Defy (Brothers of Ink and Steel Book 3)

by Allie Juliette Mousseau

  “That was smart.”

  She crams half a Twinkie between her lips.

  Hot damn, how I want to be that Twinkie. Asshole dick!

  “I told them I wouldn’t eat their food. It gave me something more than a warped sense of peace, it gave me a feeling of control. I had a say over myself. In the position I was in, it was a huge victory.”

  “Yeah, it was. You were brave.”

  She nods in agreement before guzzling down the chocolate milk.

  “That was the only time someone touched me. One of my guards backhanded me because I wouldn’t eat the food. That’s when I found out about them selling me. The man who hit me got reprimanded. But that was days ago, so I’m famished.”

  “I’m sorry this is all I got. We’ll get you a good hot meal tonight.” I’m disappointed in what I was able to find in the crappy gas station convenience store.

  “This is just fine.” She catches a yellow Twinkie crumb tumbling out from the side of her lips. “Thank you for it.”

  I smile and even laugh a little.

  Yeah, no defense.

  Rachel

  I hear the shower start up as I cram the other half of the Twinkie in my mouth. I chew while checking out the remaining contents of the bags Ryder brought back with him.

  “Thank God,” I breathe gratefully when a couple of his and her burnt orange Texas Longhorns t-shirts tumble from the bag.

  Grabbing the medium sized one, I yank off the tag and pull it over my head. It’s warm, dry and clean. I look down at myself—no bra—I try and overlook that fact. In the second bag are poor quality, black mesh gym shorts. I fish for the smaller size and pull them over my hips.

  No undies. I sigh.

  His shower is done almost as soon as it started. He cracks open the door and hot steam rolls out.

  Ryder walks in, waterfalls cascading down over his arms and torso. Oh, and what a delicious torso it is.

  Suddenly I’m very aware that I’m not wearing any panties.

  His muscles are long, lean and defined; his stomach is ripped with washboard abs—I’ve never seen anyone so . . . imposing and remarkable.

  And he’s covered in tattoos. Collages of ink adorn most of his skin. His left arm is a canvas, with a Celtic pattern winding around his forearm; several sugar skulls climb up a ladder of black tribal lines leading up to a skull and crossbones, all guarded by a faceless grim reaper under a hood. They’re all in black and white and surrounded by roses and thorns. Ripped terrycloth from a motel towel covers the bite he received saving me, catching the blood.

  His right arm is cloaked with mythological gods and goddesses. I recognize the Egyptian god Anubis, guardian of the dead, and Osiris, god of the underworld—the detailing, color and work is incredible. Freya, the goddess of warriors, has prime real estate on his upper bicep and shoulder—she’s exquisitely done; long flowing robes, battle helmet and hair like spun gold—she watches over the rest. More gods and goddesses wearing Greek, Roman or Native American dress are represented, including Athena, goddess of war, but I don’t know who the rest are. A river flows between and around them. A black tribal scorpion is etched into his right bicep—its tail dripping with venom—I’m going to take a wild stab in the dark and assume it represents death.

  Ryder’s front and sides, spilling over to his back, have been reserved for words—written in everything from simple script to gilded cursive. I’d love to take a moment and read what they say. A dagger with a jeweled hilt lays across the lowest part of his abdomen and peeks out from beneath the tuck of the motel white towel.

  And oh, how I would love to graze my fingers over those fine lines and broad strokes of ink.

  The centerpiece, the tour-de-force, is an amazingly ornate set of wings—Egyptian in style—that span his thick chest, cradling two hearts in an hourglass.

  By the time my eyes start to travel back to his, I’m hot and wet in all the right places . . . and he knows it.

  He smiles wide with sexy, playful mischief.

  Way to handle the heat, Rachel! I turn away but the damage is so done.

  “Oh,” he says, “you found the clothes.” Could be my imagination, but he sounds disappointed.

  “Yeah, great fit. How’s the arm?”

