by Marata Eros
“I want Mini’s killer.”
They look at me. And whatever shit that’s still between Noose and me is there too. But at the end of the day, we fought together, got tortured together, ate together, and banged chicks together. Hell, we’re tighter than brothers. I can say anything. I can say what I want, and they wouldn’t laugh or condemn me.
It’s still fucking hard, though. “And”—I tear a palm over my face, scrubbing it back and forth and noticing I need a shave—“I want Angel protected.”
Wring grins. “You just want Angel. Period. Don’t bullshit us, Lariat. You might be the quietest one. And fuck knows, you’re not into sentiment.”
I quirk a brow at him.
Noose laughs. “No shit.” His grin fades. “But if we’re going to run all over hell’s half-acre, shadowing this woman, give us a reason to.”
“With actual fucking words,” Snare adds.
I talk to my hands. “Angel doesn’t want me.”
“Like that matters how?” Noose asks.
I don’t force chicks. Hell, I would never beg. What the fuck is so different about this one?
“We can’t help who we want,” Wring states with a shrug.
“Okay,” I announce, turning on my engine. “I’m done with the circle jerk. I just wanna make sure Angel’s okay. Whether she wants it or not.”
Snare straddles his seat, threading his hands together and placing them on his head. He pumps his hips. “See”—thrust, swivel—“if she’s okaaaaay.” He tilts his hips and does an obscene fast pump, hands behind his head as if he’s a posing porn star.
“Fuck off,” I say. “And when you’re done fucking off here, fuck off to the end of the street. And when you’re done fucking off there, fuck off to… I don’t know—California.”
Snare doesn’t hear me though because the brothers are too busy laughing.
“All you fuckers.” I dismiss them with a wave, revving my motor over their guffawing bullshit.
Noose recovers first. “I’ll open Pandora’s box. But don’t get pissed with what I find.”
I relax against my seat for a second. “Fine.”
We exchange nods.
Noose turns on his ride, pulls smoothly away, and the rest of us follow.
Snare’s got a twinkle in his eye as if he has a death wish.
But I don’t give him much mind. My thoughts are on Angel and her rejection.
I won’t beg.
However, I’m not above some first-rate convincing.
Chapter 15
Angel
“Holy shit, Ang,” Trudie says, swiping a thick lock of chestnut hair behind her shoulder. “I don’t hear from you for a week, and all this shit happens? Pfft.”
Trudie’s my friend. But more than that, we shared the last foster home together. Not the one where I was molested and beaten for two years, but the next one. The one with a family not too dissimilar from my bio-family that died.
Trudie knows the entire truth. She’s the only person alive who does. But when someone knows a person’s history, she becomes pretty insightful, like now.
“So this biker guy—Lariat?”
I nod.
“He beats the shit out of Tommy, the mob bozo who’s been skulking around, then he gets you home safe and sound.” Her full lips lift at the corners. “Then you proceed to use every surface to sex him up.”
“Yeah.” I look at my hands, not in embarrassment, but because I feel stupid, even though my pussy gives a pleasant throb at the mention of multi-surface sex. “It wasn’t my best decision.”
“I thought you’re a love ʼem and leave ʼem.”
I lift my chin, and our eyes meet. Hers are a true, clear, root-beer brown.
I jerk my shoulder up quickly then let it drop. “Exactly.”
“I’ve only heard about guys when they gave you multiple orgasms. It wasn’t about the love, Ang.”
Never about love. “I don’t love Lariat, Trudie.” I can barely keep the disdain out of my voice.
“Uh-huh.” She’s clearly unconvinced.
I frown. “I met him less than a week ago. No chance to even get to know a person in that span of time.”
Trudie folds her windshield-wiper arms. “I’d say you know him better than most men, Ang. I mean, for you, you’re practically dating.”
I tense. “I don’t date.”
She nods slowly, searching my face, and I look away, unable to maintain eye contact.
“I understand that. Believe me, I know better than anyone why.”
