Rose (Road Kill MC #3)

by Marata Eros

  Mick wants me to give a kick-start to his six east coast clubs. It's perfect timing; I should jump at the chance. Hell, the money's awesome. Between my six-figure cop salary and Mick's generosity, I'm living large.

  My life is a steam engine. I power along, working out, hanging out with the buds. On my free time, I spar with a few other dudes who have what I need. I bang chicks who are willing to give me all the free pussy I can stand.

  Hell, life's a banquet.

  So why do I feel like I'm starving?

  The sameness rolls on like a river without borders, without texture.

  My life is smooth, satisfying.

  That pain in my chest tightens and I head to the gym. Time to put the introspective crap on a shelf.

  I get a text from Mick.

  Mick: got the jet reserved for you. Just say the word and you can skip town, get those clubs whipped into shape. Might do you good to get away.

  What with your mom biting it on the heels of you being on administrative leave, Mick doesn't say.

  I smirk at my thoughts.

  My finger hovers, hesitating about committing to the truth and my feelings. An exhale explodes out of me as I tap out a reply.

  Me: not yet, man. Still working through my shit.

  Mick: I hear you. I've got good temp people in place. You say the word when you want to escape, do something different.

  Word, my mind answers.

  Me: Gonna lie low for now, figure it out.

  Mick: ʼKay. You know where I am man.

  Before I can respond a second message pings.

  Mick: Where I've always been.

  I don't respond. I pull up outside the gym, jump out of my car, and hurl myself up the concrete steps. Time to beat my body into submission.

  Too bad my mind is so uncooperative.

  It never shuts off.

  TWO

  Simone

  “Balland? What kind of a fucked up name is that?” Tyler Grady asks.

  I cast my eyes to the floor, rubbing my hands together nervously. I stuff my anger. “It's French.”

  I'm switching out one bad gig for another, but the last place was a quasi-escort service. Translation—eventual whore. This place isn't much better, but it has a good rep for a strip joint.

  “So should I call you Frenchie?”

  God, this guy.

  I shake my head. I need the work. I need to fly under the radar.

  I clamp down on my words. I'm only allowed to be caustic inside my head. “Simone's fine.”

  “Okaaaayy,” he exaggerates the word. “Simone Bal-land.”

  He butchers the pronunciation and I roll my lip into my teeth to keep from correcting him.

  His bulging muscles and hard face motivate me as much as the job. Fear is a powerful preventative to what I call Smart Ass Syndrome.

  “Got something to say, Frenchie?” His unkind eyes take off the skimpy dress he's asked me to wear.

  Kiki told me he's a temp, a fill-in for the regular guy. What was his name? Super hero something... Tor? Thor? I don't know.

  How'd he get right in front of me? I stumble back, and he laughs.

  “You can call me Grady, Frenchie...” A speculative look comes over his face, and he cocks his head. “Do you do things with that tongue... French things?”

  He looms over me and snaps his hand around my wrist. I feel the cool metal of my sterling bangles, thin as a willow wisp, slide between our locked flesh.

  “It's Simone, Grady.” I can't stop the clench of my jaw, the grittiness of the words as they escape my teeth.

  He laughs and jerks me closer. “You're gonna do a dance on my lap and like it.”

  I'm going to like nothing he offers.

  I force myself to relax against him when what I really want to do is bite off his nose.

  I embrace the old violence and it allows me to escape the horror I'll have to endure.

  As I have before.

  Grady seems to sense my acceptance and leads me to the chair behind the desk. My eyes lock on the Black Rose insignia inscribed on a stack of business cards. We all know what happened to the billionaire owner's sister and what the Rose stands for.

  He falls into the chair, bringing me with him.

  I straddle him like a champ.

  “Move your whore ass. Show me what you're made of.”

  I clench my eyes shut and imagine a beautiful man.

  A man who lives to please, whose every breath holds the wish of me in it. I bring him to the surface of my mind, all rough edges and raw love.

  He wants to adore every inch of my body.