  “Want to see?”

  Oh, what I’d like to see! “Yes.”

  He sits his shapely, hard ass on the table and situates himself so he has a clear view of his arm in the wall mirror.

  “Pass over the Everclear and the floss.”

  I don’t know what those muscles are that are right above the ass, but they kind of dimple on the very lowest part of the back—yeah, those on him are like artwork on a statue at a museum—like Michelangelo’s David.

  On his back, he has an enormous tattoo of a sword—the hilt spans across both shoulders, while the blade glides to the last vertebrae of his spine and is surrounded by tribal lines.

  His nudity is making me . . . not think straight in this very sobering situation.

  I snag the bottle and plastic square of unflavored dental floss off the counter and bring them over to him.

  He picks up the bottle and unscrews it with his teeth, spits out the top, and takes a swig. The action makes him grimace. “God, that’s awful shit!”

  So fast, as if he doesn’t want to actually think about doing it, he spills the alcohol over the wounds in his arm.

  “MOTHERFUCKER!” he shouts.

  His whole arm flexes violently, his jaw clenches and his muscles strain as he physically struggles to handle that kind of ugly pain.

  Sympathetically, I blow gentle, cool air over his arm. A moment later his body visibly relaxes. I pick up the cloth and blot at the excess mix of blood and Everclear that rained down his arm.

  My eyes meet his, and he groans. “They’re even more amazing in full light.”

  “Excuse me?” I don’t know if I heard him right.

  “Your eyes were beautiful last night in the moonlight. But now . . . hmmm.”

  I’m speechless.

  He sets the bottle back on the table, pops open the floss with his thumb and strings it through a needle. “I may not be very talkative for the next twenty minutes or so.”

  “I understand,” I respond. “If there’s anything I can do . . .”

  “Just hang around. You’ll make me braver.”

  “You’re the bravest person I’ve ever seen.”

  At that, he smiles and stabs the needle through his flesh.

  We don’t speak.

  After the first tooth hole is closed, he moves right on to the next, with no break or pause to rest. Beads of sweat spill over his forehead. Quickly, I soak a towel in cold water, come back and wipe him down.

  My thoughts—along with my eyes—travel to the decorative script tats. I feel like this might be my only chance to read them undetected.

  Our dead are never dead to us, until we have forgotten them.

  Pale death beats equally at the poor man’s gate and the palaces of kings.

  I’m prepared to meet my Maker. Whether my Maker is prepared for the great ordeal of meeting me is another matter.

  That one makes me laugh out loud.

  “Getting some reading done, Farrington?”

  How does he do that? Know everything going on around him?

  “Yeah,” I confess, embarrassed. “Well . . . they’re right in front of me.”

  “Read to me, then.”

  My head bounces in an automatic nod. I can do that. “The fear of death follows from the fear of life. A man who lives fully is prepared to die at any time.”

  “That’s Mark Twain. Another.”

  I swab his head and face as he continues to mend himself. I can’t imagine the violent pain and sheer willpower stitching his own wounds without anesthetic must take.

  “If a man has not discovered something he will die for, he isn’t fit to live.” I read the beautiful circle of words that are engraved in his lower shoulder, underneath the sword’s hilt.


  “That was Martin Luther King, Jr.,” he barely breathes.

  “Yes, it was,” I agree before continuing. “Cowards die many times before their deaths; the valiant never taste of death but once.”

  He groans as he threads through the end of the third hole, which is close to the inside of his elbow. “Sensitive spot. Hurt like fuck with the tat needle too.”

  The artwork on his body, the quotes—life, death—the gods and goddesses of death or the next life . . . he is a memorial.

  I thought reading the quotes might satiate my curiosity, but instead it’s only fueled the growing flame.

  “By the way, that last quote was Shakespeare,” I tell him.

  I want to know about his obsession with death. What led him to create this memorial over his body? I sigh deeply, understanding more now why he threw himself between me and the jaws of death.

