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  LARIAT

  A Road Kill MC Novel

  Volume 6

  New York Times Bestselling author

  MARATA EROS

  All Rights Reserved.

  Copyright © 2016-17 Marata Eros

  This book is a work of fiction. The names, characters, places, and incidents are products of the writer’s imagination or have been used fictitiously and are not to be construed as real. Any resemblance to persons, living or dead, actual events, locales, or organizations is entirely coincidental.

  This book is licensed for your personal enjoyment only. This ebook may not be re-sold or given away to other people. If you would like to share this book with another person, please purchase an additional copy for each recipient. If you’re reading this book and did not purchase it, or if it was not purchased for your use only, then please return to a legitimate retailer and purchase your own copy. Thank you for respecting the hard work of this author.

  Marata Eros Website

  Marata Eros FB Fan Page

  Cover art by Willsin Rowe

  Editing suggestions provided by Red Adept Editing.

  DEDICATION:

  For our brave veterans of the United States of America. Thank you for fighting for our freedom.

  God bless you.

  Music that inspired me during the writing of LARIAT:

  Call for You

  by The Side Project

  SYNOPSIS:

  Angela Monroe is a public defender who cares for the weak. Because she is strong.

  She has had to be.

  When a client is murdered in jail before bail can be arranged, Angela vows to get to the bottom of the ultimate injustice. Instead, she finds herself face-to-face with a threat more dangerous than any she has ever known:

  Lariat, Road Kill Motorcycle Club rider and former Navy SEAL expert knotter.

  Lariat hadn’t seen his cousin, Mini, in a decade. When a hot female attorney reaches out for his help to front bail for Mini, he freely gives it. Until circumstances turn deadly, and his rage supersedes caution.

  What Lariat can’t know is the yin to his yang just presented herself with sharp heels and a mind to match.

  Can two opposites come together from the ashes of heartache? Or will the flame of their chemistry burn out before love can ignite?

  Works by Tamara Rose Blodgett:

  The BLOOD Series 1-6

  The DEATH Series 1-8

  Final Enforcement ALPHA CLAIM 1

  First Species ALPHA CLAIM 1 (2017)

  Shifter ALPHA CLAIM 1-6

  The REFLECTION Series 1-3

  The SAVAGE Series 1-7

  Vampire ALPHA CLAIM 1-6

  Works by Marata Eros:

  A Terrible Love (New York Times bestseller)

  A Brutal Tenderness

  The Darkest Joy

  Club Alpha

  One of Many (co-authored with Emily Goodwin)

  The DARA NICHOLS Series, 1-8

  The DEMON Series

  The DRUID Series 1-10

  Final Enforcement ALPHA CLAIM 1

  First Species ALPHA CLAIM 1 (2017)

  Road Kill MC Serial 1-5

  Shifter ALPHA CLAIM 1-6

  The SIREN Series

  The TOKEN Serial 1-10

  Vampire ALPHA CLAIM 1-6

  The ZOE SCOTT Series 1-8

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  Chapter 1

  Angela

  Pro-bono. My life as public defender.

  My forearms slide across the cheap laminate-surfaced table, and I clasp hands with the woman who sits across from me.

  Crooked teeth peek through a genuine smile. Strings of hair clump together as she leans forward, biting a lip cut from the fists of her abuser.

  Dead abuser.

  Mini Dreyfus no longer has to live in fear that at any moment she’ll suffer a contusion, cut, or broken bone. The dead can no longer maim.

  She momentarily releases my hands and swipes at her striking brown eyes that are leaking down her cheeks. “I can’t stay here, Miss Monroe.”

  “Angela,” I correct for the hundredth time.

  Mini nods, her smile watery and thin. “Prison is its own thing. I’m unprotected here too.”

  I refrain from biting my own lip. This is the problem. Mini murdered her husband, a type of passive self-defense.

  To me and many others, the x-rays documenting the years of abuse are enough to justify her actions. Mini Dreyfus doesn’t belong in a maximum-security prison. An hour, a day, any amount of time is too much in my humble opinion.

