by Marata Eros
I land hard, one elbow taking the impact.
His foot finds my torso, kicking the wind out of me and bruising a rib.
I latch onto his foot as it retreats and yank.
He stumbles, and I swing my leg around, high heel sailing off, and nail his knee with my instep.
He howls, and I get to my hands and knees. My skirt is hiked up to my hips.
He reaches for me, and I recognize him.
I bite Tommy’s arm because that’s the closest weapon I have. He screams, trying to pull away, and I clamp my teeth down harder.
His other hand rises in a fist.
I roll, trying to avoid the punch, but he strikes my face. Stars burst in front of my vision. Tommy leans over, grabs the lapels of my jacket, and hikes me halfway off the ground.
“Nobody runs from me,” Tommy growls as his foul breath bathes my face.
I slam my forehead into his.
He drops me, and my head cracks against the asphalt.
I lie on my back, momentarily stunned. My breath is well and truly stolen as I gaze at the light-polluted sky.
“Get the fuck away from her.”
I know that voice. Groaning, I attempt to roll on my side, but nausea shoots up and out like a spewing fire hose. Must’ve hurt myself with that graceless landing more than I thought.
“This isn’t your business,” Tommy says.
I don’t want to be in a compromising position with Shane Dreyfus—Lariat.
I wipe a shaky hand roughly over my mouth and glance up. Too late.
Tommy and Lariat are squaring off, and I manage to roll onto my ass. I notice my panties are flashing the parking lot, and I don’t give a shit.
Tommy is lower than pond scum. He’ll mess Lariat up, Navy SEAL or not. Tough biker. Whatever.
I open my mouth to tell Lariat to leave it alone as his fist flashes from what seems like behind his shoulder.
Tommy’s head snaps back. He takes a lurching backward stagger and shakes his head. With a roar, he charges Lariat.
I scramble to my feet, sway with dizziness, and slap my hand on the door of my smart car. Pain electrifies my side where Tommy’s shoe landed, and I gasp, holding a hand to my abused ribcage.
My eyes go wide. What in the hell? I think I’m seeing things.
Is that a knot rope?
The bulbous end of a double-knotted length of rope snaps at the end of Lariat’s arm and smacks Tommy in the nose.
He drops to his knees, hands slapping the pavement.
Lariat ignores me as I attempt to hold myself up against the car.
He looks down at the fallen man. “Stay down.”
“Can’t.” Tommy spits blood on the asphalt then begins to rise.
Lariat nods then kicks him in the head. The impact sends Tommy sprawling to a hard landing on his back. Still.
“Oh God.” I flat palm my hands along my car as I walk to the back. I get to the hatchback and look down at Tommy.
My eyes go to Lariat, though I can’t make them out very well in the crappy parking lot lighting. “You shouldn’t have done that, Lariat,” I manage to gasp out.
He snorts, stuffing the length of rope in his front pocket. Lariat takes an exaggerated look around, spinning with his muscular arms spread wide away from his body. Then he grins, letting his arms fall with a slap against his denim-clad thighs. “Ya see any other white knights coming to your rescue?”
Actually, no one was around but him and me. Tommy would have finished what he began if Lariat hadn’t strolled along.
I knew it. He knew it.
My fingers tremble as I shove my disheveled hair behind my shoulder.
“Thank you,” I whisper to my shoes.
“What?” he asks.
I look up, and he’s cupping his ear. God.
I rotate my shoulders and bite my lip to stifle the pain. “Thank you,” I repeat more loudly.
He smirks then frowns.
“What?” I ask, unable to read his expression.
“That dickhead get some licks in?”
I nod.
His eyes run down my body.
Oh my God. My skirt is bunched at my waist. I try to jerk the material down with the hand not pinned to the car.
“Love the view, but thinking you might not want Garcia’s patrons gettinʼ the whole show,” Lariat says.
Or him. Jesus.
Nausea rolls through me again, and my vision swims. I clutch the side of my car as I try to hike down my wayward skirt. But it’s tight for a reason—fashion not practicality. Once it’s up, it’s hard to get the thing down.