  “Come on, Farrington, distract me,” he growls against the pain.

  “Sorry.” I wince, then spot the five words that are given a prominent place on his upper left rib. “I am my brother’s keeper.” Yeah, I can believe that.

  “Tell me about you,” he says, interrupting the reading.

  “Um . . . there really isn’t much to tell.” He’s so much more interesting. I want to ask, Can’t we just talk about you? “My family comes from Charleston. You already know I’m a Tulane student.”

  “What are you studying?” His voice is gruff with pain.

  “Speech pathology, psychology and theatre.”

  “That’s an intriguing combination.”

  “Intriguing, huh?”

  “How many years left?”

  “Now you’re just being nosey.”

  He throws a frustrated look in my direction.

  “Fine. I’m working my way through the master’s program. This is my final year before going on to my doctorate.”

  “And then what, Farrington?” he grits through pressed teeth.

  “Then I’ll work with special needs children and adults, incorporating therapy and theatre to help them build confidence and skill.”

  “I like you,” he states decidedly, before squaring off the floss stitch knot and sliding off the table. “We’ve got to go.”

  He likes me? Who talks like that?

  Ryder swipes down the mirror and the table before asking, “Where’s the dress you had on?”

  “I threw it in the trash.” I nod my head in the receptacle’s direction.

  He paces over and dumps some of the Everclear over it before carrying the plastic pail outside and dropping a lit match into it. The cloth erupts in flames.

  “What did you do that for?”

  “Did you want it back?”

  “No.”

  He shakes his head. “People grossly underestimate search dogs.”

  We climb into the stolen vehicle, and Ryder drives us north on Route 96.

  “Here.” He passes me a burner phone. “Call your parents and let them know you’re safe, but that’s all you can say. Tell them you’ll call them again in a few hours and that you’re en route to a government safe house.”

  If I had any shred of doubt left about Ryder, it dissipates and dissolves in this moment.

  I hastily dial, barely waiting for an answer before I exclaim, “Mom!”

  “RACHEL?”

  I can’t hold back the sobs that rip through my chest at the sound of her voice. “I’m safe! I’m okay! I’m not hurt. MOM!” Like mother like daughter, she’s in hysterics.

  She can barely get out the words. “Where are you?”

  “I’m so sorry, Mom. I love you so much!” This—talking to my mother—was the greatest gift Ryder could have given me. “I can’t talk or tell you where I am. But rest assured, I am safe and in good hands. I’m being brought to a safe house.”

  “That’s not good enough!” she yelps. “You were supposed to have been safe before. I need to see you!”

  “I know, Mom, soon. I’ll call you back as soon as I get there,” I tell her. “Tell Lemy I miss her and love her.”

  She cries, “I’m so relieved. I thought—” her words cut off and her voice breaks.

  “I know. I know.”

  “I love you, Rachel.”

  “I love you, Mom.”

  I hang up quickly but reluctantly. Gripping the phone in my hand, not wanting to let go, as if the hunk of plastic parts were actually my mother, I wipe my eyes with my fingers and blot the tears on my cheeks with the back of my hands.

  “I’m a fuck-up,” Ryder declares. “I never thought of buying tissues.”

  For some reason, that simple statement makes me burst at the seams. I let out a gale of laughter through the mess of tears. “Fucking Rambo forgot Kleenex . . . I think you’re excused.”

  But I am a hot mess, so I open the glovebox, hoping the owner has a few I could steal. I mean hell, we did have his car, right? What are a few tissues among friends?

  There are none.

  Next thing I know, Ryder is pulling off his shirt and throwing it at me. “Use this. Never had much use for the Longhorns anyway.”

  “Are you sure?”

  He shakes his head like he can’t believe I asked him and looks out the window.

  I wipe my eyes and blow my nose several times in different clean parts of the t-shirt. When I’m relatively confident I’m finished I hold the shirt back towards him.