  But beating a man while he sleeps with a solid hickory baseball bat brings pause, even to the most sympathetic. So now there will be a trial.

  In the meantime, Mini is being held without bail.

  “I shoulda waited until he was beatinʼ on me before I caved in his skull.”

  I nodded. Yes, she should have. But I’m Mini’s attorney, and I can’t outwardly agree with the violence.

  However, I do on the inside.

  I squeeze her hands, gently releasing my hold. “We can’t hang onto regret.”

  She leans forward, lank and dirty hair forming a curtain between us as I move my face close to hers. “The only thing I regret is I didn’t kill that fucker sooner.”

  Yes. Out loud, I say in a thready voice, “Be that as it may, we will have to put on a more neutral front for the trial.” In other words, there can be no outward glee, no matter how much his death has made her giddy with profound relief.

  Mini sits back, defiantly crossing her arms. “I don’t know if I’m gonna live to see the trial, Angela.”

  Prison isn’t for the faint of heart. It’s not unheard of for a client who doesn’t have any money to make bail—even if bail is set—get killed before the process is complete.

  I’ll ask the judge to set bail. It’ll probably be denied, but he can only say no.

  “Can ya talk to my cousin?” Mini asks suddenly.

  My ears perk. “Cousin?” I frown. “What does your relative have to do with bail?”

  She leans even closer, as close as her chains will allow, and I attempt to ignore the embedded grime in the creases of her neck. It’s an effort to maintain my calm veneer, especially as Mini’s life mirrors a familiarity that I don’t want to see reflected back at me anymore.

  “He’s kinda rich. Haven’t seen ʼem since I was little, but he was good to me.”

  “You’re saying that if I can get bail, he’ll pay.”

  She shrugs. “I don’t know. But he’s a big deal SEAL, Navy man. Biker now, I hear. He’ll have cash.”

  The cogs of my mind grind away. A man who was a hardened American assassin, that’s now a biker gang member will just be thrilled with putting up a 100K for his wayward cousin.

  I let the disbelief bleed into my carefully cultivated blank expression.

  Mini squirms a little. “I know it’s a long shot.” She puts her head in her hands, threading her fingers through the loose strands. The chains clank against the metal perimeter of the table, stretching taut. “I got no one else. My folks are dead.”

  Mine too. I release a thoughtful breath.

  She slowly raises her face. “He was my uncle’s boy. Sometimes, when we were little, we were all each other had.” Her fingers fall to her lap, the jangling metal loud in the enclosed space. She twists and untwists her hands over and over.

  “Five minutes, Ms. Monroe.”

  I turn, only my profile visible to the guard. “Yes, thank you.”

  My face swivels back, and I prop my elbows on the table. “What happened to him?”

  She lif
ts a shoulder and sniffs. “He moved outta state. Never heard from him again.”

  “Your parents died when?”

  “Teenager. I started using after that. Uncle didn’t want me.”

  I hike an eyebrow. I find it hard to believe that a family member who had a good son would have ignored a child in need. Something doesn’t agree in this scenario. “Your uncle told you that?” I steeple my hands together underneath my chin as I watch every minute expression on her face.

  Mini shakes her head. “No.” Her breath shudders. “But he was contacted by a case worker and never came forward to, ya know, claim me.” She casts her eyes down.

  Fucker. “All right.” I lightly rap my knuckles on the cheap laminate. “Give me his name, and I’ll reach out.” I lift a shoulder, and the fashionably fitted blazer I wear constrains the movement.

  “Shane Dreyfus.”

  I feel my eyebrows rise, surprised they share the same last name.

  Mini says, “Kept my own last name.” Her chin lifts. “Arnie beat me harder for it. But it wasn’t somethinʼ I was gonna let him take—it was mine. Arnie didn’t deserve it, for me to have his last name. He was less than a man.”

  I swiftly look down, thinking of another time, another place. A fine sheen of sweat springs above my upper lip, and my stomach rolls.

  Settle down, Angel.

  I employ deep-breathing exercises, one after another.

