by Marata Eros
Maybe I should have shared more with Shannon. Hate fucking sharing. Chatting it up is for guys who want to grow their own uteruses.
Not feeling that. I snort, slamming the door, and charge headlong for my cell.
Jamming out a text to Noose, I realize I didn't see a cell anywhere near Shannon, and I pause mid-tap.
She must have one, right? Most girls have a text in their hand likes it's part of them.
I've never seen her with one.
I hit Send.
Noose pings me right back: Hey man, I apologize. I had nothing to do with it.
I sit up straighter, hit the little symbol for mic, and talk into my phone. I'm a fucking fanny fat finger when it comes to texting.
Me: What do ya mean?
Noose: Fuck man, Rose got a call from your girl, Shannon—to come pick her up from Viper's place. I wasn't here, she sort of stealthed the whole deal.
Raw heat kicks on from deep inside me, a sucker-punch of licking flames.
Me: She's in a fuckton of danger. What with Lopez around the damn corner and only Storm to watch her.
Noose: Storm's not on detail. Viper's got him doing other stuff. You had her so he took off after she got back to take care of her mom.
Me: Get over there, Noose, I'll be right there.
Noose: Man—hate to be the bearer of the shit news but your girl's not interested. Told Rose she doesn't want to be with a murderer.
My head tips back, and I chew off a holler that rattles the glass.
How could Shannon misunderstand me that much? I'm not a danger to her—I'm a danger to others who would hurt her. Fuck.
I jump up, rip my shirt on inside out, and grab my cell one-handed as I toss my boots on without zipping them. I stomp to my ride.
My cell buzzes, and I see it's Noose calling.
“Yeah?” I bark into the phone as I sit on my ride and start it up. Jamming a smoke in my mouth for good measure, I balance the phone between my shoulder and ear.
“Hate fucking texting. Auto correct slays the words, man.”
I roll my eyes, taking a deep drag. “Shannon's making me a fucking insane-asylum candidate.”
Noose chuckles.
“Fuck you,” I say.
“Uh-huh. I said a lot of that last year.”
“I'm going. I don't need your bullshit. Gotta get to her, straighten shit out.”
“Yeah.” There's a pause in the conversation, eaten by the noise of my bike as I cruise down the dirt road. “Sorry Rose got involved. And Wring?”
“Yeah,” I bite, looking both left and right before I head west toward Shannon's.
“I looked into her more. Shannon and her mom are two, almost three, years behind in their property taxes. They've got a land line but no cell phone.”
Knew it.
“What are you saying? ʼCause I can't talk.” The bike's drowning Noose's words even though he’s shouting.
“She's poor as fuck,” he yells.
“That's why she's so skinny,” I say mainly to myself.
“What?” Noose bellows into the cell and I wince. “Never mind. See ya soon. Get your ass over there.”
I can almost hear the sigh.
“Affirmative, fucker.”
Grinning, I slide my phone between the handlebars, relaxing as I put on the speed, hurtling toward Shannon.
For the first time in forever, a sense of impending loss looms.
I find I’ve got something to lose.
*
Rose covers my hand as a cooing baby serenades us.
“I feel like such a weasel,” she says, squeezing my hand.
Me, too. But it's the only way. A clean break. Wring shouldn't shoulder the burden of my life. He got me out of that mess—two messes—but I don't want to put him in the position to have kill people. And I have a feeling he will.
“This is super fucking sneaky,” Rose says.
I take in my surroundings. The driveway to the cabin is probably a half mile, which I walked. My jeans were salvageable, as was my bra—but the gore-encrusted shirt was toast.
I left it in the trash and grabbed a shirt—probably Wring's, since it fit me like a dress—and wore that. I walked half the length of the driveway then jogged the rest.
The entire time, I had a feeling that Wring would wake up and come after me.
He didn't. Never seen anyone sleep so soundly. Almost like he didn't have a care in the world—or hadn't slept in such a long time that he was desperate for sleep.