I cross my arms and am smart enough to recognize my defensive posture.
Trudie’s silence is deafening.
She stands suddenly, leaving me to stew, and strolls to her small kitchen.
A shockingly crimson tea kettle is whistling, and she removes it from the burner then pours scalding water over Good Earth tea bags. I’m a coffee girl myself, but Trudie won’t have it. Her house, her rules.
If she smothers the tea with honey, I can choke the brew down. She does, hiking the plastic bear high and squeezing an obscene amount of golden goo inside the cup. The spoon makes beautiful clinking sounds as she stirs the mix.
Trudie walks back, and I admire how self-contained she is. She knows who she is, and after obtaining an English degree, she has decided to become a medical transcriptionist. In her own words, she doesn’t want to be office-bound. She wants to have a nomadic lifestyle and see the world. Have Wi-Fi, will travel.
I look around her apartment, which is decorated in Pier One chic. I love it, though it’s not my thing. Trudie’s colorful and casual personality shows through every pillow and throw rug, even the teacups we drink from. Seashells and sea glass from her travels are piled haphazardly inside a shallow, antique basket on the center of her low-slung coffee table.
Trudie is just renting this small apartment. She’ll be traveling for good when her one-year medical transcription course is satisfied.
I’ll miss her so much. The thought of Trudie leaving makes my chest feel as if a stone of despair is lodged in its center.
As if reading my thoughts, she says, “Take a sabbatical. You don’t have much of a life, anyway.”
I snort, rolling my eyes, but her words stop my self-pity. “Gee, thanks, Trudie.”
She’s right.
“I’m right, and you know it,” she says, echoing my thoughts. “Come with me.” She grabs my hand. “Get lost in life. Stop trying to force living—just be.”
I turn her hand over in mine and trace the lifelines on her palm.
“I can’t. I told you about Mini Dreyfus.”
Our hands release, and she sighs. “I can’t believe the coincidence of this mess. You go to the only living relative your client has and manage to secure bail. Then he randomly saves you from a mob dickhead.”
The whole series of events does have a surreal flavor.
“Then,” she chortles, “you do him—everywhere.”
I actually blush at this point.
“See.” Trudie points at me. “You can’t believe it, either.”
I give a soft shake of my head. “I can’t, but my God, he was magnificent. Is.”
“You care about him,” she presses, studying my face.
I nod helplessly. “I don’t want to. But he’s the first man, besides my dad, who’s ever stood up for me.”
Trudie covers my hand with her own. “Ang, there are men out there who don’t hurt women. They’re all over the place.”
“I can’t tell who is who,” I whisper.
A tear slides down my face and hangs like a tremulous wet diamond. It lands on Trudie’s hand.
“This guy, this biker dude—he’s for real. If he was going to hurt you, he could have. Hell, he stomped Tommy.”
Accurate.
“And he made you feel safe enough that you broke your one-fuck rule.”
My smile slides into place, and I laugh. “So true.” I flatten my palms on my flaming cheeks.
“Begin with him.
Use him if you have to.”
My eyes meet hers. “It’s not possible to use a guy.”
Trudie leans back in her overstuffed chair, which is a rich, deep royal purple. “They’re human beings too, you know. Men. Just because a guy has a penis doesn’t mean he doesn’t feel things.”
“They’re all about the pussy, Trudie.”
“Not all of them. They like what we have, sure. But eventually, everyone wants more—more contact, companionship, you name it. It’s the human state of being.”
I bite my lip. “Maybe.”
“You know what’s really bugging me?” Trudie asks, leaning forward.
I shake my head, dead certain she’ll share, and just that thought makes me grin.
My smile is stolen with her words. “I hate this mob deal that’s happening. How long has it been since you put that criminal behind bars?”
My exhale sounds exhausted, even to my own ears. “Two years. I was fresh out of law school.” I lean back, suddenly wiped. “I was so green, ready to make a name for myself. Clean up the system, justice be served, and all that propaganda.”
