Puck: Dark Motorcycle Club / MC SEAL Romance (Road Kill MC Book 9)

by Marata Eros

  I give him a curious glance then scope out the seating.

  Not many people are having coffee at two in the afternoon. I walk straight to a pair of cozy overstuffed chairs and a small circular glass table seated on top of a rounded, squat stone pillar in front of a huge window.

  Turning around, I note the exit is the front-row attraction and sit in one of the chairs with my back facing it.

  Puck approaches, his expression tightening when he notices my wince as I sit.

  “It’s okay. I’ve just got a bruise on my ass,” I admit with a twist of my lips.

  He barks out a laugh then shakes his head. “Really?”

  “Really.” I snort. “It’s not that attractive, trust me.”

  Puck sits, as well, taking the lid off his coffee and blowing the surface to cool it. “What’s not attractive?” His lips quirk. “Your ass or the bruise?”

  Heat rushes to my skin, and I quickly curse the Irish part of my ancestry that gifted me with a pale peaches-and-cream complexion. If I’d been olive-toned like my Asian relatives, Puck would never know I was embarrassed. No such luck, though.

  He chuckles.

  “The bruise is really sexy, believe me.” I dip my chin, looking away from his intense eyes, trying to save face.

  I remove the lid from my own coffee, blowing on the frothing goodness. Taking a small sip, I determine it’s drinkable and take a little more, eyeing Puck up over the cardboard rim. I push a black strand of my hair behind my ear.

  “Temp, tell me what happened.”

  I flick my eyes to his, take another careful sip, and set my grande fat-loaded coffee on the table between us.

  “Why? So you can go kill him?”

  His eyes hood. “Maybe,” Puck replies quietly. Steam obscures Puck’s features for a second then clears as he cools the surface of his coffee with a breath before sipping.

  “Nothing special. Just a day on the job that got away from me.”

  Puck’s frown cleaves his brow. “Wait a second—I thought you were a social worker?”

  It’s my turn to frown. “You’re an ex-cop. You, of all people, should know what being a social worker really means.” I stave off the terrible memory of my first day on the job.

  Puck shakes his head. “No,” he says, leaning back and slowly spinning his half-empty coffee cup on the table, “did all undercover. Never backed up a social worker.”

  He picks up the coffee, downing the rest, then decisively sets the cup on the table.

  I take another sip and lift my chin toward his now-empty cup. “Did you even taste that?” I laugh.

  He lifts a shoulder in a shrug. “Just fuel.” Puck plants his forearms on the smooth glass tabletop, and leans forward. “Tell me what happened anyway, that a social worker gets beat up as her daily dose.”

  Shaking my head delicately, I admit in a frosty voice, “I made him suffer.”

  A slow grin spreads across Puck’s face. “Now that, I believe.” His eye glitter with amusement.

  And something else.

  Interest.

  Chapter 4

  Puck

  The fucker who hurt Temp can’t spoil her beauty. Bruises will fade, cuts will heal, but beauty ghosts her wounds.

  At least to me.

  I chuckle quietly and think, And the girl can hit.

  I really love that she doesn’t roll over, either. I liked that trait the first time I met her at the place I shared with Candi. I could tell right then her feistiness wasn’t just bravado.

  We share that property with Viper, baby Gabe, and Calem now. Their house has been complete for a short time and I like my space back—and also their proximity.

  Their presence is probably the only thing holding me together after the events of the past year.

  Temp was a part of something special and positive in my life when shit was so bad. So real. I didn’t think about it much at the time, but in a way, she gave me my much-younger half-brother.

  She did a good thing when nothing was good.

  And I recall thinking she was built to fuck.

  I’m sticking with that opinion too.

  But right now, I have the primal male instinct to protect her. Seeing that delicate wrist with a bracelet of bruises makes me see nothing but red.

  My eyes meet hers.

  She can take care of herself—that much is clear. Temp got lucky with me because I was utterly unprepared for a frontal response like the one I got from her.

  Hell, she surprised me.

  “So that’s it?” I ask after she finishes the half-hour-long tale.

