by Marata Eros
He's younger looking than Viper and has an air of sophistication that Viper lacks. But Mover is a window-dressing kind of guy. How the two of them could have ever been friends, rode together—beats me. They don't agree, and he doesn't seem like a rider.
“Now we have a new ʻNed.ʼ” He frames Ned's name in finger quotes, a vague smile on his mouth.
His eyes fall on me like a physical blow. I wish I could tell Noose, You know how when someone is going to say something terrible, you fucking feel it? My skin crawls before Mover’s words begin.
“I believe you know him—intimately, Snare.”
My heart beats a rhythm out of my chest.
“Riker Locklear has come on board. And we're happy to welcome him into the arms of the Chaos Riders MC.”
No.
He flips his suit coat lapels behind his hips, resting his hands flat on his thighs as he leans back and surveys our reaction. Never seen the prick's cut. Does he even have one? I think, trying like fuck not to think about my dad being a player in our rival MC.
What it means for me. For Sara.
“Ned was a cunning fox. Stayed hidden, had a great cover, but he was getting sloppy with the flesh trafficking and had outlived his usefulness. Or so we thought. We believed, wrongly, he'd lost his Midas touch. That he could no longer finger our fortunes and turn them into gold. What it really was? Ned was keeping all the treasure for himself.” Mover gives a rueful shake of his head, as though considering Ned’s stupidity.
Can't argue with that.
“Then you should let us go. You understand what Ned caused to happen. Robbing us of guns when we're trying to regain our losses was a bad move.” Noose's jaw slides back and forth like he's chewing his words and spitting them out.
Mover flops a finger up and down in Noose's direction. “No. What Riker lacks in finesse, he makes up for in brute control. He has a drug connection that, if he can keep off the sauce for an extended period of time, he should be able to funnel all the capital we need to get our endeavors back on line. We need the guns.” He flips his palm out. “Capital.”
I stare at him. “What does my dad have to do with why I'm here?”
Mover digs in his suit coat pocket, extracting sunflower seeds and popping a handful inside his mouth.
Makes me salivate I'm so fucking starved.
He kicks his chin up, spitting the shells out like bullets in the general direction of the drain. Waffling his hand back and forth, he says, “Riker wanted information. We gave it to him. I was performing a bit of research on the girl he wanted to know about. And unfortunately, you happened upon us at exactly the wrong time.”
“The right time,” I say in a voice that has made other men piss their pants.
Not Mover. He's immune to my threat. He smiles at my words, his bright white teeth grinding away. He spits more seeds, and I clench my fists, balling my shoulders together like I'm preparing to swing my arms down.
Noose gives an almost imperceptible shake of his head.
I've never wanted to kill someone like I do Mover in this moment. My hands burn with his murder, my fingertips aching with the urge to dispatch his life.
Can't. I'm strung up like a pig for slaughter.
He lifts a shoulder, going on. “So he wants this young woman. He will take her whereabouts in exchange for the first shipment of drugs. How could we refuse? The guns help finance this.”
I bellow into the room, a scream of pure anguish.
Mover and the lumbering prospect wince as my anguish fills the space. Riker has sought Chaos so he can have Sara.
And now Sara's waiting for me in her apartment. Unprotected—vulnerable. Maybe thinking that I went back on my word. And there's no way to inform Trainer.
All of it fucking crucifies me.
Mover stands. “So you see, if you'd just not walked into that room while she swallowed my load, you wouldn't even be here.” He shrugs. “The guns were a bonus. I'll meet with Viper. He'll be distracted, because his sergeant at arms and his precious knotter are missing. I'll put the screws to him, tell him I have you both. Sara will be long gone.”
“Don't let him have her, Mover. Please.” I swallow the lump in my throat. “I'm begging you.”
He appears to shiver, hunching his shoulders and giving a little delighted chortle. “I enjoy the sound of begging.” His eyes slit thoughtfully. “No can do. The deal's done. Sara the stripper is Riker's property now.” He swings his gaze to the ceiling, appearing to think his words over while a cold sweat breaks out over my exposed skin in a roll of slick terror. “Or whatever Riker's version of property is. I don't think his idea of property matches the MC version, do you?” Mover doesn't really want an answer, he wants to maim with his words.