Trudie nods, her hands dangling between skinny legs. Her dark rich brown hair falls forward as she plucks her cup off the dainty saucer. She takes a sip and sets it down again.
“So Ricci kills the witness in this gruesome way.”
I shudder, giving a curt nod.
“I’m sorry. I know it’s got to be hard to talk about.”
My silence is answer enough.
“But…” Trudie hesitates as if articulating whatever she’s about to say will make it real. Words have power. We both know that. “Why beat you up? Then say that the godfather guy wants to bring you on board?” Her brows push together. “There’s no way you’d do that, Ang.” Her eyes roam my face. “I know that. They’ve got to. I mean, you’re responsible for putting him away.” She rolls her bottom lip between her teeth. “Then there’s that cryptic comment about your dad.”
Our gazes lock.
“Yeah,” I say softly, positive my uncertainty leaks through my expression.
“Do you think there’s anything to it?”
My heart screams no, but my intellect casts doubt. “Why would he say that unless there was some part that was true?”
“But your dad was chill.”
I nod. “Best dad ever. I had a great childhood before…”
Arnold Jenkins, we both think but don’t say.
“There’s something in all this that links these things together. You’re clearly at the center. And I’m not going to lie, I’m scared to pieces for you.”
My palms dampen at her words, and I fist my fear with my hands. “I fought them off.”
Trudie shakes her head. “You took them by surprise, and they don’t want you dead. They didn’t have guns, right?”
“No guns.”
She pauses for a beat. “Tommy didn’t work you over this time?”
“No.” My lips twitch. “Didn’t give him a chance.”
Trudie’s return smile is wan as she plants her elbows on her knees and props her face up. “I’m stumped, then.”
I unclench my jaw. “They won’t stop.”
Trudie’s eyes meet mine. “No way, they’re after you.” Her face brightens. “Duh.” She slaps her thigh. “Get the police involved.”
“Shit, the police are already involved.” I proceed to tell her about Brad.
Trudie’s sigh is irritated. “Brad just wants to get into your panties. He’s in the middle of finding out about a client’s death, but he takes time out to grill you about Lariat.” She gives a hard eye roll. “Douche.”
My eyes flip to the ceiling for a long moment.
“Don’t roll those pretty topaz eyes at me, Angela Monroe.”
“I can’t help it.” I slap my hands on the couch. “Who cares about Brad at a time like this?”
Her exhale is pure disbelief. “Because Brad’s a turd—a smart one. He’s going to try and make trouble for this Lariat guy, who’s ex-Navy SEAL, right?”
I bite my bottom lip. “Yes, more assassin than anything.” Another angle to worry about.
Trudie’s light-brown eyebrows pull together. “That’s not true at all. I had a cousin who was in. Patriotic group. They’re tight, and they follow orders, go where nobody else will. They saved that young gal a few years ago. Remember?”
I kind of do, it was covered heavily in the media. A girl about nineteen, if I remember right. “But no other survivors?”
Trudie leans forward. “What I’m saying is they’re the best men. They are vetted to fucking death, Ang. If this Lariat guy’s been a SEAL, he didn’t give up their code just because he separated form the Navy. He’s honorable.”
I don’t say anything. Lariat has been crude—rough around the edges doesn’t even cover it. He has also been protective and smart.
Mouthwatering. I can’t forget how he felt moving deep inside of me.
I press a hand to my stomach, trying to quiet butterflies that won’t be shut down just because I will it. The intense sex we shared won’t go away. Those memories aren’t a stain like the ones I bore when I was harmed as a child. They’re fresh, good memories, covering the ones I have such a hard time shaking.
“I told him I didn’t want to be his old lady—property—whatever the hell that means.” I don’t want to be owned by anyone.
I squeeze my eyes shut at the image flashing inside my mind of him owning my body.
I had loved that.
“Oh, Ang, he wasn’t trying to dominate your ass.”
My eyes swing to her. “You can’t imagine what he was like, what he did to Tommy, so quickly, so smooth… casual. As though it was no effort.”