  He laughs. “You keep it, Farrington.”

  I grimace. What is wrong with me?

  “You and your mom close?”

  “The closest,” I confirm.

  “Brothers and sisters?”

  “A younger sister.” I smile with the thought of her face.

  “Where’s your dad?”

  “He died of cancer when I was younger. It’s been just me, my mom and my sister for over a decade,” I say. “Thank you for thinking of that, letting me call home.”

  “Of course.” He takes back the burner, punches in some digits and sets it up to his ear.

  “Hey, Briggs,” he says. “Yeah, well, I’m not dead and neither is she . . . Yup . . . Fuck, why? Snake piss!” He listens to the voice on the other end of the phone, albeit impatiently. “Okay, shut up already. We need a rendezvous safe point. I’m thinking Shreveport. Send in some suits, we’ll be there in a couple hours.”

  With his attention taken between the phone and the road—and his right arm and side exposed—I can’t resist gazing back over his body. He’s shirtless, with only a pistol and holster snaked around his shoulder and torso.

  He notices. I can tell because he leans back a little and flexes, taut.

  I roll my eyes as my tongue slides to the inside of my cheek.

  Gorgeous, cocky, tough, strong—yeah, he’s the real deal and the entire package.

  A second later, he chucks the burner phone out the window.

  “Who’s Briggs?”

  “My partner. He runs mission control from the inside,” Ryder explains. “Superb hacker too.”

  “I have an uncle in Shrevesport,” I inform him. Maybe it could help.

  “You won’t have time to see him. The feds will put you on immediate lockdown.”

  I quip, “From one prison to another.”

  “That’s what the protection program is all about,” he says in a confusing, almost sour tone.

  I decide to change the subject. “What is the river on your arm? The one through the gods?”

  He doesn’t look away from the road. “Styx. The Greeks believed when you died, to pass through to the otherworld, you had to cross the River Styx.”

  “Why do you have a tattoo of it?”

  “Because we all have to cross it someday,” he says matter-of-factly. “Metaphorically anyway,” he adds.

  I think about that. “Are you afraid to die?”

  “No.”

  “Are the gods like a talisman?” I try.

  “Something like that.” The way the muscles of his arm tense and his hand grips the steering wheel harder makes me t
hink I shouldn’t pursue this line of questioning.

  “You don’t think the witness protection program is a good thing?”

  “Doesn’t matter what I think.”

  “Why don’t you like witness protection?” It does matter to me all of a sudden what he thinks.

  “I didn’t say I didn’t like it.”

  “But you’re giving every indication that you don’t.”

  “It works incredibly well—as long as the witness follows the rules to the letter—but sometimes that proves to be difficult. Especially for someone like you.”

  “Someone like me?”

  “You’re close to your family, you’re almost finished with your educational track and ready to embark on the career you’ve worked so hard to achieve . . . not to mention the line of work you’re going for—Jesus, working with special needs individuals. You have passion and dedication—with that kind of outward, forward, progressive thinking and idealism, you’ll want out of the ambiguity of the WPP within the first week.”

  All of a sudden his deduction feels more like a judgement. Or maybe it’s because I’ve just realized that earlier he wasn’t simply trying to get to know me. His motive was completely just to read me.

  What is wrong with you, Rachel? “So all of those questions you asked me before, you were you just sizing up my situation?”

  “That’s what I do, Farrington.”

  Something about his blunt admission stings. I won’t waste my breath telling him to call me Rachel. “They’ll capture Miguel, and once they do I can go home.”

  “It’ll be better for you if someone kills him.”

  “I thought you said he’d receive the death penalty.”

  “I believe a judge and jury will convict him. If they can catch him,” he says. “Question is, can they catch him?”

  Chapter Eight

  Ryder

  Farrington stares out the window while she chews on the inside of her lip.

  Both our heads turn to follow the sign that reads, “Shreveport 86 Miles.” Then we look at each other at the same time.