Lariat

by Marata Eros

  “Good,” Noose says curtly. I know what he means. It’s not good that she’s all fucked up, but it’s good that she dished out some hurt.

  “Yeah.” Snare jerks a thumb Noose’s way. “I hope she Fucked. Them. Up.”

  “Oh, she did,” Doc says with surety. “But they hurt her back.”

  “What else?”

  “She’s not going to lose the eye, but she won’t see with it for a little while. Needs a specialist.”

  I close my eyes. The thought of not being able to look into both of her gorgeous eyes is brutal.

  Doc claps my shoulder. “She’s all over the news, Lariat. We got to get her to the cops. Make this blow up big time. The only way to protect Angela Monroe is for everyone to know what happened.”

  “They’ll come after the MC.”

  He shakes his head. “No. We prime the pump, and everything will be just fine.”

  Viper walks in, looks around, and his eyes shift to the injured women. “They okay?”

  Doc nods. “Older broad has a flesh wound. I’ve doped them to the hilt.”

  He nods. “Good.” His pale-blue eyes work the room, taking in all the brothers. When they come to me, he says, “Clusterfuck.”

  I nod. “Yeah.”

  Vipe walks to me and puts a hand on my shoulder. “You did the right thing, son. I’m proud of you.”

  It’s what I needed to hear, and I didn’t know it. My throat closes up, my eyes burn, and all I can do is nod.

  “Now let’s figure our way out of this mess.”

  The brothers ignore my struggle, thank fuck.

  “We can brief Angel on what to say. She can claim amnesia, blackout—whatever.” Snare hikes his shoulders, the stiff leather cut he wears creaking with the motion.

  “She’ll have to,” Wring says.

  Trainer pipes in. “Can she get in trouble for lying? I mean, they’re gonna find the rope burns on that mob guy.”

  Noose groans. “Angel doesn’t have to lie; she just doesn’t say that part.”

  Trainer pulls a face of pure confusion.

  “Gotta be bright to lie well,” Wring adds.

  That takes Trainer out of a lot of shit that Road Kill does. But he’s loyal and decent. I answer him, speaking my own thoughts aloud. “We’ll get Angel to say what happened, put the heat where it belongs. On Ricci. Since the only witness was killed so publicly, the media will be all over that. We can bury the rest.”

  The room stills when a hushed voice calls my name.

  It’s the only voice that matters.

  One gorgeous eyeball finds me, and I stride to Angel’s side. “Baby,” I say, emotion so strong, I can hardly get the word out.

  “I’m that bad, huh?” she asks after half a minute of studying my face.

  No lies. Not with her.

  I nod.

  A tear squeezes out of her one eye.

  I cup the back of her skull. “How do you feel?”

  She gives a defeated laugh, then her face pinches from the pain.

  “Doc,” I call urgently.

  She gives a minute shake of her head. “No more drugs. I-I want to be awake.”

  I nod.

  “She can have more, or we can get her freshened up and somewhere safe,” I say.

  Our eyes meet, and she gives a tiny nod.

  I know just the place.

  *

  “Holy fuck,” Trudie cries when she sees Angel in my arms.

  I say, “It’s better than it looks.”

  Trudie’s light-brown eyes go to my face. “Bring her in, and then we’re going to talk.”

  After I gently set Angel on the bed in the spare bedroom, I sit with Trudie.

  She sits in the God-awful purple chair, and I perch on the edge of a fragile flowery couch.

  I start at the beginning, and when I reach the end, she leans back against the chair.

  “I was there, Lariat. I lived with Angel when she came out of that place.”

  I smile. “She doesn’t ever have to worry about Arnold Jenkins again.”

  Trudie looks at me for a long time. “I don’t think she’s going to have to worry much anymore. Right, stud?”

  I nod, lips curling. “Yeah.”

  “I knew I liked you.”

  “So can you be here for her? I gotta lie low.”

  “Absolutely.”

  I hand her my contact info.

  She closes her fingers around it. “If she wants to get in touch with you, she does.” Her unspoken question of choice is looking for confirmation, and I inhale deeply, letting out the breath with excruciating slowness.