“I'll leave you boys to hold hands or chat about your wretched predicament, but one final piece of news I have especially for you, Snare.”
My body tenses.
His smile is slow, insidious in its cruelty. “Riker just fed me a little tidbit about his stepdaughter. His soon-to-be new whore.” He clasps his hands behind him, appearing thoughtful.
“Sara has a daughter.”
My breath literally stops. I can't draw air, think—move. The kid she babysits? It's her kid?
“She's four years old or so now. Black hair.” His eyes run over my head. “Blue eyes.” His gaze meets mine significantly. “Too bad you didn't know your little stepsister birthed your spawn.” His smile is knowing, while I try to fight my throat closing in acute panic. “Now she'll never know her daddy,” he says, his voice gone low.
Mover turns the chair around, righting it against the cinder block wall where it was, and whistles tunelessly as he makes his way out the door.
The metal clanks in finality as he throws the bolt from the other side.
The sound echoes in my mind, along with the screams I imagine I hear from Sara.
From my daughter.
16
Sara
I'm not much for taking orders, but I do what Lola said. I prop my feet up, crossing them at the ankles. I shaved and lathered and rinsed, then I'd filled the tub to the brim with scented lavender crystals.
Soothing.
My foot moves in time to a silent beat, my eyes checking out the clock in the hall through the open bathroom door. Jaylin is safe with Lola, and I'm getting downtime.
I force myself to be calm and relax. But it's impossible not to think of Snare. Lola's right. Why would he work so hard to find me, barging into my life again after I so painfully and obviously excavated a spot for myself without him?
A tremor of fear courses through me that even the heat of the bathwater can't soothe away. What if Snare's hurt?
I squeeze my eyes shut.
What if Riker got to him?
My fingers curl around the rolled porcelain rim of the tub, gripping the coolness. Trying for calm.
Fuck it.
I stand, water dripping off me like a river and sounding loud in the amplified acoustics of the small bathroom.
I step out onto my fluffy lime-green bath rug and pop the drain, watching the water swirl down.
Sighing, I rip a bath towel off the old-fashioned thick glass rod and wrap my hair up high on my head. I dry off, getting my feet and between my toes last. Straightening, I swab on deodorant, lotion, squirting body spray. Finally, I move to my bedroom and tossing open the closet door I slip on my most comfy yoga pants with the banded tie-dye waist. I fold them down and throw on a T-shirt. I slip my feet into flip-flops and move out into the living room.
The ticking clock counts the time with loud insistence. The stillness of the apartment without Jaylin's kid noises stifles me.
I think I've had just about all the alone time I can stand.
Tonight, I get Jaylin back. Tomorrow, I move on. If Snare hasn't come, I go forward with the plan to help Micah and Denny. They don't deserve to live without justice. And Riker can't do anything to me. I'll move far away. Like different-state far away.
I won
't lie.
I bite my thumbnail, thinking about how the police had seemed to discount Riker's presence outside my apartment.
But I realize that to them, I seemed like a panicker. Because there's no record of Riker's abuse connected to me without admitting who I really am. He'd flown under the radar. In part because of the shitty place we lived and how normal that kind of stuff was. Abuse. Drinking. Rape.
Yeah. Too common, I think sadly.
Then factoring in Snare's refusal to confess what we were really living, for fear Riker would return and take it out on the twins—or me?
No wonder there'd been no concern from the police.
It's time for the shame and uncertainty to live somewhere other than inside me. Time for me to not rely on Snare—whether or not he is even coming back. I'm ashamed at how quickly I fell back into a mental pattern of counting on Snare—the very man I want to protect from being obligated to me in the way he was.
I walk to the door, turn the knob, and poke my head out.
The four apartments on the tenth floor are quiet. I glance at the huge face of my pure white wristwatch, the shiny gold second hand ticking like heartbeats of time.