  My eyes dive to the tiny abrasion on her lip she no doubt picked up from the rough concrete, and I restrain the urge to kiss it and make it better. I place my fist over my mouth to hide the smile that threatens.

  “Yeah, that’s it,” Temp says, leaning closer to me. An inky, stick-straight strand of hair swings forward. “And what the hell are you smirking about?”

  Dropping my hand, I sweep a palm toward her wounded face. “It’s just—your packaging doesn’t match who you are is all, and that asshole slob wasn’t seeing what you’d do. The potential.”

  Temp crosses her arms and huffs. “He got in a good one.”

  Yes, he did. I feel the muscle in my jaw pulse as I clench it and admit in a quiet voice, “Told you what he deserves.”

  “Uh-huh, and you’re an ex-cop, as you’ve mentioned, so you can’t let your little kill scenario play out.”

  “Nope.” I grin. “But there’s always freakish coincidences that crop up out of nowhere.”

  Temp frowns. “Riiight.”

  I spread my arms. “Just saying.”

  The corner of her lips creep up, then she’s full-on grinning. “You make it bearable.”

  I don’t know what “it” is, so I ask.

  “ʻItʼ is not being able to do my job for a couple of days. A vacation I don’t feel like I deserve. And having to answer questions about my face when I head to my parentsʼ place for family supper this weekend. That’ll be a good time, oh-yeah.”

  “Do people actually still do that?” I ask.

  Temp swallows the last of her coffee, which seemed more cream than java, and nods. “Sure, my parents are really traditional. My dad’s Korean, but my mom’s Irish.” She tilts her chin upward and, with an impish grin, adds, “She thinks potatoes are an essential food group.”

  “Do fries count?” I quirk a brow.

  Temp doesn’t even pause. “Oh yes.”

  My eyes roam her face again, moving from her eye to the sheet of ebony hair hanging loose past her shoulders. “Your black hair.”

  A soft pink color underscores the bruising on her cheek, and I wonder about the blush. “Yeah, from my dad, though he’s only part Korean. He’s the ʻAmericanʼ one. My mom immigrated from Ireland when I was a toddler.”

  I laugh. “We’re all a bit Heinz 57, right?”

  “I don’t mind looking different.”

  She’s gorgeous, I think but don’t say. The contrast of black hair and pale-aqua eyes is striking.

  Seeing her beautiful eye, seeing the hurt another man put on her face, makes my body warm with my anger. I shake it off, knowing Temp won’t appreciate more discussion unless she initiates it. “You gonna catch shit when your folks see the new look?”

  Temp taps her empty cup on the table once. “Yup. They’re not fans of my job.”

  I let that go. We’ve talked enough shop. “You got siblings?”

  She shakes her head. “Nah. Just little old me.”

  Temp’s eyes strike my face like a velvet whip, and I decide right then that I’ll have her—someday, somehow. Temp’s gaze on me feels so good, like the sun coming from behind a cloud and warming my skin.

  A breath eases past my lips.

  Temp studies me for a minute then says, “You and Candace look a lot alike.”

  I nod. We hear that enough. “She’s got hazel eyes.”

  “More golden hazel if I remember right. But Calem’s
got just your shade of brown eyes.”

  The silence stretches between us for a moment while our eyes are locked, then Temp asks softly, “How’s everything going? I didn’t hear from Candace—or you. Usually, that old adage is true: no news is good news.”

  Is it me, or do I hear a vague accusatory note inside that question? My chin dips as I level my gaze on her. “You said to contact you if we needed anything,” I state, keeping defensiveness out of my tone by a thread.

  Hell, I wanted to contact her so badly I’d thought about nothing else to an unhealthy degree. I’d even mentioned Temp to Denni, who liked me moving on with my life in a fresh direction.

  I’d told her I was too fucked up to move on with anyone. I need to get my head on straight, compartmentalize the bullshit that’d happened, before I’m even capable of having a relationship.

  If that’s even what I want.

  No woman is going to want a man who couldn’t even protect himself from his own father. A real woman’s going to want a real man.

  Not a fucked-up shell of a man.

