon fired. “Thought I could deal.”

  “You can’t when emotional shit’s involved. There’s Mini, and now there’s this broad.” Wring looks at me with a question in his eyes.

  “She’s not a broad,” I say through my teeth.

  Wring’s grin widens. “See? If she was twat-of-the-week, you’d shrug that comment off. But Angel’s not, is she?”

  They all stare, waiting for my response, and I don’t drop my eyes. “I’m not saying she’s old lady material or that I’m throwing down for her, got it?” I glare around the room in a clear challenge.

  “But you’re not saying she’s not, and you won’t, are you?” Vipe asks quietly.

  No, I wasn’t.

  Fuck.

  *

  “Fucking smooth back there, Lariat,” Noose begins without preamble as soon as we clear the door to the club.

  Fuck. Knew it.

  I whirl on him, and he clamps his teeth on his cig, crouching with a shit-eating grin. “Bring it, fucker.” Smoke spirals upward as we square off.

  I want to bring it. Even though I realize in a deep-down space I don’t visit much that I’m unraveling and Noose is the target simply because of proximity.

  I straighten, handling my shit. “No. Not gonna make you my punching bag.”

  Noose snorts. “Fuck off, you couldn’t make me dick if you wanted to.”

  Jesus.

  I turn to punch him, and Wring is just there, hand to my chest. “Cool it.”

  My chest heaves against his palm, and Noose looks over his shoulder, mirth in his eyes.

  I sort of want to kill him.

  “Noose, fuck off with the look,” Wring says without turning.

  “What—me?” His voice is all mock-innocence.

  “I know you’re making your lame faces behind my back,” Wring says slowly.

  A smoke ring rises in the air, and Noose takes another dr
ag. “You’re no fucking fun.”

  “So when has any of this shit been fun?” Snare asks, breaking the tension as he joins the lineup of us moving toward our rides.

  They sparkle like simmering jewels in the late afternoon sun. Wring’s has a custom candy-apple-red paint job, Noose’s is jet black, and Snare’s and mine are also black.

  “Got a bad feeling about this one,” Noose says out of nowhere.

  I don’t like the sentiment. He has the instincts of a psychic.

  I turn to Snare in half-apology, regret seeping into my tone. “Didn’t mean to jack you around.”

  He lifts a palm. “Fuck it. I know now. Would it have made any difference if I’d known before this lawyer got her ass kicked?”

  I shake my head. “Hell no, that pencil dick needed a knockdown. Nothing would’ve stopped that from going down.”

  Snare nods soberly. “There’s not anything anyone could do or say that would keep me from beating the fuck outta a man who laid hands on a woman.” His shrug says simple.

  Fists bump all around. “They’re for fucking, not beating.” Snare is thoughtful, his gaze a million miles away.

  “And a little more than that,” Wring adds with a wink.

  “I didn’t mean nothing by it,” Snare says. “I love Sarah. My kid.”

  “I love Rose, Aria,” Noose says.

  “Are you guys all growing girl parts?” I ask in a gruff voice.

  Noose opens his fly and checks out his junk. “Nope, still got a cock. Use it pretty often. Works awesome.”

  Wring snorts. “Think what our brother is saying is we never hated women. We’re worshipers of their goods.”

  “Amen,” I say, and the guys echo my sentiment.

  “It’s just, before the old ladies, my life was just fine worshipping from afar.” Wring chuckles.

  Snare frowns. “Getting poetic. Fucking chill.”

  “You’re the college boy,” I remind him.

  He throws his hands up with a laugh. “Guilty.”

  Wring lifts a broad shoulder. “Then Shannon came along, and that distance bullshit wasn’t good enough anymore. I wanted, for the first fucking time, up close and personal.”

  The silence is thick.

  “True dat,” Snare says thoughtfully then adds, “I wouldn’t go back to those days.”

  “It was fun,” Noose muses.

  I nod. “It is fun.” I get an image of Angel underneath me, inky hair spread out like a silky fan as I go deep, her half-closed eyes molten gold and filled with satisfaction. “But this is real.”

  Wring snaps his fingers and points at me. “That’s what I mean. It feels like I’m living now instead of existing. I fucking sleep, finally,” he says as almost as a tack-on comment.

  We share a look. The guys have said that PTSD shit we’ve all been saddled with since the war is a fuck-ton better since they settled with their women.

  I don’t hold out hope for that. But I can do what feels real.

  Angel’s real.

  Chapter 13

  Angel

  Initially, it’s the cold that wakes me up.

  My disorientation is complete as I struggle to the surface, groaning at the stiffness in my ribs, face, and arms that have fallen asleep.

  Scooping myself off the hard granite marker, I come to myself in jagged pieces of consciousness.

  I take in the view of the cemetery and realize I fell asleep on my parentsʼ grave.

  Soft light pools along the ribbon of asphalt pathways that wind their way between people’s bodies and the memories they hold.

  Blinking, I sit up straighter as feeling returns in a clumsy surge of pins and needles. I shake my hands out. The movement tweaks my ribs, and I groan.

  Rubbing my bare arms, I move to stand up, sort of sway, and realize I haven’t eaten a thing since my yogurt and peanut butter toast this morning.

  I missed work and came here. I cover my face with my hands, pacing my breathing. I didn’t tell Lariat about Mini.

  Unforgivable.

  My selfishness will hurt people more than my failure has.