  Angel’s got to want to be with me.

  I nod again, because God knows if I say anything else, it’ll be to beg for Angel to call me the instant she’s better and to come live with me.

  Love me.

  So I don’t say anything. I stand instead, walk to the door, and let myself out.

  Hardest. Fucking. Thing. Ever.

  Chapter 23

  Angel

  I tie my fingers together. They shake so badly, they’re distracting me from my testimony.

  The judge nods for me to continue.

  My eyes try to lock onto the judge, but my injury has made the one eye lazy.

  Thoughts of the beating come rushing back.

  I’m in physical therapy, but every time I hear a sudden noise, I have to refrain from peeing my pants. My armpits tingle with sweat, and my heart palpitates.

  In a nutshell, I’m a mess.

  They call it PTSD. But I’ve never been in a war. I just know that I feel so fragile now, like a figure made of blown glass.

  “Miss Monroe,” the judge encourages.

  My good eye tracks his kind eyes, and the other… well, the other tries. “Yes, thank you—I’m not. I’m sorry.”

  Tears threaten, and I breathe deeply, concentrating only on that.

  “Take your time. No one will rush your testimony.”

  “Thank you, Your Honor.” I don’t look at the stenographer or anyone else. I pretend I’m alone.

  I pretend I’m at my parentsʼ grave. “As I was saying,” I begin again, pushing a strand of hair out of my face, “I came to, and my mother—”

  “Alleged,” the defense lawyer interjects.

  “I’ll allow that, but let’s keep interruptions to a minimum.” We all hear the warning in his voice.

  My fingers find each other again and start twisting. “Anyway, she’s bleeding, and Tommy—”

  “Thomas Bernard, alleged Ricci associate,” a disembodied voice flatly states for the record.

  “Yes,” I say without looking up. “Tommy is going to shoot again. Shoot me,” I whisper. Gooseflesh creeps over my skin at the recitation.

  “What happens then, Miss Monroe?”

  I think of the simplicity of the story—the lie by omission of the truth.

  I raise my eyes and speak it easily. “I’m not entirely sure.” I give a helpless little shrug, no acting required. “The next thing I recall is being at my friend’s house, where she called the police.”

  Lawyersʼ sharp eyes crawl over my face.

  But my duplicity is bone-deep. I’m not giving Lariat up.

  Ever.

  *

  Three months later

  “That’s it, Angel—keep tracking.”

  “I hate you,” I say, my bad eye aching like a rotten tooth.

  The physical therapist’s kind eyes crinkle at the corners. “I get that a lot. Thankfully, sweet talking never seems to work.”

  He moves the ball ceaselessly, left then right.

  I blink, and it lasts four seconds as my bad eye weeps behind my closed lid.

  “Angel.”

  My eyelid springs open, and I wipe the leaking away with a swift hand. Then the lid starts twitching.

  “We’ll wait through the spasm.”

  This one lasts thirty seconds.

  When it’s done, Lawrence pats my knee. “That’s good enough for today.”


  I sit up, and my ribs sing from the movement. I don’t touch myself anymore to take stock of my injuries. I’m healing.

  But my psyche is a different thing.

  I’m scared—because of what I want and because of what I don’t want to lose.

  “How’s your vision?”

  “Excellent.”

  Lawrence nods, tapping my chart. “Another month of PT, and you should be able to do all this fun at home.”

  My lips twist in a wry smile. “The torture.”

  Lawrence leans forward, his teeth very white within his brown face. “Feel lucky you didn’t do anything to your knee. That takes a degree of commitment.” His voice is bland.

  I shudder.

  “You’re seeing everything fine, then? Just muscle control is still weak?”

  “I see everything great.”

  I see so much now.

  “See you next week, Angel.”

  I stand and walk out the door.

  Vision restored.

  Bravery in question.

  But bravery and stupidity are nearly the same thing.

  I decide I would rather be stupid and know than be brave and let pride get in the way.

  *

  I’m so nervous, my hand covers my stomach to measure my breaths.

  The media frenzy has died down, and I don’t get calls all day with questions I don’t want to answer.