  My perfect man doesn't care that I'm damaged, that I'm smart, that I don't have blond hair and blue eyes, that I’m not built like a model.

  Or that my goddamned last name has a silent D.

  Grady's hands are on my breasts. I scream inside for mercy.

  For safety.

  Release.

  The door bursts open behind us, cracking the wall and I turn.

  Unbelievable.

  I suddenly feel like the meat in a sandwich of testosterone.

  In the doorway is a huge man, skin like succulent milk chocolate, eyes like black candy, and so many muscles they seem animated as he stands still, as if he's always in motion.

  Tats carve ebony ribbons from the bottom of his skull in a tribal pathway down his arms that peek from beneath a screaming red tee.

  “Simone?” His voice is harsh, bold... expectant.

  I blink at him.

  I'm so blown away that, while Grady's hands hold my tits, I automatically answer, “Yes?”

  “Simone Balland?” he repeats, quieter this time.

  I nod, not daring to get off Grady's lap but dying to.

  He said my last name exactly right.

  “Get off him.”

  I struggle off, and Grady's eyes narrow.

  He twists my nipple as I go. I must make a small noise because the man moves from the door to around the desk in two strides.

  It must be fifteen feet, but he's in front of us instantly.

  “Get the fuck outta here, Grady.” His thumb jerks over his shoulder at the door.

  The potential for violence is tangible, a scent in the air.

  Grady laces his hands behind his head, leaning back in the swivel chair.

  I jerk down my nude-colored dress, and Grady leers at me, his eyes tracking my movements.

  I lift my chin, and Grady looks at me as though he wants to knock me down for that small defiant gesture.

  I'm embarrassed by the interruption, and so grateful it feels painful.

  “Listen, Thorn, I’m just having a little fun. Don't be a cock-block.”

  Thorn, that's his name.

  Thorn grabs a handful of Grady's shirt and jerks him up to nose level. “Don't fuck with me, Grady. I told you I was doing the lap with this dancer, not you. You. Fill. In. Got me?”

  I scramble out of the way. I'm not sure Grady does get it. I'm pretty sure I don't want to be in the path of the delivery.

  Grady leans in, and Thorn holds his position. The two men are matched in size, but Thorn has a presence, a swirling energy of anger and violence.

  I back away. Thorn’s the type of man I avoid. Grady's a low-life; him, I can handle. If I take a dose of his filth, men like Grady think they’ve won the battle.

  All the time, it's me who has won the war.

  A sheet of paper wouldn't fit between their chests.

  “I said hold her. I was running behind. I said I'd be here, you dig?” Thorn clarified.

  I back up until something solid stops me. I plaster myself against the wall.

  Grady's hard eyes slim down on Thorn. “What's so special about this crack?” He tosses an angry palm in my direction.

  “Not that I have to answer to you, but it's a favor.”

  Grady nods, not giving an inch, but things don't seem as if they'll come to blows. “It's that mouthy snatch, Kiki.”

  I gasp. Thorn tenses before
he snaps his head forward into a cracking blow against Grady's.

  Grady staggers back, landing on the arm rest of the chair and spearing himself in the ass. He bellows, grabs his cheeks, and pitches forward from the rolling chair's momentum.

  I slap my hand over my mouth to stifle a suicidal urge to laugh. I slide along the wall toward the door.

  Where smart women go when things get fucking stupid.

  “Don't go anywhere,” Thorn says, not looking at me.

  He probably won't kick my ass since he’s doing it to Grady.

  Still, I give the door an almost lustful glance.

  “I think we're all fucking clear now, right, Grady?”

  Grady's eyebrow drips blood, and he nods. Thorn's shoulders drop a little, some of the tension from the encounter leaving him.

  Grady rears up like a clever bull in a sneaky charge and aims to drill his fist through Thorn's crotch.

  I gasp for the second time.

  It's a glancing blow but it brings Thorn to his knees. A cheap shot.

  Grady looks at me and grins.

  I sprint for the door, and he jumps around Thorn, coming after me.

  Grady's hand lands on my wrist and I know how to break his grip. I've always known.

