by Marata Eros
My heart is beating a hole out of my chest. Hell no. I don't want to throw down for anyone but my brothers.
I'm all club.
I don't love, feel, or want.
Rose's face is etched like an acid burn in my brain.
Vince steeples his fingers. “Figure this out, Noose. Feel this Rose out. You've gotta be unable to breathe unless she's in the room for what you're asking. She's a dangerous woman to protect.”
“Jesus, for a pussy?” Lariat asks, snorting.
“Shut the fuck up, Lariat. Count the goddamned pennies. It's what you're good at,” Snare grates to our treasurer.
I say nothing. There's no defense for what I’m asking. I don't even know myself. I need to get my shit ironed out.
Vince indicates my seat.
I finally sit after the first tirade of my time with Road Kill MC.
He bangs the gavel. “We meet tomorrow. Noose is going to let us know how it goes with Rose the bank teller. Aunt of a kid that is our number one rival's sergeant-at-arms.”
No pressure.
I go.
6
Rose
Only three days away.
I pound along the path, feeling the breeze lift the small hairs at the back of my neck.
It's been three days since Drake threatened me.
It's been two since I had an ultimate pussy meltdown at the bank with the mystery biker man. I never even got his name. The deposit was in the name of a company.
I shiver at the memory of our encounter. Part of the shiver is fear. Most of it is fear.
Drake is dangerous. Biker Man is too. He didn't have to tell me what he was capable of. I could feel it, though I didn't feel like his natural menace was directed at me.
Dappled sunlight blankets the path like fallen leaves of translucent gold. Faraway voices travel to me.
I enter the zone. Endorphins kick in, and I lengthen my strides, eating up the familiar path. Blood rushes in my veins, and a light sweat breaks out as I relax my shoulders and concentrate on my stride.
Greens, browns, and gold are a streaming watercolor in my peripheral vision.
A movement from my blindspot is a blur of shadowed color. An instant later, I'm tumbling through the air. My arms whip out, trying to arrest my fall, but I only manage to knock the wind out of myself.
I land on my back, halfway into a slope that leads to the ravines that flank the narrow asphalt path.
I blink slowly.
A dense canopy of trees intersect overhead in a dance of wind and light. A small sunbeam strikes me in the left eye, and I turn my head, lungs burning for oxygen.
Did I trip on a root?
A shadow moves over my face.
Drake stands above me.
I open my mouth to scream, but he clamps a hand over my lips.
I bite him, trying to make my teeth meet, and he howls.
I roll to the side, leaping to my feet.
No breath.
My hair falls out of its loose knot, and Drake grabs it, hauling me back against him. His blood gets in my mouth as his hand covers my lips.
“Bite me again, and I'll hurt you so bad, Rose. So bad. Believe me?” His free hand covers my sex and squeezes. Hard.
I scream, but his palm over my mouth muffles the sound.
“Feel me, bitch?”
I nod.
Charlie!
“I got the feeling you weren't really listening last time we had a little chat.”
I try to say something, and his hand slides to my throat, squeezing so I can't speak.
“Gonna play nice?”
Stars burst inside the field of my vision. I manage a nod. “Yes,” I squeeze out.
He tosses me onto the ground.
I hit hard, fingernails biting into the pine needles and dirt. My eyes are glued to his crotch as he unbuckles his jeans.
“You've got to be kidding me,” I say hoarsely.
Drake smiles—if his expression can be called that. It's really just a baring of teeth. “I never joke about punishment, Rosie.”
I flinch at the use of my nickname from his lips.
“My dick won't leave any marks that can be seen at the hearing, but you'll do what I want.”
I scoot back, and he lunges, falling on top of me and pinning me with his body weight.
I beat on him with my fists.
No!
He kicks my knees open, jerking my yoga pants down low on my thighs.
I go still.
Drake smiles in triumph.
I knee him in the balls.
His eyes pop open, bulging, and he gurgles some kind of unintelligible sound.
I crawl away then stumble to a standing position, half-jerking up my yoga pants. Then I'm running.
I sprint, flames threading through my lungs.
I don't look left or right. I move through the path like the devil is chasing me.
Because he is.
*
Noose
I look down the winding path of asphalt.
Not fucking safe. No woman should be jogging these fucking trails. Especially with night breathing down day's neck.
I flick my smoke on the ground and tramp it with the thick edge of my boot's tread. The tip glows like a bloated firefly for a moment then goes dark.
That’s sort of littering. I sort of don't give a fuck.
I cross my arms and chance a glance at the tiny car Rose drives. I smirk. What an unsafe piece of shit that is.
Of course, I just like the thought of her ass on the back of my bike. Hanging on to me.
I actually made an effort to look less… however I normally look. I wore a white T-shirt instead of a black one. Hey, it's a start.
I've been waiting. Impatiently.
The prospect I had tailing her the past two days says Rose runs here a lot while the nephew stays with the parents.
