by Marata Eros
Her look is sharp. “And you’re scared of dating men.”
Suddenly, my fine meal is not as satisfying, and I push the colorful dish away with a quarter of the food remaining. I set the clear glass lid on top, and it instantly fogs.
“I’m sorry,” Trudie says, noticing my diminished appetite.
“It’s a struggle.”
Our gazes lock. “For both of us,” she admits.
I nod. “We do the best we can. I don’t like to see you go hungry, though.”
“And I don’t like to see you deny yourself a chance at happiness.”
I reach for Trudie at the same time she reaches for me. We stand, coming together in an over-the-coffee-table hug. She’s so petite that she practically disappears in my arms.
Trudie squeezes me tightly, despite her size. “I love you, sister.”
“I love you more,” I say and mean every word.
A knock sounds at the door, and we pull back from each other. I look at her questioningly.
“Don’t know.” She unwraps herself from me and moves toward the door.
I have a sudden thought of the mafia and gracelessly stumble out of the tight confines between the couch and table. But Trudie is already opening the door.
Lariat fills the space.
His eyes meet mine, and it might have gone differently if he’d just been calm.
But Lariat is not hardwired that way. He bangs open the door and moves to enter Trudie’s place.
“No!” I scream, anticipating Trudie.
And Trudie doesn’t hesitate. My partner in self-defense… defends.
And things go from bad to worse.
Chapter 16
Lariat
Just because I stopped being a SEAL doesn’t mean my heart doesn’t stay one.
I claim that man forever—the one who fought for his country and bleeds for it after my duty was done.
The bike rumbles between my thighs in warm comfort as I follow the tracking attached to Angel’s weapon.
That state-of-the-art techie shit is courtesy of Noose from a while ago. Never used one of those before and didn’t think I would need to. Until Angel.
Now I’m following her around like some pussy-whipped stalker. I’ve been dismissed and handed my walking papers. Angel has made it clear she won’t even pretend to be my property to save her own skin.
It seems as though she has been doing her own defending for a long time.
I pull up in front of a 1990s ritzy apartment complex that looks dated but well-maintained. It has the unfortunate luck of being on the east hill of Kent, where valley meets cresting hill. The development is adjacent to Valley Keys, an old subsidized collection of homes from the 1950s and 60s. Originally intended to help poor families, the complex now houses every immigrant living off our welfare system that it can pack in.
My lip lifts in disgust. Not because my ass is so lily white and perfect. But because I defended every person who lives in our country, even those who will never know the sacrifice or appreciate it.
They sleep, while I don’t. They listen to sudden, loud noises and don’t feel as if their gut just became one with the ground.
Maybe their brains process fucking sharper because they don’t have the muddled and sometimes incoherent shit I sort through day by day. But I was me for hours while I was with Angel. She brought me back to whatever fucked-up center I owned before the sandbox. She gave me the gift of clarity for a few hours.
I want more than a taste of that, more than the brief appetizer we had at her place. I don’t want the thought to form, but it does without my permission: Maybe I even want something more than sex.
That realization scares the fuck out of me—the want of more. But I’ve never been a coward. And I’m willing to fight for the chance, even if she gives me that bullshit line about how we’re not going to work.
We worked so well, it shook the foundation of my world.
I climb suspended steps made of aggregate concrete, tiny pebbles and agates embedded in the treads, and hike the staircase toward where that signal takes me. The GPS device is slotted at the bottom of the sliding clip of her piece. It is designed to be integral but not interfere with discharge or be affected by heat.
Perfect and brilliant.
I move to the door that has pitted brass numerals. It reads 203.
Spreading my fingers on the wood door, I lean in and press my ear to the panel.
I close my eyes and slacken my jaw, hearing the modulation of feminine voices.
One in particular, I recognize, and my cock gives a confirming nod.
Nice.
I rap hard on the wood, and the voices stop. I step away and raise my hand, ready to pound on the door a second time.