  The guard lightly taps my shoulder, and I’m not expecting it. Unguarded.

  I yelp.

  He throws both hands up, retreating a step. “Whoa, sorry!”

  My galloping heart slows as I gradually take charge of my emotions again.

  Mini glares at him.

  “It’s fine.” I clear my throat softly. “You startled me is all.” I smooth my damp hands over my tight pencil skirt and stand.

  Mini does too. Her dark eyes meet mine. So unusual in their large size, they take up the precious real estate of her face. They’re so deep a brown that they swallow the pupil, appearing to float like smoldering rich pockets of earth within the delicate oval of her face. They’re her most arresting feature.

  Though the faded bruises beneath them are also noteworthy.

  I nod, turning my attention to Mini. “I will do my best.” I stretch my fingertips, touching her arm. “What biker gang does he belong to?”

  Mini cocks her head, obviously trying to remember. “You’re assuming that you can get me bail.”

  Our eyes lock again. Mine are a very light green with gold mixed in. Hers are like a night sky that never sees daylight.

  “I am.” I don’t tell Mini I usually get what I want. I don’t leave myself options for failure.

  Once I have options, that is.

  “Thank you, Miss Monroe.”

  “Angela.” I smile, and it reaches my eyes, crinkling the corners. “The gang?” I prompt her.

  Mini shakes her head. “Not sure. Just know he’s MC.”

  MC?

  Then a guard is leading her away. I watch her go, in her bright, hazard-orange prison outfit. She looks so small, like a stolen flower.

  Wilted.

  I’ve got my work cut out for me. I sigh and purposefully turn away.

  *

  I swipe my hands over my suit and straighten the lapels that lead to a single button beneath my breasts. I suck in a cleansing breath. Then another.

  I will not be intimidated.

  Yet, I am.

  There’s no amount of law school or cases won that will restore my confidence when faced with dangerous men.

  Too many memories. Too many triggers firing off at once. I imagine the sensation is similar to being in the middle of a war zone.

  I stare at the heavy wood door and will myself to open it.

  I had put out the feelers to find Mini’s cousin. I have only myself to blame if one of these men throws me down on the floor and has his way with me.

  Hell, I almost invited it from the message I left with the right people.

  I have something you want, I’d penned cryptically.

  There was no way to find out where the Road Kill Motorcycle Club headquarters was located, which is the MC that Shane Dreyfus is associated with.

  But Garcia’s, a local Kent dive restaurant/bar, is the place where the cousin supposedly will meet me—in public.

  Gripping the solid long metal bar of the restaurant door, I swing it wide and step inside.

  Ambient noise immediately assails me as I notice a full-length mirror standing at attention to the right of the maître d’ desk.

  I glance at my reflection.

  Luminescent eyes appear to glow, stranded in the midst of my hated freckled, fair skin. But my hair is jet black, belying that porcelain skin. A shocking contrast. Or so I’ve heard mentioned many times. The reality is, I was told I was ugly in my formative teen years, so my looks, whether good or bad, didn’t receive a lot of introspection. I shake off cobwebs from the past. They stubbornly cling to the now.

  What I do know is I’m smart. And determined.

  I will get this cousin to fork over the money for the bail I managed to finagle from the reluctant judge—a judge who took ten minutes to pour over the graphic x-rays cataloging abuse too profound to ignore.

  If I have to use whatever physical assets I have to assist in that bargaining chip, I will.

  I run my hands over my black pencil skirt and drape the matching bolero jacket over my left arm. The citrine-colored blouse I chose matches my unusual eye color and has only three buttons. The first begins exactly where my cleavage starts.

  I look as good as I can force myself to. I turn, scanning the noisy crowd. There isn’t a spare seat in the house.

  Except one.

  A man with dark, closely cropped hair nurses a draft beer, casually spinning it on the highly polished bar top. His back is to me, and it’s broad. The length of his legs suggests height, but God knows that never matters. I’m five feet ten in my stocking feet, and a man has to be six feet two before I notice his height.

