Noose (Road Kill MC #1) Page 2

  But to Ned, my lack of interest means exactly that.

  I turn away quickly, trying to pretend those interchanges don't bug me or make me nervous.

  That’s crap, of course. Anxious sweat stings my palms and breaks out underneath my armpits. I hate feeling stressed where I work. My fingers curl around the cell.

  I have Charlie.

  I have a job. I have a hell of a lot to be thankful for. Crying over my perv boss like a scared little bitch won't solve it.

  I just won't be late anymore. Even a minute. A second. I don't want to give the jerk anything to have over me.

  I scoot my stool with the rolling wheels underneath the counter and lift my sign that says Next Window.

  I'm ready to take money now.

  *

  I hate my boobs.

  Other women think I've got it made or something. I fill out clothes nice, sure. But I have to wear two sports bras so the girls don't drive me crazy with bouncing. Besides, it kind of hurts if I don't.

  Like now.

  I jog around nine-minute miles most days. On the weekends, I go a little nuts and do around six-mile runs, then I'm a true jogger, slowing down too just under tens. During the week, between my job and Charlie, I can only manage around three times a week. I take Sundays off. That's Charlie's day.

  My day.

  I swear I live at Scenic Park. Rumor has it we had a mayor back in the 1970s who was out of control for parks and threw one in everywhere there was land.

  Kent needs it. The city's a little armpit bedroom community to Seattle now. Infrastructure was not well thought out, and the traffic is a rat's nest of too many cars in clogged arteries. The roads of Kent have cholesterol, and there's not a damn thing we can do to stop the impending heart attack.

  The valley bisects the east and west hills of the city. Kent's got long fingers of ownership that travel all the way to Federal Way to the west, cutting a path through that town and still claiming a narrow swath that belongs to the City of Kent.

  I don't care about the impractical parks that could have been made into more roads or wider ones. I just like to jog the paths of Scenic Park and have a free, safe place to hang with my nephew.

  The ritual of running erases my mind's problems and takes me on a journey of the soul without introspection. I cannot think for that hour I'm pounding paths that wind through trees.

  I don't think about my creeper boss. I don't think about Charlie's real dad, my sister’s murderer.

  I just run.

  Charlie loves the park. If the wind's strong, we fly kites that get caught in the Douglas fir trees, tails like rainbow arcs toss their color in the deep blue of summer that comes late in the Pacific Northwest.

  A wave of light-headedness washes over me, making my stride stutter.

  Dammit.

  My little waist pouch taps my hip softly as I run. I hate stopping the rhythm I set when I run. My sports watch says I was doing high eights. That's pretty fast for my slow ass. A tight smile stretches my lips. Just one more quarter mile, and my car will be in sight.

  I can make it.

  I take the last bit of my run hard, seeing what I've got left.

  When my little Smartcar comes into sight I slow to a walk, cruising right past the shiny white toaster.

  I'm begging to puke if I just stop and hop in. Nope. First, it's the ten-minute cool-down walk, then it's stretching.

  First things first. I spring a Jolly Rancher candy free of my little pouch, tear off the wrapper, and stuff it inside my mouth, striding back and forth.

  I probably look like a crazy pacer. I suck hard through my nose and breathe out my mouth, controlling my air. Sweet and sour apple flavor explodes inside my mouth as I suck on the candy, willing it to settle me and ground my fuzzy brain.

  Being tied to protein and ready sugars gets old, but it could be worse. Oh well.

  My tongue rolls the candy around in my mouth, my heartbeats slow, and my shakiness subsides.

  I plant my hands at my hips, elbows out, and walk with my head down.

  Back and forth, back and forth. I don't see, hear, or think.

  I crunch my candy and cool down. That's probably why I didn't notice him at first.

  Drake moves into my path.

  I stop as if I just walked into an invisible wall. It sure feels like I did.

  The wings of my elbows fold, and that heartbeat I had under control riots inside a chest that suddenly doesn't feel like taking in air.

  “Hello, Rose.”