The solid wood door swings wide, and a tiny chick clutches the edge. She has light-brown eyes and dark rich-brown hair, which is fairly long and circles her shoulders.
Needs a food funnel, skinny as fuck. I drop my assessment. My eyes travel the room, and I see Angel attempting to move between crammed furniture, coming toward the door on more or less of a race pace.
A grim smile plasters my face, and I flat-palm the door wider. With a smack of my palm, it bangs off the wall.
We’re getting crap figured out, regardless of her little friend as audience or whatever bullshit story she’s making herself believe.
We got something, something rare, and I want to explore it.
I want Angel. And like some pussy, I want her on almost any terms she’ll have me.
Then there’s an elbow in my gut—a precise, well-thought-out maneuver.
I was not expecting that shit. I double over and snap my hand out like a striking snake, grabbing onto a slim forearm by total instinct.
“No!” Angel shouts.
Not gonna hurt your friend, I have time to think. Then her knee hits my balls like a club to the face.
Nausea roars, and I reevaluate breathing.
I sink to my knees and haul her down to the floor with me. With the flat of my palm and what remaining oxygen I have wheezing through my nose, I hold the friend still, my palm to her chest.
She tries to take out my eyeballs with her thumbs around where I’m pressing her chest to the ground.
Fuck me.
“Trudie! Quit! It’s Lariat.”
Angel shoves me, and I fall on my ass in the most shameful display of getting my clock cleaned that I’ve ever had in my life. My dick feels like a swollen mass of agony.
Tough Navy SEAL, taken down by a one-hundred-pound female.
Jesus, what a nightmare.
“What?” she shrieks, and I think she has deafened me as well as trying to kill chances for future children.
“It’s Lariat,” Angel repeats, glaring at me, and my cock tries to work through its current anguish to respond.
Amazing.
I blink at her, still trying to speak. Finally, I manage with a rasping choke of words. “Coming by to check on you.”
“Well, don’t,” she says. Half rant and half fear make her words like knives.
They slash and chop at my already wounded male pride. I look down at the friend.
She opens that pouty mouth. “You could’ve just said something like, ʻhey, I’m Lariat,ʼ but noooo. You just he-man in the door and go after her. Kind of a stupe move, you know, being as how Angel’s just told me the mafia is on her tail. Duh.”
I blink again. “I’m not the mob, and holy Christ, you think you could just not attack someone just because they open the door?”
A smile tweaks her lips, and I start to smile too.
“Yeah, six foot oh my God of muscled caveman bursts through the door, and I just, I don’t know, let him waltz in? Do you think I’m dumb?”
Insane broad. I shake my head. Dumb is a no-go.
She starts to laugh, and I join in then groan at the disaster of my junk. Fucking kills.
Before long, Angel is shaking her head. “You guys, God.” Her voice is shaky, and she sinks to her
heels, knees bent. “Trudie, he’s right. What if it had been someone else?”
She doesn’t say Tommy’s name, but it’s in the air between us.
“You didn’t spend a lot of time on Lariat’s looks,” the friend comments slyly.
My eyebrow pops as my stomach finally begins to quiet. I might not spew chunks after all. I give Angel a questioning stare.
She’s blushing so hard, her freckles look as though they’ll burn off her skin.
“Trudie of the big mouth”—Angel sweeps her hand at Trudie—“this is Lariat.”
“Of the big cock?” Her light-brown eyebrow arches, and a laugh bursts out of me.
“No shit?” I jerk Angel onto my lap and smooth her unruly hair away from her face, cupping her cheek in my hand. “You’ve been talking about my cock while the mob is after you?” I can’t keep the laughter out of my voice.
“Trudie obviously didn’t hit you hard enough,” she grumbles, but nothing can take away my pleasure in knowing that with everything going on, she’s still thinking about our time and the parts of me that gave her pleasure.
“She hit me hard enough.” I slant a nasty glare Trudie’s way. She would make other guys shake in their boots.
Trudie kicks her chin up and gives me the bird.