“I know it's kind of crappy of me.” I look at the hand Rose was just holding as she pulls onto the highway leading home.
“Well…”
“I just—he doesn't want to talk, and you should have seen him and Noose—”
“I have,” Rose says quietly, gripping the wheel so hard her knuckles whiten. “There's nothing scarier than Noose using knots.”
I swallow. Except Wring using them.
“The skills he learned in the military are the only things that kept him alive,” Rose's large brown eyes look at me, and she finishes in a low voice, “and me.”
I shrug. “I don't need that level of violence in my life. I have enough to figure out with my home situation, I can't… address that too.”
“For what it's worth, I don't think Wring would ever be violent with women.”
I glance at her while she's driving. “That's not it. I have my mom, and I have to protect her, too. I can't have Wring making things worse with the gangbangers.”
“Seems to me it'd be worse if he and Noose hadn't figured it out.”
I sigh. “Yeah, I do make some stupid decisions, but at this point, I think he's more of a catalyst for antagonizing them.”
“I wouldn't live one minute without Noose's protection. He absolutely keeps us safe.” She sounds so convicted, and that's great for her. She's married, with a baby. Different situation.
Her smile is a twisted lip lift of irony. “I know what you're thinking, Shannon.”
Tight breath releases in a tired sigh. “I'm thinking that my mom needs food and her meds.”
“No—stop thinking about your mom. You've already told me that she can got to the bathroom and get basic things. You don't need to be there every second, Shannon.”
Rose's right. But if she is right, why does being away from the constancy of Mom's care feel so wrong?
“Wring is smoother than Noose.”
I swing my head to her, and she glances my way, barking out a laugh when she catches sight of my expression of clear surprise. “Really?”
“I can't believe it. I mean, if there was a nickel for every F-bomb uttered—”
“Every reference to the golden hoo-hah.”
I laugh, nodding. “Yeah, the guys seem pretty obsessive.” I blush, thinking about what Wring did to my body just hours ago.
“Whoa, look at that face.”
“Num-num!” Baby Aria shouts from the back seat, and I jump a foot.
Rose cringes. “Sorry about that. She's got a real appetite, and she's not afraid to let us know.”
At her words, my stomach growls. I do mental inventory of groceries in the house and come up empty. Gnawing continues in my belly. But I know from experience that the hunger will quiet if I just ignore it. For a couple of hours.
“Hungry?” Rose’s eyebrow quirks.
I lift a shoulder. “Not so much.”
“You're bone thin, Shannon.”
I ignore her, looking out the window.
“We can get burgers. I know this great place that makes banana-peanut-butter-chocolate milkshakes.”
My stomach lets out a walloping howl.
Rose laughs. “Huh. Let's go there.”
“I don't need charity.”
Rose hits me in the arm, and I flinch, turning to her in anger.
But my anger fades as she smiles. “Aria's hungry. You wouldn't say no to a hungry baby, would you?”
I shake my head. “You're sort of violent, too,” I grump, rubbing my
arm.
“When the need calls for it,” she replies cryptically and turns in to a dive of a burger place.
*
I try not to wolf down my food, especially when Rose ignored my attempt to order a kid's meal.
“Are you a kid? No. A grown woman needs more than three hundred and fifty calories a day.”
Relenting, I take another slurp of my delicious shake and shift on the rickety picnic bench. It groans under my weight, lurching under my butt. I clutch the sides of my frozen cup.
“This place has been here since my folks were kids,” Rose says, looking around at the steep parking lot that flows into the tiny, flat-roofed building, then pops a fry into Aria's mouth.
She thoughtfully takes it out, mashes it between her fingers and smears it between her lips.
Adorable.
My fries are long gone, and only two bites of my burger remain. A pang of guilt slices through me, thinking about my mom alone with only yogurt and bread for toast in our fridge.
I push the burger basket away.
Hot tears run down my face as I choke down the rest of my shake.