  He's just as I remember him from last year. Huge. Greasy. Sinister.

  Dangerous.

  I don't reply, pivoting quickly. I move to my car.

  He's so fast, his hand is on the handle before I touch it.

  I make a little noise of distress.

  God, please.

  Please.

  His smile is cruel as he grits out, “We're gonna talk, bitch.”

  My heart flies up my throat. I try to reply but can't.

  His hand grips my bicep, fingers biting the tender flesh just above the elbow.

  “There's witnesses, Drake.” I'm so proud of the evenness of my voice.

  He nods. “I know that. We're gonna talk. Here. Now.”

  I swallow, craning my neck to get a good look at him. He's over six feet to my five feet, seven. His biker gang tats are all over him. The only tat-free space on his big body is his face. He reeks like body odor and ashtrays. Underneath that is pure evil.

  I shudder.

  His smile widens. He's so pleased by the effect he has on me, and I'm helpless to not react. Drake is the most repugnant man I've ever met in the flesh.

  He drops my arm as though it burns him. I know that's not the case. He's told me I look as good as my sister. When he said that, tears burst from my eyeballs. Not a few. A flood.

  He laughed.

  The leather of his motorcycle jacket creaks when he shifts his weight. “Hearing's coming up.”

  I know that. I've lived knowing that.

  My feet take me a few steps out of his reach. “I know.”

  “They're going to give me my boy back.” A slow, false grin spreads on his face.

  I shake my head, my lips thinning. “They'll take one look at you and give me another five years.”

  “You fucking bitch. Give me visitation rights.”

  I swallow my fear, as his hands become flesh hammers at his side.

  “What rights?” I whisper in a choked voice, my fingers splaying over my heart. “What rights did Anna have?”

  “She stepped out on me,” Drake says, crossing his arms over his steroid-muscled chest.

  “She walkedout on you. Big difference. But if that helps you sleep at night…”

  His eyes slim down on me. “I sleep like a baby.” He puts a V around his lips and his tongue punches out. Wagging at me.

  Disgust ripples through me. “What are you? Twelve?”

  I shake my head, turning to walk back to my car. Defeated.

  I have to see this maniac again in a week. I should have known he couldn't wait until then.

  He reaches out, snagging my wrist. He grinds the small bones together. “You will say you're willing to give me visitation, or I'll make it so you wished you had.”

  A whimper slips out.

  Drake likes the noise. His hold tightens slightly, then he drops my arm.

  I fight not to rub my wrist.

  I feel tears burn my eyes, knowing what my sister went through before she died. A taste of Drake's abuse is enough to last me a lifetime.

  “You can't force me. Charlie's all I have of Anna. He's a human being, not a pawn for your control.”

  His thumb hits his chest. “He's my fucking kid. Unless that crack was fucking someone I don't know about?” His dark eyebrows twitch upward.

  I wish she had.

  But Charlie is all his. Anna had only just started dating another guy when she was murdered. Who knows if she ever slept with him? Charlie was already here, so it’s a
moot point.

  Drake was the only man Anna slept with, as far as I know.

  I shake my head.

  He lifts his shoulders hard, driving them to his ears. Heavy gauges distend the lobes. They’re jet black, like his clothes.

  Like his heart.

  “I'll be there.” I jerk the handle up and heave myself inside, slamming the door.

  Drake strides to the window and gives a single hard rap of his knuckles against the glass.

  I flinch.

  Starting the car, I crack the window.

  “It's not you being there that matters. It's you vouching for me, cunt.”

  I hate that word. It's so dirty from his mouth.

  I'm more than the sum of my parts. Ineffectual rage blossoms like a dark flower inside me, swarming my body with heat.

  His lips twist savagely. “Yeah. I see how you are. What you'd like to do to me. But you can't. I'm in control, see?”

  I do see, but I won't be manipulated. This won't stop. If I cave to Drake's demands, he won't stop there. He'll want more.

  He won't stop until he has Charlie.

  I can't let that happen.