Straight up ten o'clock. Jaylin's sleeping.
I fill the threshold of my doorway, trying to figure out if I want Jaylin back bad enough to wake her.
I decide I do.
After stepping out into the hall, I close the door behind me and throw the looped bolt that keeps it slightly ajar as I'm swinging it shut. I walk the thirty feet to the end unit.
I knock softly. After a few seconds, I hear a low curse.
I'm still smiling when Lola's hazel eyeball fills the crack in the door. “What are you doing? I just got monkey down.” She's frowning.
“I miss her.”
She opens the door, swinging a palm toward me. “Come in, you needy bitch.”
I suppress a laugh, trying to be quiet in case Jaylin's already asleep.
Looking around Lola's place has me smiling for real. Everything is pure Pier 1 Imports. Sheer cloth with beaded fringe is thrown over the top of lamps to soften the light to whatever color Lola deems is “in the moment.” A curtain of large wooden beads with faceted plastic separator beads defines the small space between kitchen and living room. Very bohemian.
They rattle as she parts them like a diving swimmer. “You coming?” she asks.
I nod, following her through the beaded curtain.
Lola's in my favorite pajamas. Leaping frogs litter the fabric, hopping forever above sparkling lily pads. Big fuzzy slippers complete the white-trash look, and her hair is encased in foam curlers for the night.
She pats her head. “You're seeing my beauty secret.”
I giggle, and her frown returns.
“I'm okay with my hippie curtain,” I say, grabbing the topknot of hair that rides at the crown of my head. My long hair is part of my act, and I use it when I strip.
When I used to strip.
It's almost long enough to sit on, and that lets me know when I need a trim. Usually, I just throw it up on top of my head, and it flops around like a semipermanent ornament. For my act, I let it crawl over my body, flowing over me like chocolate water as I twirl at the pole, arch, grind, and dip to take the Dicksʼ money. I shake those thoughts away.
Lola likes her extreme coiffing. I like simple. It works.
We smile at each other.
“Hippie curtain?” Lola's fingers trail over my huge bun at the top of my head.
Silence cocoons us as she turns toward the cooktop and quietly makes my favorite. The aroma of hot cocoa fills the kitchen. She opens a bag of marshmallows already sitting on the counter and plops three in my steaming mug.
Turning the mug's handle to me, I take it from her. Sipping slowly, I savor the rich thick texture of all that chocolate goodness. My head tilts back, and I sigh.
“Good, right?” she asks, and I nod, my eyes still closed.
“Don't take Jaylin. Just let her sleep.” Her eyes don't leave mine, nailing me to the spot. “She's had a great time here. You're a single mom—when do you ever just have some time to yourself?”
Lola's right. And I know the answer: never.
I hug the mug of hot cocoa to my chest, not answering. Finally, when Lola's eyebrows are hiked to her tightly wound hairline, I answer, “I miss him. It's like—I got a taste of Snare, and one will never be enough.” My chest aches, and I keep my mug there, trying not to cry.
“He'll come for you, Ki—Sara,” Lola corrects. “Maybe he's just getting things together, ya know—making a nest for you.”
We both get the same thought, glancing at her tiny guest bedroom that is a mirror of my own. Damn.
Her eyes move back to me. “You haven't told him about the monkey.”
I shake my head, feeling a rueful grin on my lips. “Didn't really have time. Too busy screwing his brains out everywhere.”
Lola's lips twist. “Yeah. There is that.”
She fixes her own mug while giving me a critical look. “You're too thin,” she says.
I frown. “Not for a dancer.”
She shakes her head, setting her mug of hot cocoa down on the chipped Formica countertop. Only the microwave light is on, casting the two of us more in shadow than illumination. She hikes her boobs with her hands.
Lush bosom, Lola calls the girls.
“This is the proper curvature,” she says in a haughty voice.
