Ryker: Have a safe trip
Have a safe trip. The words are casual. What a friend texts another friend. But I know differently. There was heat in his eyes and the promise of sin and pleasure when his large hands cocooned my hips and his mouth brushed the corner of my mouth last night, after we saw the last kid leave with their parent.
I didn’t stay, giving Ryker the excuse I wanted to get a good night’s rest before the flight home. What I didn’t tell him was that Shephard was waiting at my place.
My finger goes to the corner Ryker kissed. A strip of flesh I never thought would have me hot all over as Ryker’s tongue darted out, teasing and tasting.
Come to my place afterward. Stay.
I’d like that, Ryker. I’ll stay the night with you.
Unable to stop smiling, I strip and shower. He had waited for me to drive off before he went inside his place. He’s a gentleman.
But I’ve seen a gentleman become the devil when he wanted something badly enough. My father murdering my mother. Sam and his friends violating my body in the name of possession and loyalty.
I quell the ball of anger growing in my core. Let it get too big, and I won’t be able to control my need for vengeance. That’s what Shephard wants. Why he brought me here. The reason he’s downstairs making a “phone call.” Everything Shephard does is for me.
He keeps me safe.
Gives me a reason to exist when I’d rather crawl into a ball of shame and self-hatred.
He helps me become stronger physically so that when the wicked comes for me, I can smash at it with my fists. And when my fists won’t cut it, he made certain I can run and run without collapsing from sheer exhaustion.
Shephard is my savior, but he isn’t the man of my dreams. He doesn’t make my heart sing like Ryker does. He doesn’t make me smile and want to tease and poke back like Ryker does. And his body near mine doesn’t elicit the same visceral response as when I’m in proximity to Ryker.
My heartbeat accelerates. My insides clench with longing. But how can I give in to Ryker when I know full well how he came to be in my messed-up life?
Next Saturday will be the fourth week, a month of Ryker in my life.
Will he make his move after we return the kids to their parents? Nail and bail. Hit and run. I plan on spending tomorrow night with him in his bed, but he won’t be winning the bet sooner rather than later.
Attempting to forget that Ryker accepted a bet to nail me so that he could screw a different girl, I pull the dress Shephard bought for me over my body.
The color is a bold red, and the material, satin. It clings to my body like a second skin, moving with me when I slip on the silver heels Shephard had thoughtfully placed by the door.
I get his unspoken message. He wants to show me off, and boy, will this dress do the trick. I bend over in front of the mirror. The satin clings to my ass. Bend over too far and I’ll be showing off more than my butt. Shit, the hem is short.
I straighten and check myself out in the mirror. The neckline is plunging. Not that it does me any good. I’m at the low end of a B-cup. I run my hands down my sides and tilt my head. A coat of mascara darkens and stretches out my lashes. Burgundy on my lips. I fluff my hair. The black strands fall over my shoulders and caress the spot below my shoulder blades.
A surge of excitement runs through me. My stomach knots. I can’t decide whether to ditch the dress and makeup and hide under the covers, or to pull from within my core the inner strength I lost as Sam and his friends humiliated me over and over.
A flush darkens my chest, creeps up my neck, and settles in my cheeks. I glare at the girl in the mirror. She’s angry. She wants revenge. I jerk my head at her in defiance, and straightening my shoulders, I walk out of the hotel room with my head held high. Revenge isn’t the answer.
I take the empty elevator to the lobby. Each floor I pass on my way down, my heartbeat quickens and sweat beads along my hairline. I’m losing my courage. The anger swirling in my core is fading. I need Shephard.
The inner strength he screams into me and the will of steel he demands of me every time we go at it in the boxing ring is slipping. I eye the numbers. Five, four, three . . . I reach out, ready to jab at number ten, the floor I’m on. But the elevator stops at the lobby and the doors open.
A rush of conversation and the noise of plates and drinking glasses clattering flows over me like a heat wave.