“Hey,” Lariat says in a gentle voice.
I startle at his sudden nearness and hold up my palm. Instantly, I realize my mistake as I lose my balance and stagger backward. The sky tilts, and I feel myself falling.
Suddenly, strong arms that feel like flesh-covered steel encircle me, and my head tips forward against his chest. The world hasn’t stopped spinning yet.
He smells good, like motor oil, spice, and male. My head rolls against his chest, my cheek coming to a stop over his strong heartbeat.
“Let me go,” I manage, proud that my voice is only a little wispy.
“Fuck that.”
I laugh, and a silent tear squeezes out of my eye.
“It’s okay.” I shoot out a tight breath. “Let me go, and I’ll drive home.”
“No.” His voice is like smooth gravel rumbling against the inside of my skull.
“He’ll wake up, and then our problems will really begin.” I’m trying here, trying to help him.
Lariat seems stubborn.
“He doesn’t know what problems are yet. I want to get you out of here and get some pesky questions answered.”
That’s not ideal.
I try to back away but can’t move.
“You gonna upchuck again?”
Shame coats me. That’s what every girl wants—a hot guy who she put in his place witnessing her most vile and mortifying moments. Yes. A fantasy come true.
“I don’t think so.” My fingers clutch at the smooth leather of his vest, hanging on for dear life.
“You’re lucky.”
Again, I don’t think so. Having a mob thug assault me while trying to get a guy like Lariat to provide money for my client’s bail and then rescuing me is not lucky.
“Used the club truck tonight. It’s a hunk of shit, but it runs okay.”
“What?” My brain is fuzzy when I really want to be clear—sharp.
Tommy moans from the ground.
Lariat scoops me into his arms.
“Put me down.” More spinning.
“Nope.” He strides to Tommy.
I have an inkling of what he might do and have a moment to say, “No!”
Then Lariat stomps his crotch.
Tommy’s eyes spring open, and he bellows.
Lariat is grinding the heel of his black boot into Tommy’s dick. “Calling card, dickhead. Leave. Chicks. Alone.”
Lariat looks down at me, his eyes lingering on what I’m sure is a beautiful bruise forming on my cheek. “Especially this one,” he adds with smooth menace.
Lariat uses Tommy crotch like a step stool and puts our full weight on it. Then he hops lightly off, using Tommy’s pathetic pecker like a springboard.
Tommy shrieks, sitting straight up, his hands clutching his decimated crotch.
Oops.
Lariat chuckles, giving a nod of satisfaction. “Nice.”
I cling to him, guessing what Tommy will eventually do when he recovers from Lariat’s tap dance.
Lariat walks us to a late-model pickup truck. It’s large and dented. It’s layered in various stages of cancerous rust but looks as though it was red when it was new.
“My handbag,” I say.
“Yup. On it.” He presses me gently against the truck, hunts his keys out of his front vest pocket, inserts them, and the door opens.
Lariat slides me in the backseat, and I lie there, staring
at the torn ceiling fabric inside the cab.
I hear his solid boot treads slap the road as he walks back to my tiny car. I sit up, just making him out as he plucks my purse off the asphalt. He eyeballs Tommy, who is still writhing and clutching his balls, and makes his way to the truck, slipping inside as silently as a ghost.
He turns over the engine and backs out.
I grab the back of the bench seat and breathe through the pain, gazing out of a rear window that has a fine spiderweb fracture running through the glass.
Tommy is on his knees, which is where he said I would be someday when I was putting his boss away for life.
I hadn’t believed him then, but I should have known he would try to make good on his threats. Still, it wasn’t the first time I’ve been threatened, and it won’t be the last.
I thought the gun would protect me, but it’s only as good as my level of awareness.
And because I had a panty-dropping event with Lariat—whether I’ll admit it or not—I’d been struck stupid.
The truck leaps forward as Lariat guns it out of the parking lot and I clutch the cheap vinyl material of the bench seat.
I continue to watch Tommy until my eyes can’t see him.
Flopping back down on the seat, I fling my forearm over my eyes. What a disaster.
