by Marata Eros
Noose gives a hoarse laugh. “Fuck me runninʼ. I feel like a buffoon.”
Wring snorts. “Yeah, so what's new?”
Noose socks him in the arm, and Wring glares.
“Ladies,” Snare begins in a droll voice, his scar stretching at his upper lip with the smirk. “Fucking please, stay on topic.”
“What I was saying before Wring stepped on my dick, is that she smelled all wrong when I was digging around. Holes in the history. No record. Seemed too clean to be used as a mule. No juvey priors, either. Whistle clean. Stunk to high heaven.”
“She's no cop,” Wring says coolly, giving Noose a sidelong look of veiled triumph.
“Agreed,” Noose says, shooting Wring a glance saying, I got it, asshole.
I shrug. “She's some thing.”
“Beside your future property?” Noose asks, a ghost of a smile hovering over his lips.
My brows drop. “Exactly.”
“No chick that's law is going to be the property of a club prez.” Snare's dark blue eyes are flat. Certain.
Wasn’t thinking about failure when I threw down for Candice. Of course, I hadn't thought about Candice being any form of law enforcement, either. It occurs to me that I don't give a shit. It's about the woman, not what capacity she serves in.
“CIA?” Noose suggests.
Wring shakes his head. “Not sure that feels right. But this pedophile ring might be a helluva lot larger than we knew. Cop's in on it, and the staties don't work with government entities—that's the bottom line with those two. There might be a lot of jagups with their finger in the pie.”
Noose grins. “I was just looking in the wrong bakery section.”
“I want to know who she really is.” I look at him. Gives new meaning to sleeping with the enemy.
“You mean you want to protect her?” Wring asks.
I plow my fingers through my flattop. “I already did her wrong. So wrong.” I evade the question.
“You didn't. None of us suspected she was anything but a fucked-up bitch,” Snare says. “And she didn't tell us different. None of us want to hurt females. But any human being that fucks up the defenseless gets what they get. I think that kind of shit falls under ʻgender neutral.ʼ”
Noose and Wring nod.
“Depending on what branch of our lovely government she's with, Arlington would die before she'd give them up. Especially a woman,” Wring says. “If that's even the case.” He lifts a dismissive shoulder.
“You're not wrong,” Noose says. “Damn… damn.”
I ask the men, “Do I contact Mover? Do I drag his ass into this?”
“He's FBI,” Noose says in a contemplative tone. “Probably, we should have told him we knew about these perv douches. Because you can bank on Mover knowing. Might be working on it himself.” His dark-blond brows shoot up. “But letting them know we know is showing our hand. Getting their full attention on the club.”
I nod, but Mover and I haven't worked out our shit. All we've managed to do is maintain an uneasy alliance that only the two of us know about. On the surface, we share a vague, mutual hatred that men often have and never fix.
So he and Puck took down Ned together, but they didn’t know about each other’s parts in the play until the very end. Their undercover roles within Chaos were locked down, and the four men who knew who and what they really were said nothing. We held our breath, hoping the two of them would get done, forget Road Kill, and split up Chaos for good. That had been the appeasements made by the FBI and cops when we were given our options. There weren't many.
Doesn't look like that's happening.
“Feds, cops—who else is going to jump out of the cake?” I mutter.
“Without tassels on the titties,” Wring adds with a chuckle.
Noose claps his hands. “My knee feels like it was put through a meat grinder because of Little Miss Judo, so I'm no fucking good.” He grabs the smokes out of the interior pocket of his cut. “Throbs like a rotten tooth.”
“Don't light up, you fucker. Making the entire building stink.” I give him my best glare.
Noose sighs, shooting me a classic stink eye right back.
He can be such an unrelenting prick.
Hard men are built like that. From the ground up, steel fasteners screw the skeleton together, covered with muscle meant to flex, defend, and protect. A hard head covers a sharp mind, and hearts too tender for the bodies are encased inside.
A fucked-up combination.
