Begging For Mercy

by Mataya, Tamara

  There’s power in his body and a fighter’s grace in his movements. The scar running through his eyebrow gives him an air of toughness, the menace tempered by his rugged good looks, making him all the more attractive. He’s someone whose attention you want because the ride will be wild and unpredictable.

  My belly tightens from anger and desire. I know exactly how fantastic that ride is. Or, I almost did.

  That ride that hasn’t called me, or sent so much as an apologetic text in ten days. My week went from ecstatic disbelief at our amazing date, to angry disbelief with every day that went by without him calling me back to explain why he stood me up.

  It’s inexcusable. I’m a human being and he doesn’t even care. I haven’t got a red flag to wave in his general direction, but I am wearing a little red tank top beneath this cardigan.

  He doesn’t care? Fine.

  I may not have been able to read him, but I know the male ego can be a tender thing, and I’m going to do my damndest to make him regret treating me like I don’t exist.

  Matthew doesn’t want me, and I’m going to make him regret that fact.

  I’ll have to walk past their table to get to the jukebox.

  Perfect.

  Bull, meet flag.

  CHAPTER TEN

  Matthew

  Aaron Samson looks like another twenty-something guy who works out too much and fistpumps in the bar every weekend. He seems too good-looking to be the soulless void he is. The hard part is that you want to like Aaron, and I bet that’s what’s made him so successful at the bad shit he does. His easy smile and charming manner hide a multitude of sins, but this is the guy threatening my brother, and that’s what I’m keeping in mind.

  He motions for the waitress and I order a bottle of beer, not wanting to be outright rude and decline to have even a drink in his presence. That would be needlessly stupid and my brother would get the backlash, not just me.

  I wait until she brings me the drink and leaves before speaking. “I’ve got your package.”

  Aaron smiles. “You jump straight to it, don’t you? Not like Luke.”

  My jaw aches from clenching it. “I’d love it if we could leave my brother out of this.”

  Aaron’s dark eyes go from smiley to unfriendly. “He’s the one who involved himself. I’m doing you a favor by meeting with you instead of going to room 352.”

  Of course Samson would make it his business to know Luke’s hospital room number. Doesn’t mean I don’t want to lunge over and smash his face into the table. His subtle threats are wasted on me, I already know how much Luke fucked up, and reminding me of that fact is pointless.

  Unless all he’s trying to do is rile me up to get a read on me...see if he can manipulate me by getting me to lose my cool.

  I smile. “This isn’t the first mess of Luke’s I’ve cleaned up since getting back into town.”

  “About that. How long you staying for? I could use a guy like you who gets things done.”

  “I’m not. Thanks anyways.”

  He raises his eyebrows. “I could make it worth your while.”

  “I’m sure you could. I’m not interested in that life.”

  Aaron takes a sip and scopes out the nearby tables. “That’s not what I’ve heard.”

  “From who?”

  “Around.”

  I force my shoulders to relax. He’s trying to feel me out for weaknesses. “Don’t believe everything you hear. If all the stories about me were true, there’d be a few bodies in my closet.”

  “Skeletons,” he corrects.

  “That would imply the events happened a long time ago.”

  He purses his lips. “You’re saying they didn’t?”

  I’ll let him think anything he wants to if it keeps me and mine safe. “I’m not saying anything.”

  “Smart man.” His stare appraises me even more intensely. “Too bad your brother came to me instead of you.”

  “My brother’s always been more impulsive than me. I never would have needed to come to you for anything. No offense.”

  “None taken.” His gaze lands on the scar above my eye that made me an urban legend when I was younger. There were two main theories on what happened, depending on who was telling the tale. I either took out four Cuban dealers with only a beer bottle, or a group of bikers took offense to something I’d said, and one dragged me behind his bike before stabbing me and leaving me for dead. I’d allegedly hunted him down, beaten him to death and torched his bike.