  Just thinking that way shuts me down and the happiness I felt, the warm basking in her presence begins to dissipate like smoke on wind.

  Temp must be somewhat intuitive, because she appears to sense my withdrawal and doesn’t linger over the last sentence. However, she’s bolder than I thought she would be. “That’s true, Puck,” she says slowly, “and I realize this is a chance meeting, and I slugged you without provocation.”

  I hold up a hand, flashing a crooked grin. “I come on strong.”

  Temp laughs. “You sure do.” Her eyes hit me again, striking me softly with an emotion I can’t name. “I like it. I like you, Puck. I don’t know why. I have the feeling our backgrounds are pretty different, but when people click, sometimes there’s no reason to it. More like an organic thing.”

  My heart rate kicks up. She’s circling a truth I don’t want to examine. I’ve been carrying her card in my wallet since the moment she gave it to me.

  Every day, I remove the small rectangle and stare at that name embossed on the front: Charlotte “Temp” Temperance.

  I even added her number to the contacts in my cell.

  Can’t call it. Can’t text a few characters to form a simple sentence asking how she’s doing.

  I bang the bottle blondes instead. The Road Kill MC clubwhores are a superficial dalliance.

  This, though? This is real.

  Temp is real.

  I don’t put a name to my fear. But I don’t doubt that I am afraid. Because if she were to get too close, I would have to tell her about my past. And that shame runs bone-deep. I’m not ready. Might never be ready, either.

  Temp just put herself out there in a way I’m not capable of. All I have to do is acknowledge she’s right. The chemistry between us is smoking hot. There’s something there. Something worth exploring.

  And I want to fuck her so bad that I adjust my weight because of my sprung dick. But I want something else too.

  I want the woman, and that scares me most of all.

  So I lie. “Yeah, well, I thought about calling you, but since everything is going so great, didn’t seem necessary.” I lean back, lacing my fingers together and planting my hands on my lap, feigning casual posture.

  Temp’s face shows every micro-expression, and my gut tightens at the one I see wash over her features.

  Hurt.

  Fuck.

  “Oh,” she replies, her voice small. “I guess I misunderstood some stuff.”

  You didn’t, Temp. You didn’t misunderstand dick.

  “No problem,” I say aloud, loosening my fingers. I grab my empty coffee container and crush it in my hand.

  Temp’s eyes fall on that gesture for a fraction of a second, and she stands.

  I do too.

  Temp puts her composure back in place, closing up her naturally open personality after having been so casual and speaking so freely with me. Seeing her rein in who she is, her obvious emotional retreat, is physically painful to watch. I should be relieved. It’s what I want. No relationship. A clean break.

  What was I thinking? That I would kill someone for Temp? Don’t even know her. Not really.

  That’s a lie too, though.

  I knew everything I needed to know. That she’s achingly beautiful, smart, funny, and fierce. That I want to feel her beneath me.

  That I want more than I deserve. That I want someone to love.

  And love is the most dangerous want of all.

  Temp

  When I popped by for supper on Sunday, Mom was using the meat mallet to tenderize chicken, and I feel like that’s what Puck did to my insides with his last comment. He got the meat mallet out, tenderizing my guts, my mind... and my heart.

  Each word was a blow. Finally, I reconcile that I misread him. It was my own desire to begin something with him that made me think I saw interest where there was nothing more than chivalry. Puck felt bad that the social worker who’d saved Calem got her ass kicked on the job and that we had a misunderstanding in the empty hallway, so he took me out for a cup of coffee.

  Case closed.

  No big.

  So why does it feel like my lungs have been crushed and I can’t breathe? No reason. Except that I’ve dated around and found men lacking, overall.

  And somewhere in my small brain, I thought there was a man out there—somewhere—who would get me. See me. Temp, the funky mix of good-hearted tough girl with a dash of white-knight complex.

  There had to be someone out there who was looking for that exact brand.

  Stupidly, I thought maybe Puck was it.

  He gave off an enigmatic vibe the day I handed Calem over to him and Candace. I was sure of it.