One that most of us have.
*
Snare, Wring, and Noose follow me out to my cabin. Prospects are crawling all over the club, except Old Gimp Foot. He's out. Puck’s prediction of that was spot-on.
My gut is telling me that something's going down soon.
At least I can offer protection to the club I tied down to railroad tracks, for a woman I met and claimed inside of twenty-four hours.
Fuck, I'm freaked out, wanting to know where Candice is. It doesn't make me feel one iota better that Puck has her.
He might have her all right.
I don't look at the basement door. It fucking haunts me. Our time. The hurt I put on a female I assumed the worst of.
The touch I used to beg her forgiveness through my body, my mouth, and my cock.
Noose jars me out of my thoughts. “Just because Arlington knocked my dick in the dirt, doesn't mean my head doesn't work.” Noose taps his forehead. “After our little chat, got my military contact to dig deep, in a very narrow, deliberate area.” Noose appears smug, letting the moment lengthen, and I want to punch him.
“What is she?” I bark.
“Spook.” His curt answer is sure.
His eyes hood.
“CIA?” I ask.
Noose barely lifts a shoulder. “Her languages were government-given. My contact couldn't give me what branch, but she's undercover something—so deep he couldn't even find what flavor.”
“So we kidnapped a mystery law enforcement agent, and I knocked her unconscious with a knot?” Wring asks. “Jesus”—he puts a palm over his eyes—“that is beyond fucked up.”
“If this is what we think it is, she probably was closing in on the fucker behind all this trafficking.”
I nod. “Yup. Her comments make sense now. Everything fits.” The concern for the boy. Her asking a near-perfect stranger to take him to the cops.
But what the fuck is her connection to Puck? “Do you think Puck is dirty now?” I ask suddenly, drilling hard toward intuition chased by a streak of logic.
Noose shakes his head. “Hard tellinʼ.” His face scrunches in thought. “Been in the life a long time not to be living some of it.”
“He's been deep MC for almost three years. Has to be hard to know your place anymore.” Snare agrees, tipping his head back to stare at my old wooden beadboard ceiling, hands clasped and hanging between his knees.
“If he's dirty, do you think he's made Candice?” I ask slowly, spinning the believability of the tale in my mind like a slow-motion horror flick. “Fuck!” I yell, jumping off my beaten La-Z-Boy recliner.
I let them walk. Thought Puck was a cop, still undercover. Now he might be turning her over to the peddlers too. Not like Calem.
But like a vendetta.
Cops don't work with government, and like Mover, Puck might not know she's working the same angle he is.
“Hang on, Vince,” Noose says, grabbing my arm, which I immediately rip out of his grip.
I grit my teeth, lips pulled back. “He's going to fuck her.”
Wisely, the brothers say nothing about a literal translation of my words.
“I can't allow that.”
“Fuck, you're so gone on her already,” Wring says.
I turn to him. “You believe in second chances?”
He shakes his head. The sun coming in through the warped glass of a small window on the west side of the cabin bleaches his platinum hair to white. “No.”
I stare at each one of the men. “Well
, Colleen's gone,” I admit for the first time ever, my voice choked as the back of my eyelids come on fire just from saying her name aloud, “and there's never been another woman for me. Just getting my dick wet in a willing hole. And you know the difference, boys.”
They say nothing. Answer enough.
“I'm not a poet, but Candice moves me.” I touch my hand to my heart. “And I've been a numb fucking shell since Colleen passed.” I face them square. “Counting the days instead of living them, boys.”
It's all the explanation I got. The only one I can give.
“And now you've got this woman—” Snare says.
Noose's smile is a twitch of lips. “That is fucking with you.”
“In the best way,” Wring says.
The worst way. Every way. My shoulders fall. “Yes,” I breathe out, so fucking grateful they understand that if I don't see this through, I'll always wonder what could have been.
And I don't think my shredded heart can lose another woman.
Another chance.
