Knot (Road Kill MC #2)

by Marata Eros

  I won't be in a tight spot.

  I'll be behind Diablo, choking the life out of his body.

  Snare moves to my right, looking at all the neatly knotted ropes.

  He chuckles. “Looks like a bunch of rope to tie off shit in the back of a truck.”

  Not to me.

  Every rope holds a different fiber, a knot specifically designed to match the material and the need.

  My eyes caress a short length of rope, knotted at either end. The knobs are just big enough for my closed hands to not slip beyond the ends. The rope fiber is slightly abrasive. Just enough to catch on flesh.

  Stubble. Sinew.

  Whatever human is beneath me will feel the burn of my ropes.

  The lump of my knots.

  My power of my will.

  4

  Rose

  Puck sort of dumps me at a bench seat that runs the length of a long, cafeteria-sized table.

  I plunk my elbows on the laminate-wood top and use my palms to prop my face up.

  Bad move.

  The wounds Drake gave me are tender and don't want a hand or anything else near them. A whimper slips out from between my lips, and I fold my arms in front of me, carefully lowering the undamaged side of my face onto my crossed arms.

  Exhausted, I close my eyes.

  “What do you want?” Puck asks.

  “Anything with meat,” I answer automatically.

  “I got your meat,” Drake says from somewhere in the room.

  Tears slip out from behind my eyelids. I hate this. I hate him. I'm hungry, but because I used up my glucose stores with the adrenaline and my fear over what Drake's doing, I'm already low again. Weak.

  “So deli meat or what?”

  “Sure,” I answer Puck. I hear boots stomping off.

  A weight drops down at the end of the bench, and I crack my eyes open.

  Drake smiles at me. “You better eat up.”

  I turn my head in the opposite direction, wincing from the pain on that side of my face where he slapped me. But at least I'm not looking at him.

  I hear a shuffle, then a weight drops down on the other side.

  A finger stabs my crotch. “Wakey-wakey, slut.”

  I yelp, my eyes snapping open. Drake is sitting a foot away from me, his finger digging between my labia.

  “Take your fucking hands off me.” The throbbing of my face and my exhaustion is all forgotten with the sensation of his biting fingers.

  “No can do,” he breathes next to my face, and it's too much. I gag.

  “Fuck!” he yells, leaping away. “You gonna puke again? Fucking disgusting.”

  I smile. He literally makes me sick.

  Puck walks back into the room from a door at one end. His eyes flick between us. “Here's some grub.”

  I look at the food on the plate, trying to work up appetite. “Do you have any candy?” I ask quietly.

  “Yeah?” Puck's dark eyebrows lift, and I'm able to pay a little more attention to him. He's not huge like Noose, more lean and cut—all angles and planes. But his eyes aren't cruel. He tosses a Snickers across the table. It hits my forearm, and I pick it up.

  It'll do. I'm not really in a position to be choosy. I tear away the wrapper, break off one third, and cram it into my mouth.

  “You're a real class act.”

  I don't dignify Drake with a reply. Instead, I keep chewing. With a fingertip, I pull the plastic plate over to me. There's cheese sticks and rolled pieces of what looks like roast beef.

  Silent tears course down my cheeks as I mechanically chew my food. I flick the tears off with a finger.

  Puck slugs a water bottle down on the table, and I jump.

  Drake laughs.

  I untwist the cap and chug half, choking the whole load down.

  After about four or five minutes, I start to feel better. More energy. Anger comes next, of course. I can't help but be angry.

  I am the only mom Charlie has, and because this fucking creep is pissed that his boy is with me, he's going to torture me into compliance. But he can't kill me or do too much because it'll look too obvious if I go to the courthouse all mangled.

  Think, Rose.

  I finish two cheese sticks and four rolled tubes of deli meat. “The way I see it, you can't mess me up too badly, or you won't get Charlie.”

  Drake's black eyes narrow on me like darts. “Don't try to be smart. I'll do you any way I want. You let me be the smart one.” Drake pops a nut off from my plate into his mouth and cracks it with his teeth.