  My appendectomy scar lent that one credibility, but neither of those were even close to what happened.

  The stories started before I even got home. I didn’t correct anyone’s assumption about what really happened. It kept a few people from trying to screw with me, though I’d wondered where the stories came from. Apparently even Samson’s heard—and bought into—some of them.

  I smile, letting his imagination fill in the sketchy details.

  He leans forward. “Anyways, you have something for me?”

  I pull the envelope from my pocket and slide it across the table. He takes his time, sipping from his glass before taking it and holding it below the table’s edge where he can open it and look.

  His gaze narrows. “It’s light.”

  I nod. “Only fifty there. I’ll get you the other thirty-six next week.” When I found out Luke owed Aaron as well as Santos, I decided the smart thing to do was redirect some of Santos’ payday towards Aaron. Santos had received enough from us in the past two weeks to relax a little. It was better to have two debtors only slightly pissed than one mollified and one homicidal.

  “If you pull that off, I’ll be impressed...” his voice trails off and he focuses on something across the bar that makes him lick his lower lip.

  I follow his gaze.

  Miami’s not known for modest clothing—the heat basically has us used to seeing bodies exposed in short shorts and crop tops, but I recognize that ass in those jeans, hips slowly swaying as she plugs money into the jukebox and bends to make her selections.

  I’ve got five of her texts on my phone. Each one made me feel like a bigger asshole for not replying, but the last thing I need to do is start a relationship with Andy when I’m getting my hands dirty and then going to leave town soon after, anyways.

  Lust stabs me, quick, deep, and low. Regret swiftly follows. If she liked me as much as I like her, she’s got to be hurt as to why I haven’t called back. I’ve thought about her non-stop since our date, but being inside Andy won’t make me want her less.

  “Nice.” Aaron’s appreciation of Andy’s ass doesn’t escape me, or relax me any. The last thing I need is for Aaron Samson to take notice of Andy. What the hell is she doing here? Talk about shitty timing.

  Aaron notices me staring a little too intently. “You know her?”

  Do I stake a claim in the hopes that he’ll leave Andy alone, or would that make her seem like a weakness that he could potentially use against me in the future?

  Stating the obvious can’t hurt, but I need to downplay. “I know her brother. She’s hot though. Nice ass.”

  “Definitely. The things I’d like to do in her bed...and her garage...man.” He shakes his head and my jaw clenches.

  He has plans for her garage? Fuck. Aaron noticing her is only bad. She’ll be reduced to being a chop shop, surrounded by lowlives, danger all around.

  Staking a claim can’t hurt. “She and I have gone out a few times.”

  “Yeah?” Aaron assesses me more intently.

  I stare back. “Yeah.”

  He looks back at Andy and nods as though redefining a boundary.

  Andy turns as a hard rock song plays through the speakers and makes a slow and steady, deliberate, journey to our table. Shit. Hell hath no fury...

  “Hey, Mercy. Who’s your friend?” She shines a bright smile at Aaron, who laps up her attention like a thirsty dog.

  “I’m Aaron.”

  She tucks her hands into her back pockets which accentuates
the strong lines of her shoulders and the softness of her breasts. “I’m Andy. You going to invite me to sit with you and have a drink, or do I have to stand here...dry...all day?”

  Aaron slides out of the booth, making room for her in his place, interest filling his eyes. “Where are my manners. What can I get for you, Andy?”

  She licks and bites her full bottom lip, slowly releasing it. “Surprise me.” She smiles at his back as he walks away.

  I wait until Aaron’s out of earshot before turning to her. “What the hell are you doing?”

  “What do you mean? I’m having a drink with my new friend.” Her eyes widen guilelessly.

  “Andy, he isn’t the guy you want to play this game with.”

  “I’ll be the judge of who I play with.” The haughty expression on her face is infuriating. “Besides, what are you, jealous?”