  I twist savagely to the right and break the dominant grip of his right hand. He's so surprised, he hesitates.

  I slam the flat of my palm into the wound on his head. Using the heel of my pump, I jab his instep in a fast strike of precision and leverage, not strength.

  Grady howls, and his fist comes. I see it for miles and duck, driving my elbow into his solar plexus. He leaks as if he's full of gas before he lands on his muscular ass.

  The bigger they are, the harder they fall.

  I whirl around, and Thorn is there. I'm in self-defense mode to the nth degree, and I move in tight to take down a guy who outweighs me by a hundred pounds and has eight inches on me.

  “Whoa, easy,” Thorn says as if I'm a horse.

  Well, this filly is escaping the stable.

  I move around him, and he doesn't touch me. He sticks his foot out in a classic judo move, and I'm so flustered I miss it until I’m tripping over it. I throw my hands out for balance, and he grabs my forearms and spreads them, jerking both hands behind my body and pulling me in tight.

  “Holy fuckballs, that's the hottest thing I've ever seen,” Thorn says. “Screw the lap dance. You're hired.”

  Grady moans from the floor, and Thorn's face dips like he might kiss me.

  I bite his lip as though my teeth will meet.

  Thorn screams like a wounded animal and releases me. I jerk open the door, leave the two bleeding men behind me, and race out of the Black Rose with my dignity intact.

  And no job.

  THREE

  Thorn

  Doctor Ludwig gives the wound one last suture, closing it expertly. “You know, you should get a tetanus shot, Mr. Simon.”

  I glare at the doctor. “Sure, I'll get right on that.”

  With all my spare time. Undercover cop, east coast clubs to shore up, and a wayward lap dancer who put the beat down on now-fired Grady.

  Really going through the staff like a revolving door.

  No fucking way is Thorn gonna deal with a chunk out of his ego the size of the Grand Canyon.

  “You say a dog did this?” Ludwig quizzes. His eyebrows pull together.

  Fuck.

  “Yeah, did I goddamned stutter?”

  His face goes blank, and I realize I jumped his shit because I'm embarrassed. Stay classy, Thorn.

  “Sorry, Doc. I just—I didn't need this trumped up bullshit when I'm in the middle of housecleaning.”

  Ludwig's eyebrow rises.

  “I have some clubs Mr. McKenna needs me to streamline.”

  “Ah,” Ludwig replies, letting his surgical tools fall into a kidney-shaped container. They bathe in some strange-looking water. “That explains your foul mood.”

  Not always.

  Ludwig strips off his latex gloves with a snap, rubber-banding them straight into a hole in the countertop labeled Bio-hazard.

  “Thanks, Doc.” I clap him on the back, and he lurches forward.

  He straightens the lapels of his white lab coat and pushes his wildly colored glasses back up the bridge of his nose. “I can't force you to get a shot, but that's a nasty wound on your lip.”

  I nod. It's all good. I'll slap on some of that ointment he handed me and find the person responsible.

  Simone Balland—French name.

  I'm fluent. My grandmother was Haitian.

  Simone Balland puts the E in exotic.

  As I walk away, Ludwig calls out, “Mr. Simon?”

  I turn around. “Some dogs aren't meant to be domesticated.”

  He knows.

  Ludwig turns away from me, giving me his back. “You might want to keep that in mind.”

  I stalk out.

  I've got something in mind all right.

  *

  Kiki crosses her arms underneath her tits. “Listen, Thorn, I asked you to help out with Simone, not try to beat her up.”

  I throw up my hands and pace in an angry march. “No—”

  I point at her, and she gets that look. The Kiki Look. Damn. She's so fucking stubborn.

  “I did not try to ‘beat her up.’ Man, you'd know it if I had.”

  She looks as if she swallowed a lemon. Whole. “Well then, how do you explain that?” Her palm flies toward my mouth. I unconsciously touch it. Stings like hell. “Things got out of hand.”

  Kiki's hoops swing as she nods. “How do things escalate from Grady meeting her for you because you were late to Grady getting his ass kicked by Simone before she munches on your mouth, huh?”