  “You couldn't be smart if someone gave you brains for Christmas,” I say in a steady voice.

  Puck groans.

  Drake stands, hitching up his jeans. He holds out his hand. “Come on, bitch. You're gonna take a leak, then you'll get the beef fuel injection.”

  I stand. “You can force me to have sex with you. But you won't win Charlie that way. You won't win, period.”

  “By the time I'm done with your holes, you'd give that kid to the devil.”

  Fear slides through me like ice, but my voice is level. “We'll see.”

  Drake smiles as he grabs my arm, jerking me behind him.

  Puck's eyes follow me. They look sad.

  Not as sad as mine.

  *

  “I don't want sloppy seconds.” Drake shoves me toward the bathroom door. “Use a fucking razor. Shave your twat hair off, pits, legs. I want a smooth body to fuck. And make sure you soap every piece of you.”

  I turn on him. “Oh, and you're so clean?”

  His lips pull back from his teeth. “You get me any way I want you to have me.” Drake points at me. “But you, I want lily-fucking-white.” His eyelids droop. “I want to make you dirty, Rose. As filthy as I see you.”

  I stomp into the bathroom and turn on the hot water. Taking a shower and being clean sounds marvelous. Just talking to that miserable excuse of a man makes me feel unclean. I try not to think about what'll happen when I do finally get clean.

  I take my time shaving everything off and soaping all my parts, paying special attention to my vagina.

  I do what he says to avoid whatever part of any beating I can.

  My tears mix with the hot water from the shower. I lean against the tile, sobbing.

  Noose had kissed me in the place that is now smooth and squeaky clean. He touched me. And not just my body—my heart, as well.

  Now Drake intends to rape that memory away.

  Noose had seemed to really care. Now it doesn't matter. He doesn't know what happened to me.

  I have to survive this to get back to Charlie. If Drake thinks raping me is going to force me to do what he wants, he can suck it.

  I finish with my hair, sudsing then rinsing. A door opens, and I freeze.

  “Something for you to wear, slut.”

  The door closes.

  Stepping out of the shower with a towel clenched around me, I see a pile of clothes inside the door, with stripper-type shoes to match.

  I pluck the dress, if it can be called that, from the floor. It's a couple of Band-Aids of fabric secured by a bisecting piece of material that runs from my breasts to my crotch.

  I breathe shallowly through my despair as I pick up the itchy, sparkling navy blue dress.

  Slipping it over my head, I rake it over my curves without ceremony then walk into the shoes, which are slightly too tight. I bow to latch the ankle straps. Clear heels hold shiny silver straps, slightly opalescent.

  Drake rips open the door as if on cue. His eyes run down my figure, land on the shoes, and move to my face. “I want the fucking wet hair done, makeup, the entire works.”

  “Why?” I ask, so frustrated I could scream. “Why all the fanfare so you can rape me.”

  Fresh tears spring, rendering the old ones to tracks of dried pain.

  “Trust me. This whole thing will be much worse with you all pretty and clean—dolled up.”

  He's right.

  I turn on the unsteady heels and move to the mir
ror.

  Our eyes meet in the reflection. There's no pity or remorse in his brown gaze. Only intent to defile.

  Instead of slamming the door, he simply shuts it softly.

  The entire behavior switch is making me feel worse, not better. Drake's going to do something worse than rape.

  Not knowing what is somehow worst of all.

  *

  I can't imagine why there is a bunch of stuff for women in the bathroom. Every drawer I open has the trappings of feminine toiletries. Tampons. Makeup. Curling irons.

  There's even a pair of hoop earrings.

  I carefully put on the makeup, using way more than I normally do, avoiding the swelling. I slap on the trashy look. It's defiant on my part, and I don't give a damn. Scarlett lipstick makes my lips pout. Dark violet shadow in the crease of my eyelids causes the luster of my brown eyes to glitter darkly in the mirror's reflection.