  It’s the leather vest covered in patches that gives me the first clue that he’s my man, or maybe it’s the Road Kill MC scrolling across his back at the leather vest’s center.

  My lips curl, and I begin to walk toward him, but then I pause, just staring. The white noise of voices, clinking ice, and low music struggle around me like a pillowy cushion of sound I refuse to absorb.

  There is something different about him, some enigmatic element that sets him sharply apart from the other patrons.

  I continue to gauge that unique sensation, unhappy with my inability to identify what that piece of mystery is.

  Then it hits me.

  He is the only patron who appears causal but is not. I have never witnessed another human being who has such an innate talent for not just occupying a space, but making it come alive. The very air seems to vibrate with energy.

  His energy.

  The people who sit near to who I assume is Shane Dreyfus almost appear to lean away, as if they’ve gotten too close to the sun and are libel to be burnt.

  His potential for danger is an aura I recognize immediately, and I’m instantly glad I chose this place instead of somewhere more private.

  Of course, my background has taught me caution, and I employ that now. Every sense and instinct come alive as I prowl toward this lowlife biker.

  I remind myself that Shane Dreyfus served our country then just as easily dismiss the notion. I’m not some young girl who’ll get doe-eyed by a rough and tough ex-Navy SEAL.

  I’m almost twenty-seven years old. And I feel as though I’ve lived two lifetimes to get to where I am now, to be who I am.

  I will do what I must for Mini.

  When I’m about five feet away, he turns, legs apart in a casual spread, and my eyes take him in up close.

  Rugged. That’s the word to describe Shane Dreyfus. Scuffed black, deeply tread, lace-up boots are hidden under dark denims that climb his muscular legs and continue
over an impressive package. His waist is narrow but not waspy like the effeminate male models that are so popular right now. His strong hands loosely cradle the nearly finished beer, and broad shoulders hold a thick neck that sports an inky black anchor at its side, about the size of a quarter. His jaw is strong and square, a deep cleft in its middle.

  When my gaze reaches his face, I find it holding a smirk. But the eyes—oh my God—they’re Mini’s. Coal black, they gaze unflinchingly back at me.

  “Like what you see, sweet thing?” He tilts his head back, taking a swallow of his beer, and a lick of foam laces his upper lip. Those dark eyes eat the edges of my vision as his throat works the swallow.

  I have an insane urge to kiss the foam off. The compulsion is so overwhelming, I hide behind a derisive laugh while I recover.

  Shane Dreyfus frowns at my obvious lack of interest.

  He’s probably five feet six, I console myself. And in my two-inch heels, I will look down my nose and intimidate him into shooting dollar bills out of his ass.

  I volley a hard smirk back. “Hardly,” I reply in a cool purr. “Just enjoying the view.”

  His eyes tighten at my icy drawl.

  A man to his left moves in as though to take the empty seat, and Dreyfus shoots him a look. “Fuck off.”

  The man backs away, hands raised. “Sorry, man, thought you were leaving.”

  Shane Dreyfus silently stares holes through him.

  He scuttles away.

  Poor thing. My smile broadens.

  He turns his attention back to me. “You Angela Monroe?” He empties his beer and sets it hard on the bar top.

  “I am.”

  I let the silence roll out, not bothering to fill it. Doing so is an alarmingly effective technique for destabilizing those I wish to manipulate.

  Dreyfus lets the verbal stand off go, staring at me. His perusal mirrors the one I just gave him.

  I’m sure he’ll linger over the tight skirt, the hint of small but perfect breasts offered at the V of my golden-green blouse. But he doesn’t pause at the obvious triangle that marks me as female.

  He stares into my eyes. Deeply.

  It’s more disconcerting than if he’d just leered at all my obvious parts.

  After two full minutes pass, he says, “Let’s get out of here.” He licks the foam from his upper lip.

  My breath stills for a heartbeat at the gesture, and I shake my head. No way. This combustible chemistry is not going to be taken elsewhere. “Absolutely not. I chose this place because I’m safe here. And my safety comes first, Mr. Dreyfus.”