  I close my eyes because, yes, I am, damn it, but that’s neither here nor there at the moment. “Trust me on this.” She has no idea how screwed she almost is.

  She laughs. “I’m sorry, but for a second there it sounded like you told me to trust you which would be the most hilarious joke I’ve heard this year, if that’s the case.”

  Frustration strangles my patience, even though I deserve that. Andy needs to get the hell out of here for her own safety, and instead she’s trying to make me jealous. “He’s not a good guy, Andy.”

  Her glare could strip paint from the wall behind me. “And you’re so much better?”

  “I’m a damn sight better than Aaron Samson,” I hiss.

  “Aaron Samson?”

  At last, she gets it. I nod. “Yes.”

  Her green eyes widen with disbelief. “That Aaron Samson?”

  “Yes.”

  “What the fuck are you doing hanging out with Aaron Samson?”

  I hate her saying another guy’s name, even disdainfully. “Say his name one more time, Andy, he may not have heard you yet.”

  She shakes her head. “You are unbelievable. I thought you were better than your family, and here you are, wallowing with that scumbag?”

  I shake my head, unable to deny her whispered words.

  A bitter smile claims her mouth. “I don’t know why I thought you were different. You’re a bastard and a game player, just like everyone else.”

  “You should go.”

  “Oh, I am.” She stands. “But you know what? It’s not because of him. It’s because of you. You’re worse than he is. At least he doesn’t pretend to be something he’s not.”

  She stomps to the bar, pausing to whisper something in Aaron’s ear before tossing a glare at me. Aaron laughs and shrugs, and she moves to a table near the back, half hidden in an alcove. No wonder I didn’t see her. Judging by the mostly empty pitcher on the table, she’s been here for a while.

  She sashays past, smelling stronger than she did before, sweet and exotic and I want to get close and inspect it.

  Aaron sits down shortly after she roars off down the street on her bike.

  CHAPTER ELEVEN

  Andy

  Six days go by with no word from Matthew after our run-in at the bar. It’s idiotic, but a part of me was hoping he’d see me and be so full of regret at letting me go, he’d get in touch with an apology and beg for another chance. Every time an invoice is delivered, I half expect another drawing inside the envelope.

  There hasn’t even been a texted apology or a completely lame excuse meant to smooth things over between us. He’s not getting another word from me. No point wasting my breath on someone who doesn’t give a shit. Still, it would have been nice if he hadn’t dropped me like I was nothing after taking the time to make me feel special.

  Whatever. I’m over it. I couldn’t care less about what he does with his life.

  What the hell was he doing having drinks with Aaron Samson? The guy’s a total thug and unexpected hottie. I’ve only heard of him, never seen him in the flesh before, but I heard someone beat the crap out of Luke so you’d think Matthew would want to stay away from unsavory people.

  The last few days, my skin felt too tight, and I’ve been overcome with the urge to flail around. Instead, I finished the backlog of work at the shop, and when that was done I gave it a top to bottom cleaning, even degreasing the floors.

  Matt’s rejection is as raw now as it was the day he stood me up.

  Scrubbing my apartment tonight was not enough to rid myself of the excess energy saturating my body either.

  Only one thing’s going to get the hottest almost-one-night-stand I’ve ever had out of my thoughts.

  I need to race.

  I need an adrenaline spike and drop to bottom out this feeling and reset my system. Maybe it will even help me fall asleep faster, instead of tossing and turning for hours.

  My buddy Jet sent me a coded text earlier, telling me about a race. He’s got a lot of connections, and makes sure to only tell me about races worth my time. In exchange, I keep his car in good shape; the man rides the clutch like a drunk chick on a mechanical bull. There’s an off road deal at midnight tonight, only twenty minutes from me if I use the speed limits as a guideline and not a law.

  Patch likes to come with me to these, sort of unofficial security. Screw him too, I don’t need anyone. Dad and Patch want to take the shop from me, and Mercy took pleasure from leading me on and ditching out.