  Mascara takes my lashes to new heights as they swoop upward, brushing my eyebrows.

  My hair looks like caramel in this light. I've done something to it with the product that adds sheen, taming the waviness to just a few bends, and the strands glow like whiskey.

  With a last smack of my lips, I sweep all the stuff back into the drawer and exit the bathroom.

  Several men are standing around. They turn and look at me.

  Eyes travel my body like ants crawling a hill.

  I flush a deep red. The wave of warmth travels to my head in a swift layer of heat.

  No.

  Drake smiles, coming forward.

  I shake my head, and he just keeps moving.

  “Come here, slut.”

  I'm not wearing panties or a bra. There was nothing like that in the pile.

  I retreat, losing mental ground with that single step.

  Drake seizes my arm, dragging me on my tottering heels to the table I'd eaten at. He swipes his arm across the surface and backs me up against the edge. I tip, flopping onto my back.

  The bikers close in.

  I take a quick tally. Five men, including Drake.

  My heart tries to escape my chest as I struggle to rise onto my elbows.

  “Here's the brothers that want a taste of your twat.” Drake says snidely, indicating the group with his palm.

  I finally manage to prop up on my elbows, but one of the men takes hold of my wrists and pulls them backward, lengthening my body into a long line.

  My breasts are barely covered. Another man starts to knead them in his large hands. My boobs are so big, he can't get his fingers around them all.

  “Holy shit, this is some rack.”

  A horrible mewling sound slides out from between my tight lips.

  Without warning, Drake kicks my dangling legs apart and plunges a finger deep inside me.

  “No!” I scream.

  “This is not going to be a rape, Rose. This is a different thing altogether. We're going to make you want to come. Then you'll get some relief.”

  Is this even possible?

  I gather my saliva and spit in his face.

  The wet string hangs off his unshaven jaw for a moment then lands with a dull plop on the hard table.

  With his free hand, he wipes off my spit. “Doesn't matter,” he says, his finger moving back and forth inside my vagina.

  My entire body is tense. I shut my eyes so I don't have to look at him as he violates me.

  I think of Charlie.

  Survive.

  “Tight,” he says in a hoarse voice. “Not for long, though. A few more cocks in here, and you'll be loose and sloppy. Perfect.”

  My eyes open, and I chance a glance at his crotch, seeing his erection strain against his jeans. I bite my lip, turning away, and close my eyes.

  When will this end?

  My body slides back and forth as Drake's finger pumps inside me while one man holds me down and the other keeps mounding my breasts.

  Then his fingers tweak my nipple.

  “No,” I whisper, squirming, and the hard hold on my wrists becomes painful.

  I stop moving.

  He keeps rolling my nipple. Back and forth. Back and forth. Again and again.

  Drake finger fucks me, and my dry channel stops being dry.

  It becomes wet.

  My body is betraying me. But I can only keep fear and adrenaline at a certain level. When my body can't fight its way out of the hold at my wrists and sheer pain isn't being used, my torture becomes something completely different.

  “Look at this cunt,” Drake says, and the men gather around to look between my spread legs. “Just a little finger action, and it's sopping wet.”

  I want to cry. Die. Be anywhere but here.

  His eyes travel to mine triumphantly. Raping me would have been simple; working my body is complicated.

  Worse.

  When he swivels his thumb to my clit, I bite my lip to keep from crying out. His gaze never leaves my eyes.

  I hate Drake.

  But he's not offering violence like he promised. He didn't even retaliate for me spitting in his ugly face.

  This is so much worse.

  He's defeating my body one piece at a time.

  My mind.

  6

  Noose

  The Nova purrs like a satisfied cat as Snare, and I consume the shadowy ink of the road.

  Lariat's driving one of the other cars, with Wring riding cockpit. A prospect is in each vehicle. Lots of learning to do tonight. Crash course.

  “What do you think?” Snare asks quietly.