  And I don’t think I imagined the way Puck was so protective of me.

  Whatever. I shore up, pulling up my big-girl panties when I would rather just dissolve into the ground I’m standing on.

  “Thanks for the coffee, Puck.” I shut down that pesky tremor in my voice with difficulty. I’ve already embarrassed myself by making assumptions.

  No more.

  He’s Mr. Cool and Aloof. I can do that too.

  “You’re welcome, Temp,” he says, then he does the unexpected. Stepping forward, he wraps his strong arms around me and draws me in for a hug, tucking my head beneath his chin like he’s done it a hundred times instead of just this once.

  My eyes begin to burn with all the unrequited emotions whirling around—things I thought might come to pass between us that I realize now were all my bullshit.

  The hug feels so good, I can almost forget the gesture doesn’t mean anything.

  A light touch cups the back of my head for a heartbeat, then he’s gone.

  Puck doesn’t say anything else. There’s no goodbye, take care, or other salutation.

  Spinning, he begins to stride in the other direction and just his broad back is in sight as he walks away from me.

  His delicious smell clings to me like fragrant cobwebs.

  Chapter 5

  Temp

  “You look like someone ran over your face with their car.” Kendra snickers.

  I shoot her the middle finger.

  “Nice. Stay classy.” Kendra sniffs.

  “Oh, my righteous God, you’ve got to be kidding.”

  “What?” Kendra gives a light laugh. “I’m classy when people are looking.”

  “Ah-huh.”

  “So this guy, Puck.” She plants her elbows on the kitchen nook table that separates us, resting her chin within the cup of her hands.

  “There is no guy Puck.” I toss a swig of Michelob Ultra down my throat. It’s my third. But who’s counting?

  Gah.

  “Must be a hockey dude,” she muses, placing a tapered finger on the table and making a circle on the smooth wood.

  Come to think of it, I did see a tattoo of a hockey stick and puck.

  Kendra suddenly flattens her palm, splaying long fingers. “I bet he’s scared
of relationships.”

  I roll my eyes. “Ya think?”

  Kendra nods quickly, her bun bobbing. Sprouting straight from the top of her head, it’s done in the messy style. That’s for girls that have texture to their hair and can do that. Not for women like me who couldn’t get curl out of their hair if they threatened it with torture.

  “I do think,” Kendra quips.

  “That’s up for debate.”

  “Don’t be such a fucking grouch, Temp. You need to get laid.”

  An awkward silence threatens to take hold. Dear Lord. “Probably,” I concede, because I’m honest to a fault and can’t defend myself properly. Not against Kendra. We’ve been BFFs since birth.

  I guess that would be more like BFFSB. But it doesn’t have a great ring to it.

  Kendra cocks her head to the left. “I get laid whenever possible, and look at my awesome disposition.”

  Can’t fault that. “You are very chipper.”

  “That sounds vaguely Irish. I’m not gonna lie.”

  A small smile crosses my face and is gone. “He fucking massacred me, K. I mean, I was not playing games. I was being honest. Like, I fervently believed that Puck felt something for me.”

  “ʻFervently believedʼ?” Kendra fashions her lips into a disgruntled pout. “I don’t know if I can handle that adverb from you. Your mom, maybe, but not you.”

  “This is where I mentally flip you off again because you object to my modifiers.”

  We burst out laughing.

  When Kendra is done slapping her teeny, enviable thighs, I say in a low voice, “I thought there was one of those special things happening, yʼknow. Like I fantasized about Puck every day for over a month. Or what he represented anyway.”

  “God, don’t I know it.”

  Our eyes meet, and mine burn. When a tear falls, the single drop incinerates a fiery trail over my wounds, and I feel my temperature suddenly spike. I’m pissed at Puck.

  Mad at K.

  Angry at myself. So damn mad at myself. Why can’t I be smarter?

  Kendra grabs my hand, her pale-brown eyes as serious as I’ve ever seen them. “Are you going to melt down? Because I’m not prepared for a role reversal here, Temp. You’re the strong one. You’re the one who never cries, tells everyone to pack sand, kicks ass, and takes names.”