I’m quiet for a second, studying her defiant posture. “I think I like her,” I comment slowly.
Angel’s lips flatten as she clearly tries to contain her laughter. “Yeah, I’ll keep her.”
And just like that, the communication opens up. If only it would be about the shit I want to resolve.
*
I stifle a groan as I shift my weight on the dainty couch, my nuts dully throbbing. I look the place over, noticing a shawl-type thing on the back of a purple chair. Is that beaded fringe? I shake my head.
Place is hippy hollow.
“So, let me get this straight,” Trudie begins, and I plant my face in my hand.
“You’ve put a GPS chip on Angel’s gun?”
I yawn. “Yeah.”
“Am I boring you?”
I’m not much of a talker, more of a doer. I’m not getting dick for sleep either—running on fumes. “I want to take Angel somewhere safe until this mob shit gets handled. I’m looking into how Mini was killed. Got a man on the inside. We’ll know what’s what in hours.” I lean back, biting the inside of my cheek against the pain. Bitch nailed me.
I frown. I guess I’m still pissed at getting handled by a chick because my guard was down. I looked at the packaging and dismissed the girl.
Won’t happen again.
I ask myself for the second time—where were both girls taught self-defense?
I adjust my junk, and Trudie coughs out a laugh. “You a confident man, Lariat?”
“No,” I spit. “My dick hurts because you kneed me in the nuts.”
“God, he’s choice, Ang. You know how to pick them.”
“Who’s saying I have?” Angel replies in a cool voice.
God. Damn.
My face swivels to her. “You’re making me crazy. I don’t give two fucks and a shit if Trudie listens in. We have something, whether you try to rationalize it or not. I tried to offer you the easiest protection I could. You refused.” I make sure every bit of how stupid I think that decision is bleeds into my tone.
By the pissed-off look washing her face, I hit the mark dead-on.
“I think everything’s linked, and I know those mob cocksuckers were at the graveyard. I want to know exactly what was said. If I’m informed, I can help. Not when I’m a mushroom and fed shit in the dark.”
Trudie snorts, but Angel is behind that mask again—the one I figure she wears when she’s not interested in doing emotion.
Great. We got that in common.
“I didn’t get bail arranged fast enough. Mini’s dead.” Her voice catches, and she draws a shaky inhale.
“It’s not your fault,” Trudie and I say like clones.
Angel’s smile is watery as her eyes move between us in clear denial. “Maybe, but it doesn’t change that it happened.”
I stand, towering over where Angel sits—as far away from me as she can get. As if she’s scared what might happen with closer proximity.
I hunker down beside the glaring violet chair and wince as my balls shriek against the denim. “Listen, just humor me. Take a few days off.”
“I have court,” Angel says, refusing to look at me.
My eyes run over the barely-beginning-to-heal bruise on her face. “I don’t care if the president’s coming to visit.” I curl a finger underneath her chin and force her to look deeply into my eyes. “I want you safe until we can figure out what the fuck is going on.”
“Why?” she whispers. “Is this some kind of guilt thing because of Mini?”
I shake my head. “It has nothing to do with Mini.” I pause for a second, reconsidering. “Everything.”
Angel’s pitch-black eyebrows pull together. “Which is it? I’m confused.”
“I was more than happy to help Mini—to know that she was alive. But I’m not responsible for her. I never got the chance to be.”
“And you’re not responsible for me, either, Lariat.” She pleads for understanding with her eyes, begging me to bow out, to let her go.
Instead, I place her hand against my heart, knowing the thing’s trying to knock out of my chest.
The skin of her hand warms me through my cut.
“Tell that to me here,” I say in quiet command.
Angel’s eyes dip to where her hand lies above my racing heart. Then her gaze flies up to my face.
I’ve never felt braver or more vulnerable.
I watch her expression crumble, warring with the need to stay distanced, to not believe that anyone could ever actually give a shit.
I lift her from the chair and set her on my lap.
“I can’t believe you,” she whispers against my skin.