“God, Shannon, what is it? Please…” She reaches for my hand across the rough wood table.
Aria whimpers in apparent sympathy then screams, “Num-num!”
I smile through my tears.
Rose absently offers her another fry, and I give her my best, albeit shaky, answer while squeezing her hand back. “I can't… I don't have any money.” I let go of her hand and sink my face into my palms, hiding my face.
Rose makes sure Aria is busy and latched in the high chair before she rushes around to my side of the table. “I know, Shannon. It's okay.”
“It isn't, Rose. I can't pay our taxes and buy enough food, and I can't work more hours because Mom needs care.”
Rose strokes my back. “Let Wring take care of you, Shannon.”
I lift my tear-stained face to hers. “For how long, Rose? Until the next girl comes along?”
Rose's smile is a little sad at the edges. “Those MC guys can have any woman they want, any time. They don't need girls like us.” She jabs her thumb into her chest.
The baby screams again, just to hear her own voice. Our faces whip in her direction, and Aria gives us a devastating smile, a single dimple flashing in her pudgy cheek.
I turn back to Shannon, eyebrows knitting. “Like what?”
Rose grins, tapping my nose. “Complicated.” She sighs. “If Wring wants a slut-ho to stick his wick in, they're a dime a dozen.”
I blink at her description, food churning in my stomach at her words.
Rose guffaws.
Aria screams, “Num-num!” swinging a defiant arm at the sky. Rose gives her another fry. “Pig,” she says then adds, “oink-oink.” Aria wrinkles her nose and tries to make the pig noise.
“That's not going to be attractive when she's older, you know,” I say, but I'm smiling.
“That's okay. Less guys for Noose to beat the shit out of for looking at his baby girl.”
The moment swells, me thinking about rough men and the women who love them.
“Thank you for lunch,” I say quietly.
Rose takes my hand again, and Aria pitches a mangled fry on the pavement.
“Thanks for being there for Wring.”
I frown. I'm not there.
Rose nods. “He's been different in the week he's known you.”
I raise an eyebrow, not understanding. “How so?”
She pats my hand, unhooks Aria from the confines of the high chair, and hikes her on a hip. “Not sure. Whole, maybe?”
“Whole?” I give a small laugh, standing and stretching. Wring's huge T-shirt comes to mid-thigh, and a pleasant throb between my thighs reminds me of what I've done.
Loved.
“Yeah,” she says, a wistful catch in her voice, “those guys come back from war, and they're not them anymore.” She looks at me. “Sometimes it takes just the right woman to heal all their hurts.”
Maybe for both of us.
Chapter 16
I roll up to Shannon's driveway and immediately see the door is ajar.
Splintered at the jamb.
Cold dread spreads from the center of me out to my extremities.
The numb slips away. I feel everything then. Things I don't want to.
Some things, I do.
The bulge of my Colt .45 at my ankle. The sweet tightness of my knotted end of rope at my hip. The succulent sting of adrenaline piercing me like a lit up Christmas tree of Swiss cheese.
Everything is where it needs to be as I dismount in a hopping slide over the top of my seat.
I leave the hog running.
Sliding along the siding, I hear someone tossing the house.
One of my eyeballs cruises around the edge of the torn doorjamb. Gangbangers crawl over the interior of Shannon's modest house like ants.
I move fully into the threshold, ripping the gun from my holster in a whispering tear of fabric. “Hey, fucknuts,” I greet in a cheerful tone.
They turn, hands full of jewelry and things that glint in the afternoon light piercing the window pane.
I snag a pillow from a nearby recliner and put it in front of the muzzle of my piece.
“Fuck!” one of them shouts.
They drop what they're holding, raising their own weapons.
The gun has a slight kick as I fire, and a red bloom opens in the center of the first gangbanger's surprised face.
I pivot my gun slightly to the right and pull the trigger again.
A flower of blood opens in the cheekbone of the second man. Skull fragments and pillow guts fly like scattered clouds of torn gauze. The details of their death appear as a vapor of smoke moving between us.