Grasping at the thread of courage before it slips from me, I take a step, and another. At the podium, I give the hostess my name. She shows me to a table set in the middle of the room.
The knot in my stomach grows, and I want to hurl, though I doubt much will come up. I haven’t had anything to eat except a package of trail mix on the four-hour flight. Shephard had insisted I eat more, but the thought of going home again upset my stomach.
“Do you have a different table?” I mumble, staring at my toes.
The table affords Shephard and I no privacy. We’d be the center of attention whether we like it or not. Already, the guys at the bar are glancing my way, looking me up and down.
“I’m sorry, but Saturday nights are our busiest.”
“Okay, thank you.” I want to kick myself for my timid tone. Taking my seat, I straighten my shoulders and glance at the menu.
Where is Shephard?
The top of my forehead tingles. I ignore the intense stares from across the room and the stares of the guys at the bar boring into my back. The chair’s cool wooden surface on the back of my thighs is a welcomed distraction.
I run my fingers over the items on the menu. Focus. Deep breaths in and out. My heartbeat slows. Where the hell is Shephard? Finally, I can’t stand the staring. I’m stronger than this, cowering into myself. I straighten in my seat, glance up, and meet the men’s gazes head-on.
There are four large guys sitting in a booth in my line of sight. Two have their backs to me. The one with pitch-black hair nudges the arm of the guy sitting next to him. Dirty Blond in turn nods my way. The beefy guys across from them shift in their seats and return my stare.
I know their type. I described the kind of guys they are to Ryker when we first talked. These guys are cocky, think they’re God’s gift to women, sex on the mind, and ruthless when there’s money or status at stake. Except this group of guys is also crazy dangerous.
My attention darts to the front of the lounge. Where is Shephard? I don’t have my cell. Movement from my left snags my attention. I turn, and time stops.
Ryker is walking—no, swaggering—toward me with a shit-eating grin. He’s the cat that ate the canary, the leprechaun sitting on a pot of gold, the knight who has found and claimed his damsel-in-distress.
Why is he here?
My attention catches and hangs on the man behind him.
Shephard.
I ball my hands in my lap.
This, Ryker here with us, is a part of the cat-and-mouse game we’re playing with Sam and his friends on the outside. They’re loyal to him, the loyalty earned through violence, money, and respect. They’re angry the judge handed him the longest sentence he could for Sam’s crimes against my body.
“Harper. Babe.”
I rise. Ryker pulls me into his big, muscular arms. I’m so small—or he’s so huge—I disappear inside his hold.
“Why are you here?” I murmur into his shirt.
I glance up. He’s not smiling. His dark brows are pulled low.
“Shephard texted. He said you needed me.”
“How’d he get your number?”
“Fuck if I care. I’m here, aren’t I?”
“Harper.” Shephard’s deep voice cuts into the conversation.
Ryker lets me go. The men sandwich me. A flush heats my chest, neck, and cheeks. I’m certain everyone is staring. We’re smack dab in the middle of the room. I take Ryker’s and Shephard’s hands and insist we sit, pronto.
We take our seats. Ryker laces our fingers, and what comes automatically to him causes heat to fan across my f
ace. My small hand clasped in a large one. Warm. Rough skin. Us skating round and round, his proximity waking up the sleeping butterflies in my belly.
Ryker brings our laced fingers to his mouth and presses a kiss on the top of my hand. Soft. Warm. Wet. He’s remembering too.
I long to close my eyes and cherish this moment. To forget the danger closing in on us. Forget I ever crossed paths with the wicked of the world.
But I have to be strong. Shephard coached and trained me for this moment. To show my enemy’s supporters I’m stronger than I look. That what Sam Taylor and his friends did doesn’t define me as a person.
Shephard watches us through hooded eyes. I feel the guys from across the room study us. We’re organisms on a petri dish. Will the three of us mate and procreate more organisms?