“Who’s the prick?”
I close my eyes, a ragged exhale sliding out from between my throbbing lips. I lightly touch the most tender spot on my lower lip and hiss. My fingertip comes away with a single drop of ruby red blood.
“Tommy.”
“Why’s he beating the shit out of a woman lawyer?”
Lariat’s question is excellent, one of many I don’t want to answer.
First things first. “I wasn’t doing too bad,” I defend sullenly.
He snorts, handling the jerking truck with expertise. Lariat shoves the gearshift, and the truck lumbers reluctantly forward.
“You seem like you know what you’re doing.”
I open my eyes, dropping my arm to the bench seat as I flick my eyes to the rearview mirror to see if he’s making fun of me.
Lariat’s black gaze is steady on my face. It’s hard to hide anything I’m feeling in my discombobulated and disoriented state.
“I was stupid,” I admit, dabbing at my lip again and coming up with more blood. Goddammit. I have a court trial beginning this week, and I’m all beaten up.
Real professional, Angel.
“I don’t think that’s how I’d describe you,” Lariat says with slow deliberation.
My outfit is in tatters, I look like shit, and have puke breath. Yeah, I’m a real prize.
“I should have been aware of my surroundings once I was outside the safety of the crowd. I know better. He got me because I was all—gah.” I huff in frustration then grit my teeth against what the movement cost me.
“It was my animal magnetism. Got ya all hot and bothered, and you just stumbled into his trap.”
“Please,” I say because his assessment is a little too close to the truth for me. But he makes me smile, and I wince as my face moves.
He shrugs, and his muscles bunch as he smoothly shifts again.
“Where are we going?” I’m hoping to change the subject from my embarrassing mess.
“Don’t mind tellinʼ ya, but I want to know about this Tommy prick first.”
Here goes. “Mob,” I say in a curt answer, studiously avoiding his eyes. Instead, I gaze at the torn ceiling upholstery again. I’ll have it memorized before long.
“Fuck me,” he says softly, punching the steering wheel. “That’s not good.”
Guilt surges through me because I inadvertently involved him. Not part of my plan. “Yeah. I’m really sorry. It’s my disaster, and you just stepped in without knowing what was really going on.” I lightly massage my sternum, trying to self-comfort.
I close my eyes, wanting to cry. I need the money for my client, whom I’ve already gotten overly involved with. I’m getting in deeper with Lariat by the moment because not only does he hold the purse stings for Mini’s freedom, but he saved my ass from Tommy.
I haul myself upright, happy that I’m not seeing everything in triplicate. “Where are we going?”
It’s so dark wherever we are, I can only make out shapes.
“Club Prez’s cabin. All us guys take a turn living there until we get permanent digs.”
“Oh.” I don’t know Lariat. I’ve allowed myself to be taken by a stranger. So dumb. Maybe not as dumb as being unguarded enough that Tommy was able to beat me, but close.
After we travel what seems like an impossibly long driveway, Lariat directs the truck around a semi-circular drive, puts the gear in park, and kills the engine.
He swings around, his large hand gripping the seat between us. “You okay?”
I nod. “I’ll live.”
His smile is crooked from disbelief. “Yeah, not the same.”
No, it’s not. My return smile is genuine. Sarcasm is chased back by gratitude.
He slaps the seat and hops out then opens the back door. I scoot across the long bench, and he grabs my waist. He plucks me out of the back as though I weigh nothing and sets me on my feet.
I look down. I’m missing a heel. Wonderful. Sighing, I kick off the other one and gingerly pick it up, tossing it in the back. “What a mess.”
Lariat smiles and nods. “Class A snafu.”
I laugh, not understanding the acronym. “What?”
“Situation normal, all fucked up.”
I giggle, and the laughter rolls into slow sobbing.
Lariat awkwardly pats my shoulder.
I’m so pissed that I’m falling apart, I glare up at him through the wash of tears.
“It’s okay if you’re like—freaking out or something.” He lifts a massive shoulder.
“I’m not freaking out!” I scream, hands fisted by my sides.