And I have to admit, fewer men all the time are liking that ultra-skinny look. I used to be more filled out. But with all the exercise and my lack of care, except for Jaylin, I just don't like eating that much. I don't battle depression with food. I just don't battle. Or eat.
Her hands drop from her boobs. “I think Sara needs to think about taking care of Sara. Now”—her intense eyes study me—“I think it was great you had a proper fuck, but let's not put your life on hold because of a man.”
I open my mouth to defend Snare, explain the unexplainable. But some stuff just is.
She presses a fingertip against my lips, silencing my future comments. “He'll come, and when he does, be ready. Tell him about Jaylin. Figure out what's best for you before he sweeps you off your feet. You hid from Snare for five years.” An eyebrow arches on her pretty face.
“Because I didn't want him to feel obligated.”
“Pfft,” she dismisses. “Clearly, he wants to be. All the way.” She throws her hips out like a thrust, and I smirk.
“Maybe,” I admit.
Her eyes roll in her head. “Ah—duh.”
We sip hot cocoa in companionable silence. “Okay,” I agree after a few minutes. “You keep monkey.”
“Through tomorrow in case the big P comes back.”
I scowl. “Did you just call Snare a Penis?”
She hikes her cup up. “Hell yes. He's certainly not a Dick.”
I shift my weight on her couch. “True, but ʻbigʼ?”
“You said it, not me.”
I fold my arms. “Yeah, I guess I did.” I sound peeved.
Lola winks. “There's worse things, girlfriend.”
My face splits into a grin, and I stand. “Amen.”
We hug. She holds me for longer than usual.
Lola's friendship gives me more confidence to love.
*
Lola flutters her fingers in a wave from her open doorway, and I give one back. She shuts her door, and though I don't have a spring in my step, there's something about a good friend and chocolate that boosts my spirits.
I move to my door, spying the looped bar still propping it open, and breathe a sigh of relief. The door is self-locking, and I really don't feel like calling my landlord at midnight because I'm a dumbass and locked myself out. Again.
I push the door open and immediately turn, swing the bar against the inside of the door, latch it soundly, and throw the bolt.
I turn.
Riker is there like a looming shadow of doom.
I push back, falling ag
ainst the door, and he moves with me, grabbing my nape with one hand and shoving a cloth against my nose with the other.
I thrash, tasting my pulse, like a metallic beat of fear inside my body.
The vision of Riker in front of me triples, and I stumble against him, when all I want to do is get away. My nose fills with a chemical smell that reminds me of the inside of a hospital, and I flail harder, gasping in more of the noxious substance swarming my senses. Dulling me. Softening me.
I lull against Riker.
“There we go, little girl. Come to papa.”
No! My mind wails, but Sara's body isn't cooperating.
My feet leave the floor, and as my eyes close, I see one of my flip-flops is on the ground.
Then blackness enters, where light and hope were before.
17
Snare
I spin in a slow spiral as my head falls to my chest.
Beatings are exhausting. Especially when one is on the receiving end. My scar throbs where my lip's been cut. Having an old wound reopened is always a bitch.
“That all ya got, candy ass?” Noose grunts as another fist swings his way.
He's already passed out twice. Geezus, what an animal.
“That's all I got in me. Fucking knuckles are raw.”
The other Chaos fucker turns to his little shotgun bitch and says, “Yeah? Prez wants them hurting.”
Little Bitch looks from me to Noose. “They look like tenderized meat, Butch.”
Another guy walks through the heavy stainless steel door. This guy is big and just as bad as the rest, but there's some elemental difference I can't put my finger on.
His eyes sweep us then shift to the gore at our feet.
“Fuck off,” he says to the other two, jerking his thumb toward the door he just came through. “I'll do the rest.” His grin is anticipatory, and I feel what little blood I have left run like ice in my veins.
I glance down. Blood splatter decorates the floor like tossed paint. I exhale. Ribs creak.
“You fuck off, Puck—Prez said it's us that do the damage to these Road Kill fuckers.” The big mountain of shit flexes his fists. His knuckles are a bloody ruin, but his rage hasn't been put to rest.