  Questions like—“How does it feel to know that Arnold Jenkins is missing and presumed dead?”

  Good, I answer in my mind before I disconnect.

  Or—“How does it feel to know your parents’ death was no accident?”

  Terrible.

  And my favorite—“What will you do now that Antonio Ricci is on death row?”

  Celebrate.

  Eventually, I became weary and changed my number.

  My thoughts vaporize as the air becomes charged with electricity, and I know that means he has walked into Garcia’s.

  Our eyes meet in the mirror that lines the backsplash of the bar, where colorful liquor bottles fill the shelf in front of it, and I offer a shy, weak smile.

  Lariat doesn’t smile, and my breath catches.

  He prowls to me, and I turn on the stool, my high-heeled sandal hooked on the circle of metal at its base.

  Lariat doesn’t stop. His eyes run from the top of my head to my toes.

  I’m plucked off the edge of the stool and in his arms before I take my next breath.

  His lips crash into mine. The kiss is ferocious.

  Any concern of audience or public displays of affection are tossed out the metaphorical window.

  Lariat comes up for air, and I try for cool. “Miss me?” I ask with a shaky laugh.

  “Like food,” he growls and kisses me again, savoring my lips like a gourmet delicacy.

  His nearness makes me dizzy.

  “Let’s take this somewhere,” he says.

  I nod because speech isn’t possible.

  My cheeks heat as he tows me out of the bar and grill where we first met.

  Everyone stares as we walk out. But Lariat doesn’t care.

  And that’s good enough for me.

  *

  The bike ride is cold, so I huddle at his back, my arms wrapped around his flat, hard stomach, hanging on for dear life.

  We ride south through the Kent valley, eventually heading east toward Orting.

  Finally, after a really long zigzagging drive, we pull up in front of an old-fashioned-looking two-story house. To the left and right, a couple of other houses can be seen in the distance—close enough to see but far enough away to give us privacy.

  Night has fallen. This far away from the city, the sky is a shroud of black with early stars beginning to glitter like forgotten gems in the dark.

  Lariat shuts off the bike, and I put my hand on his shoulder. I awkwardly stand on the secondary pegs my feet were resting on and swing a leg over.

  His large hand shoots out, and I take it. He easily swings me off the seat with a strong hand.

  Lariat’s dismount is smooth and unassuming. Hardly more than a looming, muscled dark shape, he reaches for me, and we meet as though we’ve rehearsed a dance step to perfection.

  “Trudie told me,” I say.

  “I waited,” he replies simply.

  I plant my forehead on his chest, feeling the steady beat of his heart.

  “Are you okay?” Lariat asks. His deep voice reverberates through the bones of my skull.

  “Do I look okay?” I’m suddenly afraid that my faded bruises, beat-up body, and eyeball will matter.

  “Fuck yes.” He chuckles, cupping my jaw. “More than okay. Fine.”

  I tip my chin up, and he cradles my face then kisses my lips so softly that it’s like heated breath.

  “Where are we?” I ask between his kisses.

  He sweeps his arm toward the house. “My new place.”

  My eyes scan the house. “Looks old-fashioned.”

  “Supposed to.”

  He holds my hand as we walk slowly up the broad stairs. A low-wattage LED shines over the front door, which is painted a bright, cherry red.

  I run my fingertips over the bright paint. “That’s pretty.”

  “I like color.”

  I cock my head, giving him amused eyes. “Apparently.”

  Lariat taps in a code on the numbered entry pad, and it chimes. He depresses the oil-rubbed bronze handle, which is shaped in a hammered swirly style, and walks in.

  “Oh my God,” I whisper in awe.

  Cool sage walls run from the entry into an open living room. Deep chocolate sectional couches with a lounger at one end have a rich, soft suede finish. My eyes are everywhere at once but come to a screaming halt at the kitchen.

  Knotty alder cabinets make a bold visual statement, riding to the ceiling in elegance. Tumbled travertine flows from the back of the countertop to undercabinet, abutting a cream and mocha quartz countertop that’s an wave of warmth.