That’s the vibe I’m getting from the guys and from the curious looks we’re getting from the other diners. More so when Shephard moves his chair closer and saddles his arm across my shoulders, his fingers skimming over my skin, the heat from his fingertips sending tingles through me.
“How was your flight?” I ask Ryker, breathless.
What kind of game is Shephard playing? He hasn’t touched me like this since we lived together after my uncle died.
“Same as yours. Boring as fuck. Too long. Not enough food. I’m famished.”
This guy and his stomach. I smile, thoughts of my hell and heaven on earth with Shephard fading from my thoughts.
“How was your game?” I searched him online and watched past games he played.
Ryker Conway is destined to get picked in the first round of the NFL Draft for a reason. He is good. Like great good.
“We steamrolled over them forty to twenty-one.”
I grimace. “No mercy.”
“No mercy,” he repeats.
He reaches out and cradles my face. His touch is heat and fire. And the promise in the depths of his eyes? Hot and intense.
“And no mercy for you when I make you mine,” he murmurs over my mouth.
His words are soft. The diners near us can’t hear him. But Shephard discerns every heated, possessive word. Ryker brushes his lips over mine. Doesn’t take the kiss further. We pull apart. The side of my face tingles.
Shephard. I expect him to curse. To rear up, grab Ryker by his shirt, and stake his claim.
What he does next sends mixed messages to my heart, mind, and body. I’m hopeful. I’m scared. I’m turned on.
Chuckling, he reaches across the table, takes our clasped hands, and coasts his mouth over where our thumbs touch.
“She’s ours. She will always be ours. They want her? They’ll have her over our cold, dead bodies.”
And so begins the war of wills and dark desires.
Part Three
Desire. Lust. Obsession. Possession.
You are mine. I am yours.
Run and I will come after you.
Fight and I will hold you tight until the fight dies from you breath by breath.
Love another and your world will go out with a bang.
18
Ryker
I glance sidelong at Harper. Shoot my gaze next to the guy at her side. What a fucking surprise to see his text on my cell after my team won yet another home game.
Unknown number: Ticket at the airport in your name waiting to be claimed. Shephard.
A shit ton of emotions hit me. Suspicion. Excitement. Curiosity. My curiosity overrode the suspicion. Excitement won out as soon as the plane landed.
Then when I saw her from across the room, dressed so damn fine, I couldn’t stop myself from pulling her into my arms and claiming her as mine on the spot.
I see the hunger in the other guys’ eyes. Felt their desire dig its claws into her. Didn’t miss the hostility wafting from the booth across from us. The one occupied by four hulking guys with chips on their shoulders.
“Who are they?” I say in a low voice.
There’s no need to tell Harper and Shephard who I’m referring to. I’m a douchebag, but I’m not clueless. I get when there’s history between people.
“My little brother’s following.”
“Following?”
Fuck’s sake, what am I, a parrot?
“This isn’t the place. Harper can tell you about my blasted brother tonight.”
“I have more time.”
“Your father’s murder changed that, little one. Tell him, Harper. That’s why I brought him here. He needs to understand what he’s getting himself into. He has his future to think of.”
They’re speaking like I’m not sitting right here. But this conversation is too damn interesting for me to take offense to them talking over me.
“Are they the reason you left to make a phone call?”
She sets her fork down. The tips point at the men who haven’t gotten the clue it’s rude to be staring so hungrily at my girl.
I cast my eyes up and glare. They smirk. One slips me the bird. I clench my jaw. Ball my hand. Small fingers cover my fist under the table. Tap, tap, tap. A message to calm the fuck down.
I unclench my jaw. Crane my neck side to side. Shake the tension from my shoulders.
“Sam needs to understand you’re not alone. That if something were to happen to me, there’s someone else ready to do anything for you.”
“What if it’s too much for him?”
Why do I suspect “him” isn’t Shephard’s brother, but me?