I chuck the pillow and walk over to the bodies.
A thin silver-toned necklace is still wrapped around the finger of one of them. The digit twitches.
Bending over, I unwind it from his lifeless finger and pocket it. I pluck my cell from the pocket of my cut and sweep a thumb over the encryption.
My page surfaces inside the glass rectangle, my heated gun still in my left hand, and I hit the speech-to-text icon and speak. “Clean up, Aisle Thirteen.”
Noose's answering ping is instant: Affirmative. ETA five minutes.
I wait as my gun cools, then walk over to the ruined door. I work on trying to close it for a few minutes, hiking it up and sort of hitching it into place. Fuck it. I give up. The panel hangs off hinges like a shattered wooden tooth.
Noose's bike and two others come to park beside mine.
He saunters to the door, meeting my eyes through the space of the obliterated door and jamb. He nods in wordless greeting, and I sweep a palm toward the interior.
Noose’s eyes land on the two gangbangers with a dispassionate glance. “Where's the mother?” There are a million other questions to ask.
He forms the only one that truly matters.
“Don't know,” I admit.
The two prospects go over to the bodies, lift them up by the pits, and start dragging them to the adjacent garage.
Noose and I survey the squiggly blood trails left behind by their heels.
Noose folds his arms, shooting his chin up. “Park those fucks in the garage. We'll do hearse detail at night.” His fingers ghost over his pocket for cigarettes. “Fuck—need a smoke.”
Storm grunts, hauling the first body through the door threshold and slumping it against the wall.
Noose chuckles. “No, Storm—ya dumb fuck. R.I.G.O.R. That'll set in, and he'll be an L we can't get into another letter. You feel me?” Noose puts a hand to his chest and goes on, “Flat on his back. We'll plank his ass into the truck with a tarp and make them both go away. Stack ʼem like sardines if we have to.” He chuckles.
The corners of my lips tweak. Noose has always been the most pragmatic of us SEALs.
Storm nods, heaving the dead dude onto the middle of a carless garage floor. What’s left of his head mak
es a dull thunk as it claps hard against the concrete.
The other prospect—don't know his name yet—lurches his corpse beside the other one.
“Cover ʼem,” Noose says, swirling his hand in a circle like that should have been obvious to them.
Storm shakes out a blue tarp neatly folded in a corner, and it floats down like an electric-blue shroud, covering the bodies.
Noose turns to me. “Report.”
I tell him.
“Heard from Rose. She's got your girl.”
My shoulders ease in relief. I don't deny she's not mine anymore. Shannon couldn't be any less mine if I tried to disconnect.
I'm so connected.
“Snare's gonna be steaming pissed,” Noose says with a rough exhale. He swipes his hand over the crown of his head, using a hairband to tie his longish hair back.
“Yeah,” I say, “couldn't be helped. Had to cancel those fuckers.”
He sweeps a palm wide. “They're gonna be missed, Wring. Ya know it, man.”
I shrug. “Either way, Shannon's mom isn't here, and she's unwell.”
“She's probably dead.”
I let my anguish—Shannon's borrowed anguish—out through my nose, suck in another breath, hold it in my lungs, and release. “Yup.”
“You thinking she's your property now?” Noose is too decent to let the I told you so inside his tone of voice.
“Yeah,” I admit quietly.
“Don't think she knows that yet,” Noose cackles then snorts, “Not like that mattered with Rose. Knew she was mine, took her, knocked her up—put the rock on her finger.” He lifts a shoulder as punctuation then digs around in the front pocket of his cut for a smoke, and scowls when he comes up empty.
A hard laugh shoots out of me, and I murmur sarcastically, “Don't think that'll work with Shannon.”
“Try it,” Noose says, digging around in another pocket and finding a smoke. He lights up, shooting a ring in the middle of Shannon's trashed living room. His flinty eyes slide to mine, narrow and hard. “You might like it.”