I snort, lighting up another smoke. Fucking kid.
God, do I know how to pick them. I realize now there's no such thing as easy pussy. It's like in the whole fucking world, all I could choose was complicated pussy.
Yeah, that's me.
I hear pounding footsteps and straighten, dumping my half-finished cig and squishing it without my normal finesse. I crack my knuckles and begin to pace. I'm dying to set eyes on her again, to see if that chemistry was an anomaly.
Rose flies toward the open parking area as if her ass is on fire, long hair streaming behind her.
I frown.
Grass and twigs litter the strands of dark gold, and her brown eyes are too wide in her face.
My instincts come to life.
I move without thinking, intercepting her as she stumbles. I catch her easily.
The chemistry's not a lie.
It's like the unpleasant feeling of getting shocked by electricity, but it feels good instead.
I get an instant hard-on.
Then her frightened face turns to mine.
Fingerprints mar the pale skin of her neck. Someone laid hands on Rose.
Rage seats itself in the center of me, and I don't ask her if she's okay, say hi, or explain my presence.
“Who?” I say in a voice filled with all the anger I can't suffocate.
“What?” she asks, so out of breath that her one-word question is a whisper.
“Who did this?” I jerk my head toward her neck.
No response.
So I drag her away from her car, and she screams, dropping to the ground.
Okay.
I haul her easily into my arms, and she thrashes, beating me with her fists.
“Fuck!” I bellow. “Trying to help here!”
Rose stops whacking me.
Big tears spill out of her eyes, and she clutches my shirt. “You're not going to hurt me?” she asks in that same harsh whisper.
I push hair out of her eyes, which are leaking everywhere.
All my carefully rehearsed words fly out the window. “Fuck no. I wouldn't ever hurt you.”
<
br /> “What are you doing here?”
Good fucking question. I've been asking myself that all day.
“You gonna freak out again if I set you down?”
She shakes her head.
I don't know, looks like it could go either way. I set her down carefully, and we assess each other.
“You're tall,” she says.
“You're beautiful,” I blurt, and instantly want to kick my own ass.
But she smiles. Not a fake thing that gets pasted on, but a genuine, makes-my-heart-pound smile.
She looks down at her feet. “Why are you here?”
Yeah, that. “I wanted to talk to you.”
Her head whips up. Half her hair is falling out of some bun thing in the back. I want to run my fingers through it, but I manage to restrain myself.
“You don't know me,” she says.
I touch the red marks on her neck and ask more gently, “Who did this?”
She seems to remember something and whirls around, facing the path she came shooting out of like a loose cannon.
I study the gloom but don't see anything.
Rose turns back and mumbles, “Nobody.”
Right. I smile then. I know it's not a nice smile. “So you choked yourself.” I mime wrapping my own fingers around my throat, making choking noises.
When she blushes, I drop my hands. “Don't cover for some prick. Who did this?” My eyes rake her body. Her exercise pants are rolled down from her waist on one side as if they were screwed on the wrong way.
A large bruise sits at her hip.
I touch it, fingertips feathering across the mark.
Rose gasps, clutching my hand.
We groan at the same time.
“God,” I say through my teeth, my dick beginning to stand at attention.
“What is it?” she asks, her eyes searching mine for answers.
“I don't know, but I'm gonna find out.”
Rose moves away, and I don't press. “You have marks on you. And I don't like it. Explain.”
She glances down then laughs. “That's me being a klutz. I ran into a countertop at work.”
Thank Christ. That still doesn't explain the throat. I stare at her skin.
“You—I don't know who you are, not really.”
I adjust my crotch with a shift of my weight. “Yeah, ya do. I met you at the bank three days ago.”
Her laugh is shaky. “True, but obviously you're an important client, and…well, I don't associate with… bikers,” she says softly.
No disrespecting the club. I hate that Rose does. I take a step closer, and she flinches.
Her fear pisses me off. “I don't hurt women. And I would never hurt you.”
She nods. “I believe you. But this thing”—she indicates her throat—“isn't any of your business, and I'm okay now.” Her eyes dance away from mine.
It isn't fucking okay, and we both know it.
“Take a ride with me,” I say suddenly.
She shakes her head, nervous eyes roaming my ride.
Fuck. I work it up from the bottom of somewhere and finally ask, “Please.” I offer my hand, palm up.
Rose studies my face for a long time.
Women don't reject me. I never gave a shit before.
I feel a wave of heat climbing my face as she stands there silently.
Then Rose surprises the hell out of me when her much smaller hand slides inside mine. It feels right.
And dangerous.
7
Rose
Wind.
Noise.
Smells.
The temperature drops as we move through a swale in the winding country road. The heat of his body seeps into mine, providing warmth. My hands tighten around his narrow waist. The smell of WD-40, mint, smoke, and bike wafts from his leather coat. It's his smell.
I don't even know his name.
He could be a murderer.
But my heart says no.