“Like us?” she asks. And I know she is referring to all the hours of self-defense classes we mastered together.
I snort. “He makes us look like amateurs. For one thing, like I think I mentioned no less than twice, he’s six feet four if he’s an inch.”
“That’s one tall mofo.”
“Uh-huh.”
“Must be weird for you,” Trudie the pixie elf says.
I smirk. “It is weird. But great,” I admit quietly. “I feel so sheltered. Protected.”
“Owned?” Her smile matches mine, knowing and happy.
“Yeah,” I say in soft reflection. “He was pretty great.”
“That doesn’t have to be past tense.”
I shake my head as if my thoughts are on fire. “Nope. I can’t drag him into the middle of this. He has a chance to fly under the mob radar if I break off contact right now. I can’t believe I’m even concerning myself over this budding romance when the mob is breathing down my neck. Shows where my small Pooh-brain is at.”
Trudie’s face screws up into a frown, but she chuckles. I notice she doesn’t deny my small-brain status. “I’m just wondering… how did Lariat and his fellow bikers happen to just show up exactly when things were getting scary with Tommy and crew?”
I scrunch my nose, thinking. “I’m not sure. Another fact to get scared over.”
“But the mob scares you worse.”
I nod. “They found me practically at my parentsʼ grave.”
“I bet they’re GPS-ing your ass. Do you have a locator turned on with your cell?”
“No.” I shrug. “Got wrecked with the Tommy thing. I’m currently phoneless. Except.” I hold up my burner phone.
Trudie chews a thumbnail, giving a distracted nod. “I think I’d want to die without a cell and all its smart thoughts. So I don’t have to think, uh-huh.” She’s silent for a few seconds. “I want answers.”
“You and me both.”
She pops off the couch and walks into the small kitchen then opens the fridge and rummages around. She slides out a small glass dish and pops the entire thing in the microwave.
My mouth waters. “Please tell me that is some awesome leftovers.”
Trudie nods happily. A hobbyist cook, she loves to fix food, but she says it�
��s better to cook for more than just one. Usually, it’s as though she’s cooking for ten. Trudie always cooks too much. As skinny as she is, I would think she would want to gorge on her own cooking, but she doesn’t. She has spent too many years going without.
I got raped and beaten, and Trudie got starved.
What a pair we make.
We thought we’d won the lottery when we were placed with the Phillips.
So she obsessively cooks and is still as thin as a rail, and I don’t date men. I just fuck them. Once.
Except Lariat.
It doesn’t take more visits to a psychiatrist to understand that my one-fuck rule is mainly about control. Because I finally can control things.
Trudie walks over. Her hand is encased in an oven mitt, and her fingers are wrapped around the steaming food. She sets the dish down before me on the coffee table, lifts the lid, and lays a fork beside it.
Lasagna covered in homemade sauce with chunks of tender ground beef releases lazy spirals of vapor that swirl from the dish.
“Wait!” she announces and runs to the cupboard, where she snags a stemmed crystal wine glass.
Yum. Wine and lasagna, Heaven on Earth.
“You are a good, good friend,” I state as fact.
She saunters back with a pour that’s more vat than glass. “I’m your only friend.”
Trudie has her own glass, and we clink. “Touché.”
We take long sips, our eyes meeting over the rims. She collapses against the soft chair. “Friends are like treasure. We’re rich, you know.”
I have a piece of lasagna dangling off my fork, but I don’t take a bite. Tears swell my eyes again, and the view of Trudie is suddenly obscured.
“Don’t cry, Ang,” Trudie says in a breathy voice as her own eyes hold a shine. “Because then I’ll have to. And I’ve wasted enough tears on the past.”
I swallow my memories and agony down.
I have this moment—Trudie, good food, and wine. I must be brave. Getting to the bottom of this mess will take time.
“Why aren’t you eating?” I ask between bites, juggling the too-hot spots.
Trudie shrugs. “Eating’s for chumps.”
“You’re too thin.”