  I'm not smoking for once. I’m too keyed up, and my head hurts too fucking bad. What do I think? I think Rose is being worked over as we speak. “I don't know. Hoping this is the best guess, and she's right where she should be.”

  “Gonna have Chaos prospects at every corner, checking out shit. Patrolling.”

  I grunt. I'm okay with that.

  “Seems like you and Lariat have history,” Snare says suddenly.

  Snare's never asked about my time in the military before. I give him a quick glance then put my eyes back on the road. “Yeah.”

  His dark eyebrows rise, but I only see the shadow of movement from the corner of my eye.

  I take the right heading east off 132nd. Two cars in front, one behind. Headlights and taillights escort me like false suns as we make our way east.

  Snare doesn't push. So I talk. That feels right. The night blankets the land, suffocating everywhere I look with a blackness so total, I'd think I was blind if I didn't know better.

  I'm so fucking far gone over Rose, I want to talk for once. “We were in a bad spot during an altercation.”

  Read: killing.

  I had a target. A termination. That's not something our government admits we do. Everything is sterilized for public consumption. But men out in the field, we're not consuming anything. We're following orders.

  “Lariat and I had a difference of opinion. He never agreed with what went down.”

  Killed a man.

  A man with a family. A wife and a bushel of kids.

  And a house filled with AK-47s.

  He'd been supplying Al-Qaeda.

  He'd gotten my do-it-anywhere knot while feeding his flock of goats. Herd? Whatever—fuck.

  I run a hand through my hair, forgetting Snare's presence, reliving the event like it was yesterday.

  I can still smell the dry heat of the desert even though it was late evening, with only the moon, the goats, and alfalfa keeping me company.

  The goats knew I was there before the target did.

  A little boy, maybe three, had toddled to the door, and a sharp Arabic command had him doing an about-face.

  Not before Lariat had stayed my hand.

  I'd fisted my knot. Only one side. The other dangled from my left hand. The dominant always closed the deal.

  The strangle.

  “Nope,” Lariat jerked his chin at the target. “He's just some civilian farmer. Bad intel, Noose.” He shrugged, half his face illuminated by moonl
ight, the other half in pure darkness. A momentary image of his face being sliced off had blown through my mind and was gone before I could catch it.

  “No. Target.” I looked at his hand on my arm. It fell. Lariat had been fucking with my headspace. I didn't need that before a sanction.

  He hissed his exhale.

  I glared silently at him.

  He held my stare for a space of seconds then folded his arms. Prick.

  I moved out of the line of trees, little more than scrub brush, and crept forward. Planting my feet on the balls, I inched along.

  The target bowed his head, petting a goat.

  My stomach contracted painfully—Lariat's words fucking with me.

  I moved forward again.

  I wrapped my knots, keeping the rope taut.

  Four feet.

  Two.

  The target had turned in what seemed like slo-mo, revealing crooked teeth in a mouth that parted. Unsurprised eyes fixed on mine. He slid a gun smoothly from beneath his cumbersome robes.

  My mind had shut off, body going automatic. My feet swiveled, the right foot planting in the dusty ground.

  The goats bleated in alarm.

  My left arm secured the right; the rope looped the target's neck.

  The tapping of the machine gun about an inch away from my ear sounded like firecrackers.

  His body bucked as my wrists snapped and twisted, coming together hard.

  The gun dropped with a thud as the goats’ racket notched up.

  Hands floated around my head like sick birds.

  They eventually stopped.

  I held my rope, knots burning against my hands in sweet comfort.

  After a full two minutes, I snapped my hands apart and kicked the body away from me.

  Three small children looked at me from the glow of an open door on a house that was barely a shack.

  I hit the ground when the oldest boy lifted another gun.

  Gunfire crackled in the background.

  Lariat leapt from his post.

  The small bodies fell.

  I remember his tears.

  And mine.

  *

  “Hello?” Snare says, and I snap out of the memory like a rubber band breaking. “So you were saying, before you blew a fuse, that you guys got in a disagreement when you were both in the Middle East.”