“Uh-huh.” He folds his arms across his broad chest, his eyes at half-mast. “You can admit you’re scared.”
I’m so scared about the potential of Tommy that the sweat chills against my skin thinking about it. He’ll find me again. And he’ll be more determined than ever.
My chin sinks to my chest.
“Hey.” Lariat dips low to prop a finger underneath my jaw.
We stare at each other, and his touch against my skin is a branding of flame. His Adam’s apple bobs as he swallows hard.
We’re hyper aware of each other. There’s no denying or hiding it. The vibe is a state of being.
“You’re here. You’re safe now, Angela.”
I cover my face with my hands and stand there like a shaking mess.
Lariat’s arms go around me, holding me tight. For just that moment, I allow myself to sink into the comfort another human being is offering me, which is as rare an event as a total eclipse of the sun.
“It’s Angel,” I whisper.
Lariat leans back, looking down at me with an inscrutable expression.
After a moment more, he nods. “Suits you.”
I don’t know if the nickname does, but a happy thrill zings through me that he thinks so.
And therein lies the problem.
Happy doesn’t happen to me. It’s for others.
Chapter 4
Lariat
Damn. Damn. Damn.
I’m done for.
I leave Ms. Monroe—Angel—in the makeshift, tightly laid out living area, which is hardly more than a bachelor’s pad, and admit that I fucked up.
I stride to the bathroom door, walk through, jerk open the medicine cabinet, and take the blue med kit out by its handle. I pivot, frog marching my ass to the couch where she’s sitting.
Elegant legs are crossed at the ankles, and her stockings are run to shit. Her long-fingered, slim hands dangle off the sides of the couch, limp and unanimated.
“Gotta patch you up,” I say in a gruff voice.
I probably sound like that because I’m still pissed as fuck. When I ca
me out of Garcia’s and caught that prick putting his hands on her, I saw red.
I was instantly back in the sandbox—reactive, instinctive, and deliberate. There was no thought process.
Anger has no place in war, but sometimes the fuel of rage helps the battle.
She gives a slight shake of her head. “I need to—hell—I don’t know what I need to do.” Angel pushes her hair behind her ear and winces.
That’s when I notice half of her hair is in a hair tie, and the rest is all twisted and scattered. Long, silky black strands hang between her tits. And those are pretty much on full display since that mob asshole Tommy tore half her blouse apart.
She seems to notice where my gaze is directed and flicks the shreds of material to cover the lacy black bra.
The bra matches the sexy panties I got a glimpse of before everything went to hell.
“Do you have anything I can put on?”
Hell yes. Me.
My eyes dip to her rack again, and I give another hard swallow. I don’t want anything to cover those. “Yeah.”
I set the med kit down and make my way to the small bedroom tucked into the back corner of the cabin. I rummage through the battered old chest of drawers and come up with a beat-up Road Kill MC T-shirt—black, like all my other shit.
I walk out with it, and she’s unbuttoning her blouse. Her eyes shift to mine. “Do you mind?”
“Nope.” I rock back on my heels, boner at full tilt. I’m loving the striptease angle, purposefully misunderstanding the inferred request to turn around and not watch.
Her exhale is irritated. “Listen, I just got my butt kicked, and my clothes are in ruins. I’m not here to be fodder for your teenage boy fantasy.”
I move fast, and her eyes widen.
Jerking her up by the arms, I crush her against me. I sink my fingers into her hair, mindful of her injured face.
Her heart beats wildly against my chest, and those big luminescent eyes widen a touch with her fear. “I’m not a teenage boy.” I press my erection against her stomach. “That feel in any way like a trumped-up hormone blitz?”
Angel shakes her head. “What is this?” she asks in a low voice.
Our bodies are molded together like perfectly fitted pieces of a puzzle.
“I don’t know. I’m not much about analyzing shit that feels right.” The hand not holding her hair runs down her back, and what’s left of her blouse balls in my grasp. I flatten my palm against the small of her back and look into her eyes. “And this feels right.” My eyes travel down what I can see of her from the barely there distance. “You do.”