Noose grips my shoulders. “We're here, Vince. You stubborn fuck.”
I grin, and it keeps me from crying like a fucking girl.
We leave.
Our plan is to find Puck, because where he is, Candice will be, along with the fuckers responsible for the mess, and for me and Candice ever meeting in the first place.
Fate's a bitch.
Chapter 20
Candice
“What about your clothes?” Puck looks me over, and I realize I can't go to the meet with what I'm wearing. I have to dress the part. But there's no time to return to the house and grab slut gear—and maybe encounter another biker ambush.
I search through a guest bedroom drawer. “For a guy, you sure have your bases covered.” I paw through what seems to be an assortment of Band-Aids posing as garments.
“So insulting.” Puck smirks. “I grabbed some clothes from the club. There's plenty of women's shit hanging around all the time.”
I bet.
Hmm. I grab a shirt—I guess it's a shirt—and hold it up for his perusal. “This is not clothing.”
Puck grins. “Depends on your definition of coverage.” He starts a tuneless whistle, and I smack him on the arm.
“Ow! You pack a wallop, sister.”
“Oh please.” I unbunch the shirt and snap it open. It has a double cross of fabric both front and back in a loose X. I assumed that when wearing it, one would cover my boobs, and the other would go over my back, leaving my midriff bare. Prostitute chic. Wonderful. “I'm not sure I can wear a bra with this.” I bite my lip, eyes roaming over the front of the “top.”
“Grabbed what I liked,” Puck explains.
I roll my eyes. “I suppose you took your undercover work seriously.”
His grin widens, if that’s even possible, then he tries a serious expression, which he ruins by laughing. “Yes.”
“Dick.”
Puck laughs harder.
I roll my eyes and begin scanning the room I'll be staying in. Clearly, it's been professionally cleaned, as Puck is a closet slob, hence the batch of clothes unceremoniously tossed in the closest drawer I just rummaged through. “I think I like it,” I finally comment when my eyes finish their restless travel.
I walk over to the sole window and gaze outside.
“The house?” he asks, coming to stand beside me.
I hate to see his smile fade, but commenting on where we live and for how long always brings a touch of sadness.
My reply is soft. “Yeah.”
The worn draperies are a sheer, gauzy antique white covering the windows. A tension rod holds the fabric within the window, but the molding is painted a warm cream. Deep grooves define a profile within the wood casing, and big, square bull’s-eyes frame the corners at the tops of the windows.
“It's beat-up, but she's a good old gal,” Puck says, squeezing my shoulder.
He pushes the curtain aside as we stare out.
“Good view of the Cascades,” I say.
He nods. “Good view of nobody at all.”
That gets a smile on my face. “There's that.”
I move away from the view, which is both arresting and somehow sad, and move back to where a clear tote rests on a small guest bed with a patchwork quilt thrown over it. Searching through the remainder of the clothing not in the dresser drawer, I spread some pieces over the bed.
I hold up the horrible top again. It's the part of the job I hate the most. The costumes.
“No Jimmy Buffet t-shirts.” Puck's grin is back.
I glare at him, but then I think about the shared memory. “That was a helluva concert,” I admit quietly.
“Yup,” he says before adding in a quiet voice, “Just leave Jimmy here. That way, the next time you come over, you'll have something to wear.”
I turn to him quickly, my eyes sharp on his face. “Is there going to be a next time, Puck?”
His expression bleeds to solemn. “I promised.”
I turn around, slowly surveying the old house, and my gaze lands at the window we just stood at, and the surreal view of an outside that seems to go on forever—peopleless. My inhale hurts, ribs singing. “We leave. After this case is over,” I state.
Puck hugs me, resting his chin on my head. The cheap outfit's squeezed between us. “Why do you think I got this place?”
I pull a face, craning my neck to look up at him because he's a foot taller than me. “I'm not going to live with you.”
“I know. I've got twenty acres here.” He waggles his brows.