  Take, take, take.

  Tonight I’ll show these boys I can give back.

  IF THE WORLD WAS A fair place the sight of Mercy would repulse me, fill me with such revulsion for the way he treated me that I’d look at him and feel no want.

  His black leathers swallow the moonlight that highlights his chiseled jaw as he tightens his gloves, looking every inch like a hero prepping for battle when he slips his helmet on.

  The world is not a fair place.

  For a dizzying moment, I want him underneath me instead of my bike. This treacherous body still remembers those hands, that mouth, and the things he made me feel. The scuff is still there on his fender. I’m disgusted with myself for this weakness; I should want to put a matching scuff on his face.

  Five riders stand between us. After one very unsatisfying glance, he keeps his eyes away from me. I flip my visor closed and focus on the man with the makeshift flag.

  The organizer spared every expense to increase the winnings and the purse is a nice one. Each rider kicks in five grand, and the winner gets to keep half of the total. On such short notice, and on a harder off-road course, there are only twelve riders.

  But the prize is thirty grand. That would go a very long way in the Duc fund. With that incredible machine between my legs, I might be able to forget how much I want Mercy there.

  Focus on the track, Andy. One round. The planner’s used the terrain instead of artificial markers. It’s going to be a tough course, barely mapped out, with no comfy piles of gravel to facilitate a slide if we bail, only unforgiving ground with no one to call for an ambulance until the race is over. No one wants the cops involved in this.

  The flag drops and we’re off. I fishtail only slightly, anger seeping into my driving. I need to cut that shit out and focus. I come up to the first turn hot and crank it to the left, cutting off the guy behind me, sending him into the scrub.

  One down.

  The perimeter markers aren’t as regular as I’d like them to be, but I manage to gain speed, only braking hard once when a small hill comes out of nowhere. The rider ahead of me cases it, bumps and grinds when the bottom of his bike hits the ground, and I easily pass him.

  No reason to celebrate yet—I’m running out of racetrack and there are too many of us left.

  A guy in pristine white leathers crowds me through the next turn and over-rides his dirty two-stroke, so I kick him into a small bush because no one likes a poser.

  My bike shudders when a rider tries to stuff me. I crank it hard to the right to get some distance, but he follows like he’s auditioning to be my shadow. My pulse kicks up a notch when another rider pul
ls up on my right side. Reflexively, I brake and pop a wheelie barely in time to miss the rider on my left’s foot. Instead of me, he hits the other guy who tumbles off the course. The rough play’s slowed the rider’s momentum and I pull ahead again.

  A quick shoulder check reveals only a few riders left. Mercy’s one of them and he’s right on my ass.

  Facing forward, I tuck tight and focus on the terrain, smiling when the guy who overtakes me bottoms out on another jump. I should give him my card, see if he wants a deal repairing those wrecked shocks.

  Mercy inches up, riding the jump hard, using the inside turn to his advantage, but I’m smack up against him waiting for him to make a move so I can take him out. When he doesn’t advance on me, I thrash a leg out. He swerves easily, like he was expecting it.

  It’s a mistake I can’t make again—it’s allowed him to slink ahead another two feet. My ears ring with the howl of frustration I let loose inside my helmet.

  He can’t have this too. I need this win.

  I work the course with every bit of finesse I’ve got, but he’s still a foot ahead when we cross the finish line in first and second place.

  Frustration immobilizes me for a good five minutes after I pull over, idling, watching him watching me.

  The organizer gets Matthew’s attention, throws him the cash he won. He tucks it away safe and sound.

  I came here to get him out of my system, to feel nothing again after he got what he wanted and ran off. Now he’s taken even more from me.

  Ghosts of him are everywhere in my life. He’s taken the refuge of my garage, my hallway, my favorite bar. My win just now.

  He said he was nothing like his family.

  Then he stood me up.

  He met one of the worst guys in Miami for a drink.