“You don’t need to,” I reply quietly, my lips on her throat. “I believe enough for both of us.”
Trudie’s loud voice shatters the moment. “If you break it off with this stud, I’m going to personally take time out to kick your ass too, Ang.”
Angel’s fingers crawl up my chest, and her arms gradually encircle my neck. She lays her cheek on my chest.
“I can’t fight you both, I suppose,” she admits, and I hear the smile in her voice.
I shake my head. “Don’t try.”
Trudie laughs. “I like him.”
“Me too,” Angel whispers, too low for her friend to hear but loud enough for me to have hope.
Chapter 17
Angel
“That’s how you keep finding me?” I drag out my gun and give it a thorough inspection, but I can’t find the GPS microchip.
Lariat smirks. “Figured you were paranoid enough after Tommy’s bullshit that you’d hang onto the piece.”
I slide my gun back home inside my handbag and sigh. The exhale feels dragged out of me. “Yes, you were right.”
“Hey, stud.”
Lariat turns to Trudie.
She snorts, folding her slim arms. “Like the way you take orders.”
He glowers.
I snicker.
“Can’t win with you two broads.”
“Broad, huh?” Trudie steps forward, and Lariat retreats a half step.
“Scared?” she asks.
A smile ghosts his lips. “Cautious. You got a set of balls on ya, and I’m not hurting a woman.”
“Hmmm.” Trudie taps her angular jaw with a nail. “I think Ang is good here for the moment. You can take all your leather and”—she waves her hand around—“testosterone overload out of here. Get back with us when you find out about her client.” Trudie’s light-amber eyes softly glow as she pauses before speaking in a more subdued tone. “Your cousin.”
We’re all silent at that, and I struggle not to cry again. Seems as though I’ve been drowning in a river of my own grief lately.
I
haven’t had a moment’s pause to think straight.
Lariat puts his hands on his hips, staring Trudie down. “I agree with the part that Angel is safe here—for the moment. But the mafia’s not going away.” His stare lands on me for a moment then returns to Trudie. “We won’t know what we’re dealing with until we find out why my cousin was murdered inside the prison.”
“I don’t think Angel’s client’s murder is related to the current catastrophe of the mafia.”
I shake my head. “Tommy was busy nursing his wounds on the ground, but one of the flunkies said my dad was involved with Ricci.”
“That’s bullshit. You’ve told me everything you could remember about your folks. Daddy was a golden boy. Your mom was Martha Stewart.”
My laugh is harsh as I shrug. “Yes, they were.”
“Go to the police. Make a spectacle,” Trudie pleads.
“No,” Lariat and I say together then exchange an uneasy glance.
“You go first,” I tell him, wondering what his reasoning is.
He drags a large palm over his face, and I notice the darkened skin underneath eyes as black as pitch. “Don’t know what boy in blue we can trust. Who might be on the payroll.”
“Why do you figure that?” Trudie asks innocently.
Lariat’s lips twist sarcastically. “Call it a hunch.”
Plenty of MC people pay off cops, I speculate.
Lariat’s inky eyebrows rise, and he snorts out a laugh. “I’m not real popular around there right now.”
“Because you punched Brad,” I state dryly.
Trudie’s eyes go wide. “He did?”
I nod.
“Love that. Brad is always such a condescending nubby dick. Loves himself. Probably breaks his neck passing by mirrors.”
“Nubby dick?” Lariat’s laugh is abrupt. “I got the feeling he’s his own groupie.” He frowns. “I thought Brad was doing something to Angel.”
“He wasn’t. Brad’s just worried about me,” I admit, not tacking on the because I’m with you part. I neither confirmed or denied that with Brad.
“Brad’s a sleaze in a suit,” Lariat states, and I’m ticked he makes his character out so fast.
“We do the same job. Brad’s smart.” I don’t know why I’m defending him. I’ve said no every time he wanted to take me out. I agree with Lariat. Brad’s sort of sleazy, just a vibe I get off him. Though I’ve never sought to confirm my instincts, or had any definitive proof.