We're way east of Kent, almost to Ravensdale, by the time the bike slows, and we're rolling to a stop in front of a little cabin. The pipes rumble, their heat warming my left leg.
I glance at my sports watch.
I'm late—because I'm on the back of a bike with a man I don't know, in a place I've never been.
I slip off the seat. I'm so cold, my teeth chatter. I was smart enough to put my hair back in a semblance of a bun, but my fingers were shaking so badly that I did a crappy job.
He gets off and turns around as the kickstand sinks into the sparse gravel that blankets the dirt road.
The sun has fallen low and burns red across the trees, coating them like spilt blood. Fingers of the seeping light trail over his skin, coating it in tangerine edged by scarlet.
I think he'll come for me, peppering me with more questions. Instead, he leans back against the seat of the bike and crosses his feet at the ankles.
He digs inside a little pouch attached to the front of the bike between the handlebars and jerks out a pack of cigarettes, forearm muscles rippling with the movement. He flicks one out the top and clamps his lips around it.
A lighter appears, and the flame is a spot of gold in the dying light surrounding us.
“I don't even know your name,” I say quietly, trying to look everywhere but at him.
Impossible.
Like a magnet, his gaze seizes me again. All of me. To all of him.
“Noose,” he replies, blowing smoke rings at the sky. The twilight closes around the pale ring of smoke, darkening it to nothing as the breeze carries it away.
Noose. That's not a name, but an object.
My disquiet returns. “I guess you know my name.” My voice sounds disgruntled. I cross my arms, which are still warm from the heat of his body, but chilled by the ride.
His chin kicks up. “I know everything about you.”
I retreat a step.
His eyes narrow at my tense body as he takes another drag of his cigarette. “Not gonna hurt you. Thought we figured that part out.”
I blow out the oxygen I've been storing up in a shaky exhale. “I want to believe you.” I do. So much. “I have to text my parents. They have—”
“Charles?” His eyebrow quirks.
My breath stills again. “You scare me,” I admit, cupping my elbows.
He straightens from the seat, flicking the cigarette. He moves toward me like a big prowling cat.
“I scare a lot of people, but I—” Noose comes to stand in front of me. His finger trails down my neck. Each time he finds a mark on my throat, the movement stalls. The rough caress of his skin hesitates at each spot Drake's fingers choked me. “I'm not someone you need to be scared of, Rose.”
The way he says my name… I close my eyes at his touch and the deep rumble of his voice.
Remember Charlie. I step away, and Noose just watches, his hand falling away from me.
I take my cell from my hoodie pocket and quickly text Dad to say that I ran into a friend. My eyes move to Noose's face. Bathed in low red light, he’s sinister.
Swallowing hard, I tap out the message, asking if they can keep Charlie a little longer.
Their answer rises to the top of my cell screen like trapped smoke under glass.
Yes.
Noose is observant. “Your parents cool to watch the kid longer?”
“Yes.”
He holds out his hand, and after a heartbeat's hesitation, I take it.
Noose moves toward the front door of what looks like a little homesteader's cabin. He turns at the last second, and the last piece of daylight catches his eyes just perfectly.
They're gray, a shade so translucent they're opaque ice.
*
“What is this?” I ask as he stokes wood in a fireplace bordered by huge mottled river stones of beige and charcoal, with veins of black.
“Us or the place?” Noose asks, his broad back facing me as he expertly prepares the wood to burn.
Both. Instead, I answer, “This place.” That's ea
sier.
“Belongs to the club. Place to crash. Thought we had more shit to discuss.”
He's a tough man. I knew that when we stared across the bank counter at each other the day before yesterday.
Noose stands from the fireplace, and I take him in, from the bright-white T-shirt to the tips of his black thick-tread boots.
He's covered in ink, some of it colorful, some of it pure black against his light skin. His beard is long, square, and well-manicured. It’s slightly red, I think, but the glowing light of the fire and a kerosene lantern lick strange shadows across the battered floor, making everything muted and uncertain. His hair is spun dark gold in this light, but I remember in daylight, it was light brown.
All my checking him out ends at his hands, his thighs, and the breadth of his chest. He's such a large guy, so strong that everything else is just icing on top of the man cake.
He knows it, but he's not cocky, just sure of himself.
I've seen muscular guys before, as well as tall guys and handsome men. Noose is all this but somehow more. There's a vibrating energy to him, a substance. I don't know what it is, but that wonderful intensity responds to mine like a harmony to melody.
I want to run my hands along every ink mark on his body. I've never followed a crazy impulse in my life. But here I am.
Noose smolders under my silent observation.
My insides cook as he stares back at me. “I want to talk.” I lick my lips.
A slow smile turns his face from hard to handsome before I take my next breath.
“But you want to fuck me more,” he says like a statement, no intro or thought as to why we're here. I’m struck by the coincidence of him showing up when Drake was going rape me, though he doesn't know that.
He offers no explanation as to why some biker I met two days ago knows everything about me—and about Charlie.