“Then he isn’t the right one, is he, love? Desire. Lust. Obsession. Possession. You are mine. I am yours. Run and I will come after you. Fight and I will hold you tight until the fight dies from you breath by breath. Love another and your world will go out with a bang.”
What the fuckery? “Are you threatening her?” I hiss. “What the fuck kind of friend are you?”
Harper is quiet. She takes a slow drink of her water, then sets the glass down. Clasps her hands in her lap.
“My father wrote poems too, Ryker.”
“Are you telling me what he spouted is from your father?”
“To my mother, yes. I . . . I share everything with Shephard, including the poems my parents wrote to one other.”
Shephard’s eyes gleam with satisfaction. He’s proud of the fact Harper revealed she tells him everything. Does she speak of our time together, flirting and touching?
“You want to hear another fucked-up prose?”
“Should I?”
“It’s in your best interest.”
Lethal softness in his voice. Couldn’t-care-less expression on his face. But I’m starting to understand what makes Shephard “complicated.” He’s fighting what he feels for Harper every step of the way. He wants her but knows they’re not good together. My gaze drops to his hold on the handle of his steak knife. White-knuckled fucking grip.
I shrug. “Yeah, sure.” Casual, but dread spreads across my chest, an ominous darkness of what I’ll be getting myself into if I continue to stick with Harper.
“Wicked. She’s as wicked as they come. Tempting me with hair dark as night. Eyes as blue as the ocean waves. Wicked, her coy smile. Her teasing. She’s as wicked as they come, and I will crush her soul until she squeals her come.”
Dread envelopes the rest of my body.
“Her father wrote that for her mother?” What a psycho.
“My brother did. About Harper. He sent me the note the day he took her.”
“Took her as in fucked her?”
Her body stiffens.
“Aw, shit, I’m sorry, Harper.” Sorry for speaking over her. Apologizing for my crass language.
“It’s okay.” She reaches for my hand and interlaces our fingers.
The small gesture unravels me. I’m putty in her hands. If she said, “Jump,” I’d say, “How high?”
“Go on, Shephard. Answer Ryker’s question.”
“Kidnap. Stole,” Shephard answers. “He took what is mine, and when he gets out of prison, I’ll make him pay. Will you be around to witness retribution, Conway? O
r will you continue to live your simple, unassuming life of football and who your next lay will be?”
Shephard sums up my life in one word, but simple didn’t get me to the top. Hard work, eagle-eye focus, and dedication did.
There’s a reason I leave “complicated” at the door. Giving a flying fuck hurts, like getting stomped on by cleats. Caring messes with my mind too. And anything that messes with my mind has the power to mess with my ability to play ball at my top-notch best.
Is he right? Will I ditch complicated for simple? Danger for a safe passage through life? Harper and Shephard’s world is all sorts of messed-up danger, and I have this gut feeling someone will pay with their life.
They wait for my answer. I’m not ready to give it. Protecting Harper is one thing. Going full board on whatever shit they’re involved in with Shephard’s psycho little brother and those thugs across the room is a different monster altogether.
I take a long draw of my ale, then fork a sizable chunk of bloody steak into my mouth, chewing and basking in the contemplative silence of my girl and her guy. Her guy. Then what the fuck am I?
Last night, we agreed I wouldn’t be sharing Harper with Shephard. Had concluded I will lose her if I go outside our exclusive relationship.
How the hell did I acquire a relationship in three weeks? Shit, we haven’t even properly kissed.
We finish our meal. I pick up the tab, crossing my fingers the rest of the night is uneventful. After the proverbial bombs Shephard’s been dropping, I’d like me some peace and quiet.
It ain’t happening. The thugs are done with their meals too. They walk over. The bigger of the four sets his big paws on the table and looks Harper up and down, his eyes focused on her mouth.
“I hear you give great blow.”
I stand. My chair hits the ground. “Apologize,” I ground out.
Douchebag steps it up another crass level. He backs up and grabs his junk. “Keep her near.”
Wicked (Dangerous Liaisons Book 1) Page 10