  It sounds pretty bad when she says it like that. “I wasn't going to hurt her, Kik.”

  She rolls her eyes. “Duh. But don't you know when to go easy, Thorn? Grady, the dickless wonder, worked her over, the very thing I wanted to avoid by having you there instead. Then you think you'll what? Put your hands on her to calm her down?”

  “I—no.” I exhale in an angry rush. “I just didn't want her to leave.” I scrub my head in an angry swipe, wincing at the knot I put there.

  So worth it to clock Grady. “Simone bit me and pulled her freak out...”

  Kiki gets in close and I stand there, waiting for a lecture. “I can't give you her number.”

  I grip her shoulders, looking deeply into her eyes. “Listen—Kik, I know I fucked up.”

  “You got that...”

  I give a rough exhale. “I wanna make it right.”

  She shakes her head. “I don't know Thorn, you're a hard man.”

  Hard man. I digest her words.

  I don't know what she sees on my face, but she's quick to add, “A good guy. You're one of the good guys. You saved Faren. You save girls like me... and Faren. But this girl? She needs...” Kiki looks down, hiding her face from me.

  I tip her chin up with a finger. “What? What's so goddamned special about Simone Balland?”

  Kiki's eyebrow pops. “What—how did you say her last name?”

  I say it again.

  “God... it sounds exotic when you say it like that.”

  I bristle. “It's French.”

  “Ooh la la... and oui oui!” she says in a horrible French accent.

  She notes my sour expression. “What? Thorn!” She laughs and points at me. “Don't tell me you speak French?”

  Her disbelief kinda pisses me off.

  I don't answer. I just walk to the door. I'm frustrated and can't seem to redeem myself from the ego splat I took.

  From a lap dancer.

  A very hot, hard-fighting chick with a French name and a body like Venus.

  I decide she makes my dick hurt as I flinch when my tongue runs over the bite she gave me.

  “What are you smiling about?” Kiki asks, running after me as I swing the door open.

  “Les possibilités,” I reply.

 
; “What did you say?” she asks, her eyes narrowing at me.

  I don't translate the French.

  I leave Kiki in a huff. I have something to think about besides looking for the man who's my real father.

  *

  “God, Ty, no. I'm not going to help you find some chick you're jonesin' to tap. No.”

  “Tag, don't be an ass. Look at my mouth, pal.” I spread my palms wide as his hazels laser in on the wound.

  Detective Lance Tagger, fearless partner of lots o’ crime busts with yours truly, folds his arms.

  “You let a chick beat you down while some guy did a baby move to your gonads?”

  I grunt. “Yeah, you got me. Dumb move.”

  “Elementary move, Watson. Cover the nutsack. Don't leave the family jewels hanging like a bull’s-eye.”

  I sigh and lower my chin, digging for patience. Which I suck at.

  Tag studies my face with a perma-smirk slapped on his. Asshole. “Is she really that much of a distraction?”

  “It's not just that, Tag... I messed up. I was late. Kiki asked—”

  His eyebrow rises. “I thought she wasn't doing poles? Grad school or something?”

  I nod, not really listening. “Yeah.” I wave his question away. “I guess Kiki was leaving that day and ran into Simone...”

  “Simone?” Tag's lovin' this shit: the bitten lip, the hot girl who kicked my ass. Yeah, this is right up his fuck-with-Thorn alley.

  Play nice, Thorn. “Yeah, man, Simone.”

  “God, okay. I'll look her up.” Tag rolls his eyes at me. “Don't fuck it up. The department finds out I'm lifting a name from the system, it'll be my wiener on a stick.”

  I nod. He plops down in his computer chair, and his fingers fly over the keys. I lean over his shoulder, one hand gripping the side of the desk.

  “Hey, Simon,” a beat cop greets me from across the room, and I lift my chin.

  “Surname?” Tagger asks.

  I tell him.

  “What? Say it normally.”

  “That is normal.”

  He gives me a sidelong glance. “Oh. Is—is it foreign?”