  The whole kitchen is beautiful and elegant.

  I turn to Lariat, and his black gaze is hooded. “Like what you see?”

  I nod slowly. “I…” My eyes travel to my hands, and I’m so damn grateful that my bad eye isn’t choosing this moment to have a spasm. “I don’t know what this means, Lariat.”

  I hold out my hands in front of me without looking, and he instantly takes them.

  “It means I’ve had a shit-ton of time to figure out what I want. Who I want.”

  I look up when I hear the low command in his voice. “I’m a mess,” I say, half-talking him out of what I think he’ll say.

  He laughs, softly shaking his head.

  “We’ll be a mess together.”

  “I’m unemployed.” The firm didn’t bow to public pressure to take me back. Two murders and my association with Lariat nixed that possibility.

  “Fuck them. We got a club lawyer who’s about ready to retire.”

  “Who? Where?” I feel my brows pull together.

  Lariat chuckles. “Probably the Bahamas, if he’s smart.”

  My laugh is tinny. “I don’t sleep anymore. Every loud noise I hear makes me want to…” I pull my hands from his hold and cover my face.

  He leans down and peels my hands away.

  “Let’s try, Angel. Tell me that you met with me because you want this thing that was between us.”

  I want it so, so badly. Tears pour out of my eyes. My wish for a bit of happiness consumes me. I stop breathing, and my heart pounds.

  “Breathe,” Lariat says.

  I take measured breaths. Finally, I give him my answer.

  It’s not a word, but a touch.

  One of many.

  *

  We crash into the wall, and like before, he braces me. “This okay, baby?” Lariat asks between ragged breaths. “Don’t want to hurt you.”

  I am so not hurting. I wrap my hands around his thick neck and hike up the front of him.

  Lariat grabs my ass cheeks
and lifts me, taking me into what I assume is his bedroom.

  Gently, as if I’m made of glass, he sets me on the bed.

  He grins, eyeing me over. “Hair’s blown to shit.”

  I pop the clip off my hair, and it falls around my body. The wisps at my temples are slightly snarled.

  Lariat’s eyes darken, and he sinks to the end of the bed, slowly unbuckling my sandals. They fall to the floor with a soft thump. He runs his rough hands up the smooth skin of my shins, and when he gets to the hem of the impractical skirt I chose, he pauses.

  “You sure?”

  I widen my legs, and he groans. His finger goes to my center and slips under the edge of my panties.

  My head kicks back as I moisten from his touch.

  As rough and passionate as our other sex was, this is tender and slow.

  He rises to his knees, jerks his shirt off by the collar, and tosses it on the floor.

  I lift my arms, and he rolls my thin sweater over my breasts, pausing at my nipples. He thumbs them softly as he continues. They pebble, begging for a second touch.

  He tosses my sweater on top of his discarded shirt and leans over my breast, sucking softly through the lace.

  I moan, and his hands run down my ribcage.

  “Better?” His seriousness cools the passion slightly between us.

  “Yes.”

  Then he makes me forget that I was nearly beaten to death only three months before.

  My rapist is gone.

  And Ricci is not going anywhere; his particular family is broken.

  So many hurts erased, so much joy to gain.

  Soft kisses rain down from the bottom of my lace-encased breasts to my belly button. Then my panties are sliding off my hips, and his tongue is at my center.

  My hips buck, and he holds me still with a forearm. “Want to hear your noises, Angel.”

  I make them because I can’t help myself. I’m frantic for him. Only for Lariat.

  With the next sweep of his tongue, I explode around him. A soft scream escapes my lips as my channel pulses.

  “That’s it, baby.”

  In the next moment, his jeans are gone, and a huge erection bobs as he knee-walks between my legs, seating himself where he needs to be.

  Slowly, so slowly, he enters me, and I arch to meet him, smoothly rising as he sinks inside me.

  My wet welcome to his thrusting is repeated, our flesh smacking and parting. A beautiful heat begins to build, and a second orgasm hits me, sweeping through me, through us. Lariat’s smooth rhythm stops, and he’s suddenly pounding me as I meet each thrust.