  Finally, I lower my hands, excusing myself from my own pity party.

  It’s time to face Lariat. I need to see if I can tuck my tail between my legs and kiss up to Brad so he won’t press charges and make things worse for the man who saved me, just lost his cousin—and with whom I had the best sex of my life

  Twilight seeps its dying light through the vagueness of the remaining leaves on the overhead trees. The red, gold, and orange leaves are licks of flames overhead as the last rays of the sun brush them to life.

  I pull the ends of my navy cotton blouse down and roll my shoulders to ease the tension as I scan the cemetery a second time. I spot the rental sports car several yards away at the bottom of the gentle knoll where my parents lay and walk slowly toward it.

  Before I’ve gone halfway, I glance back at their grave. Sucking in a breath, I let the fortitude from being here fill me with borrowed strength, their silent affirmation building me back up.

  Giving them my back and walking away is always the hardest part of my visit. Away from them and my memories.

  I want to forget I was ever part of a loving family. It would make what happened after their deaths so much easier to reconcile.

  If all I’d known was abuse, then I would be none the wiser. But I hadn’t. My dad had been a local celebrity, getting people off that deserved it and prosecuting people who were criminals.

  My mom had been there as some kind of constant, warm presence that I had come to expect and rely on.

  I don’t allow the panic of their deaths to consume me anymore, but it’s not without cost.

  Instead, I stand in the middle of a graveyard that has gone dim from day’s end. Chill bites at the edges of my warmth, stealing it as I relearn how to breathe. I narrowly stave off the well of feelings threatening to drown me.

  Hopelessness and despair claw their way up my throat, and I physically demand my body to stop the regurgitation of the past.

  In. Out. In. Out. Scalding breaths leap to the surface, burning my mouth with the heat of my memories. Regret and guilt war inside my gut. I lay a hand over my flat stomach, and a painful rumble ensues as though my body just realized how offended it is without fuel.

  Movement causes my head to turn, and a figure trembles at the edges of my watery vision.

  I rapidly blink, squinting and thinking briefly that this is a weird time for anyone to be at a cemetery. Nighttime isn’t popular in graveyards. And most visitors don’t fall asleep on graves. I can’t make the person out perfectly as he hovers at the edge of the forest that borders the cemetery.

  Better get to my car.

  Gooseflesh slides over my bare arms as I stride to my borrowed vehicle and reach for the handle.

  I don’t see anyone as I travel the handful of yards to the car.

  Breathing a sigh of relief and having the key fob at the ready, I hit the button to unlock the car.

  A soft beep whistles in the still night, signaling that the car is unlocked.

  I feel a presence like a weight at my back. The hairs at my nape rise, and I whirl around.

  Tommy is a foot away from me. I have one conscious moment of recognition, taking in the strip of tape running crossways over the bridge of his nose. Even in the near dark, I can see that the skin underneath his eyes is shadowed by bruises.

  Dropping my purse from my left hand and using the flat of my palm, I hit him hard in the nose Lariat clearly broke.

  Tommy grunts from the impact but doesn’t go down. Instead, his hand wraps around my throat and squeezes.

  I cross my forearms and strike wide. Breaking the contact, I suck in a breath, choke on the pain, and lift my knee. I narrowly graze his crotch instead of achieving the direct hit I was going for, hampered by my long skirt.

  He bends over at the waist, and I palm the back of his skull, slamming his face into the same knee.

  Tommy leans sideways and falls ov
er like a tree sawed in half. I sidestep his flailing arms and turn.

  His shuddering, wheezing breaths fill the quiet.

  My eyes dart around the manicured grounds, and I see more men walking slowly across the rolling lawn.

  Oh my God.

  These are men I know, men who watched their mob boss go down, men whose eyes ran over my body in clear lust and anger when I directed the jury to the truth. Justice was delivered by a woman who no doubt looked as though she wasn’t smart and couldn’t hold her own.

  But life had honed me. My foster father’s abuse had fashioned a steel center, and genes had dealt me an intelligent hand.

  However, as the knot of four men draw closer, I realize there’s no amount of smarts that will get me out of this.

  I calmly snatch my purse from the ground, reach inside, and pull the .380 Beretta out. I train it on the man closest to me.

  The whites of his eyes grow larger in the gloom of a night almost claimed by complete darkness. This far from the valley, the light pollution is held at bay, and the only thing to ensure illumination is the feeble light cast by the streetlamps.

  He puts out his hands in a benign gesture that I know is as false as his appearance here. “Tommy was just going to talk to you, Angela. I swear it.”

  Right. Because he did so much talking the other night. “You don’t know me well enough to address me by my first name.”

  His smile is predatory. “You wouldn’t be much without your little gun, Angela.” He bites my name off like a delectable morsel of food.

  “You’re an overly familiar prick, and I think I did just fine with Tommy here.”

  Tommy is busy groaning on the ground, his nose a pancake of ruined flesh.

  The man’s smile fades, and he jerks his chin at two of the three men flanking him.

  “We thought Tommy would be enough of a warning, Angela.”

  I try to split my attention between him and the other three. “I did my job. Antonio Ricci is where he belongs.”

  He frowns, cocking his head to the right. “And you will be under our new regime. The boss wants you, Angela. And what he wants, he gets.”

  I shake my head, and I have another surge of lightheadedness. Go figure. It’s probably from the beatings, revelations, and lack of food.