  His grimy fingers curl over the window rim.

  I slam the gear in reverse and take off.

  Drake snatches his hand away.

  His glare haunts me even after he's out of sight.

  3

  Noose

  “Fucking Kent.”

  “Yup.” Snare squints up at the sky, taking in the Indian summer weather. “Don't really feeling like being errand boy today. Could be eating road.”

  “Killing road,” I say.

  He turns to me with a grin.

  We bump fists again.

  Good day to be alive.

  I hit the kickstand with the toe of my boot, and it clicks into place. I let the Road King settle to the side, its engine ticking as it cools.

  I'm the only brother with a King. I love the smoothness. Of course, I've had every thing under the sun done for speed. The pipes are bigger than a woman's waist.

  Well, maybe not that big.

  I grin, striding toward the bank where the club's money gets stowed. The manager's dirty.

  He'll hold anything for the right price. Road Kill MC always pays the right price for the job. He's a cowardly little simp. But as long as green greases his palm, he's our dog on a leash. Works for us.

  There’s lots of gang trash thinking they'll move into our territory and infringe on the club's rights. Road Kill will keep killing to maintain what's ours. Got to be proactive with disease, no matter what form it takes. Gangs. Drugs. Trafficking. Whatever. Cancer spreads.

  Money that can't be laundered gets its own security net.

  I look up at the sign. A big key logo hovers over the top, imposing and trying for that secure vibe. We're actually kissing distance to Covington. It's not quite the shithole Kent's become, but it's vying for second position.

  I shake my head with my normal disdain. Nothing's secure.

  I move through the entrance, and Snare scans the exits and living, breathing scenery. A good sergeant-in-arms will always tally ins and outs, potential threats.

  This bank is new for us. The one in Tacoma changed hands, and now we have to dick with the newest lackey.

  The Prez wants it done, so we go to Kent for the new account. Little intro. It's the right city size to cover shit—big, but not so big that we lose sight of our vitals.

  Vince, aka Viper, has been President of the Road Kill MC since before I was voted in five years ago, and his intuition rivals my own. We make a good team.

  Same as Snare and I do.

  Instincts will keep a man alive. Not brains. Not education. Not attitude. That's all show. Living by your gut sees a long life. Men tied to their primal side survive.

  He gives a low whistle that only I can hear, and I tense.

  “What?” I offer in a voice just above a hiss.

  “Check out that broad.”

  I stifle an eye roll. I'm all business. Get this money hustle out of the way and eat road. I already had pussy for breakfast.

  Then I see her, and time slows to a crawl.

  My dick hurts at just a glance. It's not just one thing about her, but a million things.

  Yeah, she does have some tits. But I've seen tits—dozens of cum-on-them tits. I'm not a piece man; I'm a package man. This chick's got that going in spades: exotic doe eyes so brown that they're almost black and dark-blond hair that's blonder than my own, but rich like honey.

  I imagine her pouring over my body like the sweet condiment.

  “Right?” Snare pants with full-on lust.

  I jab him in the ribs.

  He huffs. “Fuck you, Noose.”

  “Come on.”

  I pick up one boot after another.

  I'm never nervous around chicks. They're just a place to park my prick.

  I lick my lips, wondering for the first time in forever what I threw on to cover my body today.

  Well, my cut, for starters.

  Snare and I stand at the silken twisted rope. I read the sign. Please wait for next available teller.

  A text pings, and I slip my phone out of my jeans.

  It's the simp manager, Ned.

  Go to teller number three.

  Cryptic fuck.

  I don't text back. Guess who's teller number three? You got it—dark, dainty, and delicious.

  She’s like a fucking chocolate eclair. My tongue darts out and runs over my lip again, betraying my thoughts.

  She looks up.

  My balls lift. Holy fuck.

  “May I help you?” she asks.

  Hell yes.

  She's got one of those low contralto voices to match the package. Her words burn through me.

  Snare puts an elbow in my side.

  I move forward. “Yeah.”