Ah, a fam compound. I could get used to that. At least, with the family I love. The breath wheezes out of me, and tears soon follow. “Oh, Puck.”
His eyes have a shine. “It's the best I could do. ʼBout busted the piggybank. I love the house, and it needs a shit ton of work, but the land and the house? Couldn't say no. And everything costs an arm and a leg around here now. Especially land.”
My gaze wanders to the view again.
I wouldn't have been able to say no, either.
“Miss Candi?” a small voice calls from the bottom of the stairs.
Puck and I walk out of the small guest bedroom and down the hall to the top of the staircase, my hands still clutching the outfit for the meet. The handoff I don't want to do but desperately have to.
“Yes, Calem?”
He shows me his empty plate. Puck's a hobbyist cook and happened to have leftovers of pasta with homemade pesto.
A weird combo for a six-year-old. But when a kid’s hungry and meals aren't a sure thing, he learns to eat what's available.
Hard truths.
Puck and I were raised wealthy, but we were poor in all the ways that mattered.
“I ate all my food.” His shy smile is the sweetest thing I've seen all week, his missing two front teeth adorably obvious.
I laugh. “I see that. Do you want more? We have enough time.”
Slowly, he shakes his head and says, “We're going to meet the bad men.”
An appetite suck.
“Yes,” Puck says, putting his hands on my shoulders and briefly squeezing them before letting them drop.
“I can't stay here?” His voice is quiet. Resigned. With just a thread of hope.
Oh baby, I wish you could. But the best I can do is state the truth, without even a hint of potential for anything else, “You'll be safe.” That's all I can offer.
“I never am.” His voice turns hopeless, forlorn.
I walk down the stairs with Puck close behind me, my hand gliding over the handrail. From what I can see, it’s the only bit of unpainted wood in the house. Worn smooth from over a hundred years of people doing the same thing I am in that precise moment.
I get to the last step, and Calem puts his plate down on the beaten wood floor and wraps his little arms around my legs, pressing his face against my belly.
“Oh, Calem,” I say softly.
“I'm scared.”
Me too. I put my hand o
n his head, stroking the silky warm strands. “It'll be okay.”
I only hope the words aren't a lie.
*
“This gun chafes my thighs.”
Puck opens his mouth.
I hold up a wagging finger. “Don't make one comment about my eating habits.”
My sweet tooth is legend.
His lips purse, then he talks anyway. “You're too thin. I was just going to say that the outfit makes hiding a weapon difficult.”
Yes. I look down at my bare legs, where goosebumps dance over my flesh that's chilled from all the exposure.
Puck's crappy choice of attire is all I have, and if I'm perfectly honest, it was about what I would have had to wear anyway. I could have gotten away with looking a little classier for the first part of the handoff with a Chaos Rider, but when it comes time to meet with the actual perps, I’ll have to be deep in character. After all, what reputable woman would ever turn kids over?
The stupid top cups my boobs perfectly and is so snug, the crisscross at the back actually keeps everything in place. I have to wear flip-flops because that's all Puck had, and they're slightly on the big side. All my really cool spy gear is back at the townhouse that's compromised to hell, and I'm not going back there in case Viper's men make an appearance, thinking they'll just ignore his stake on me.
I won't lie to myself: throwing down for me, in biker's terms, is big. I don't have enough real estate inside my brain to deal with what that means right now.
The car ride to the rendezvous point is quiet. I can almost feel the physical dread from Calem.
Or maybe that's just my own.
I can't save all the children who fall into the trafficking net. But I'll save who I can. Steeling myself, I carefully slide out of the car and turn to Puck.
“Man, am I not liking this.” His eyes rake the stupid outfit as he goes all big brother on me.
“It'll help to just think of it like a costume. That's what I do.”
Puck gives a quick chin dip. “But I know how all the men will be thinking when they look at you.”
“And you know what I'm capable of.”
Our eyes lock. “I do,” he finally says, “but I don't have to like it.”