  Her caramel eyebrow arches, and my eyes run all over her body, starting at the rack.

  She's not some slut. She's built better than any girl I've ever seen, but she's modestly dressed. Christ on a crutch, she looks like she just graduated high school.

  Finally, my eyes hit her face again. Those eyes.

  Oh yeah, she's trouble.

  A fine blush runs across her cheekbones.

  I've embarrassed her. I don't care. She's just some banker chick.

  My spine straightens.

  Ned sidles up behind her, placing a familiar hand at her shoulder. A finger slides up the skin of her neck, and I watch her fight to not shrug it off.

  My lust moves right into anger. Handy. The emotion chases my fog to the shore of my mind. I can think again. Thank fuck.

  “Rose,” Ned say, “these are the special clients I told you about.”

  Rose, my mind whispers like a prayer.

  Fear edges her eyes as she takes me in the way I just did her.

  My eyes tighten. Must be the tats. Or the cut. Or me.

  Probably me.

  I give a sideways look to Snare. His eyes are glued to the tiny bit of cleavage peeking out her fire-engine-red blouse.

  Dick.

  “Yes, thank you, Ned.”

  I sort of hear, Fuck off, Ned. Maybe it’s wishful thinking. He appears to give her an affectionate squeeze, and she shivers.

  Pleasure?

  A look of distaste moves across her features and is gone almost before I notice.

  Nope. Revulsion.

  I glare at good old Ned, and he shrinks away. I watch him until he disappears into his glass-walled office.

  “I can help you,” she says quietly.

  I reach into the flat leather satchel I have and slide a zippered and locked bag across the countertop between her and me.

  Rose's fingers tremble as she takes it, careful not to touch me.

  Her fear pisses me off. I would never hurt a woman, even if she begged me to. I'm not one of those sadist fucks.

  Why do I give two shits if Rose is scared of me? We're the Road Kill MC; lots of people are scared o
f us.

  I look at Rose, her dark honey-colored head bends over the money as she puts it in an automatic currency counter. I don't like her being afraid of me.

  That makes me even more pissed.

  She's just a woman, like any other woman. They all have vaginas. They are good for fucking. That's it.

  My dick throbs. And I'm back to goddamned thinking again. How'd that nasty little habit rear its head again?

  She finishes and looks up. Eyelashes like amber lace sweep down, fanning over the soft-pink color of her cheeks. She looks up from beneath them, and my breath stutters.

  Her lips move, and I think about kissing them.

  “What?” I say in slow motion.

  She’s clearly flustered at having to repeat herself. “I have your receipt.”

  I nod and hold out my hand. She hands me the square piece of paper. I glance at the figure.

  Correct.

  My fingers wrap hers, and the transaction receipt crinkles between us.

  I can feel her heartbeat through my hand.

  Our eyes lock.

  “Thank you,” she says quietly. Her features tighten.

  “Welcome,” I manage, releasing her hand.

  She sits there, stunned.

  Stunning.

  I pivot to walk away, and Snare follows, smart enough to keep his trap shut.

  I stuff the receipt inside the security bag and throw it in the satchel that diagonally crosses my body.

  Snare punches open the door ahead of me, and I move through first.

  I've been in combat, and taken lives. I've brushed death so closely, I could taste rot on my tongue.

  But today I've been undone by some bank teller.

  I'm fucking losing it.

  “What the fuck was that?” Snare asks, eyes roaming the parking lot.

  No thugs leap out of their possible hiding places. My shoulders ease down.

  “What?” I ask, purposely misunderstanding. I hate explaining shit I can't. To myself. To others.

  “The fucking chick back there.” He yanks his head back at the doors we just passed through. “Your brains were leaking out your ears. And,” he says, voice going low, “you scared the fuck outta her. Nice, Noose. Way to turn on the charm.”

  “Not all of us can be beautiful.”

  Snare snorts. “It's not that, you fucking clown. It's that you were all intense and didn't talk, then we deposit a hundred grand? Real circumspect, is all I'm saying.”