Lariat Read online

  His smirk is back, and he beats his knuckles with a sharp tap on the bar. The bartender races to where he sits. “Lady looks thirsty,” he semi-growls at the bartender.

  Wide, frightened eyes find me.

  “Do you have UV?” I ask.

  He nods rapidly.

  “I’ll take that with lemonade.”

  Dreyfusʼs smirk widens to a brilliant smile, flattening the sexy dimple on his chin, and he sweeps a palm toward the open stool.

  I walk toward him, and he stands. He looms over me.

  He’s not five feet anything. He’s six feet four if he’s an inch.

  “You’re very tall, Mr. Dreyfus.” I want to kick myself. Is that all I can say? I mean, I’m known as the golden tongue. And I mention height? My brains have clearly slipped out of my ears.

  “So are you. And it’s Lariat. That other name is just on paper.”

  He sticks out a hand, and I shake. But it’s more like being swallowed whole.

  Danger oozes out of him. But somehow, he makes me feel safe.

  And that’s why I have to get what I need and get the hell out. There is no such thing as safe.

  It’s a fairy tale.

  And those, I never believed.

  Chapter 2

  Lariat

  Bitch is hot.

  I don’t sit with my back to an exit unless I can see it. My eyes are steady on the mirror in front of where I sit at the bar. Bottles of liquor have the optical illusion of suspended liquid jewels, obscuring my view but not so much that I need to face the exit. There are two points for escape from my vantage point. My eyes restlessly travel from one to the other.

  I know every person in this bar. Not by name, but by potential.

  Dangerous potential.

  The instincts of being a Navy SEAL never leaves a man. Can’t take the service out of a SEAL. It’s part of my makeup. It doesn’t matter that I ride now. I served. And in my own way, I continue to serve.

  I was expecting some late forties broad with a secretary spread and a cheap poly suit to frump in and tell me whatever bullshit some asswipe has trumped up. And what the fuck is with the secrecy?

  I didn’t expect this—not her. How do I know this is Angela Monroe? Well, for one thing, she screams lawyer from head to heeled toe.

  She wears a tight black suit in a place full of denim and T-shirts. She sticks out like a turd in a punch bowl.

  Fine looking doesn’t cover it, and I feast on the reflected view the mirrored wall provides.

  I don’t normally have a type of chick I go for. Giving a rueful shake of my head, I take that back. When it comes to sweet butts—the whores of the MC—I like ʼem young, tight, and willing. Those are the prerequisites. Dumb is a bonus. I don’t want more.

  Thank Christ I haven’t joined the fucking demented pussy parade like Noose, Snare, and Wring. Those fucknuts—they are bitch-i-fied. I’ll count the pennies for Road Kill MC. Then I’ll let some broad swallow a load of what I have, or better yet, unload in her sweet hole.

  Yeah. That’s my style, not this committing bullshit. But god damn if this chick doesn’t give me an insta-hard-on.

  Why?

  I would say it’s the sizzling body I can see from the slim reflection offered by the mirror facing the crowded bar. But I’ve had hot. I would say that my reaction is because she has a vagina—but so do the three billion other chicks on this blue marble. I scrape a palm over the two-day stubble my jaw holds, puzzled.

  Angela Monroe moves as if she owns the space she’s in. She parts the crowd without saying excuse me, fuck off—whatever. People just move out of her way.

  And she’s got legs that go on for miles.

  I know when she’s made me. She stops her forward motion. People swirl around her, and I will them to move so I can continue to watch her while she’s unaware she has an audience.

  When she’s a few feet away, I spin the stool around to face her.

  I take a swig of beer to hide my reaction, mentally flogging my semi-boner into compliance.

  Angela Monroe is gorgeous up close. Skin like fucking carved ivory with a smattering of freckles over the bridge of her nose. Jet black hair tops it off.

  But the eyes… Her eyes are like fucking jewels embedded in her face. On a chick, I usually just notice the goods—T and A. But not on her.

  She’s delicate. I meet her confident gaze, which borders on defiance.

  Her eyes are hard. Angela Monroe has been through a few things. Not good things, if I’m any judge. And I am.

  Like recognizes like.

  “Like what you see, sweet thing?” I ask to cover my tenseness before taking a gulp of brew.

  Her lips curl. “Hardly.” Then she tilts her head, studying me for a second as if I’m a really interesting bug. “Just enjoying the view.”

  Really? Well fuck me.

  She doesn’t play around. I like it. But I want to know why we’re having this little soiree more.

  Just as I’m ready to question our meeting, a guy tries to take the seat I was saving for her and momentarily interrupts my view.

  Douche. “Fuck off.” I give him my typical I mean business stare, and he takes off like a spider after a fly.

  I turn my attention back to Angela. Maybe I can get laid if I play my cards right and get whatever she needs to tell me out of her. Two birds with one stone. I look her over again. Maybe she’s out of my league.

  “You Angela Monroe?” I have to confirm it. I figure she’s the real thing, but I’m thorough.

  “I am.” Then she says she’s not safe leaving here with me.

  She’s right, but not for the reasons she’s thinking.

  I lick my lips, anticipating. Chicks dig bikers, lawlessness—even professional chicks. My eyes hood. “Let’s get out of here.”

  Her face breaks into a grin, but it doesn’t reach her eyes. The expression is a hard, shiny flash of teeth.

  My eyes rove over her again. Jesus. I transfer my beer to my other hand.

  Fine.

  I make the right words and indicate the stool. I stand as she walks by, and something flusters the fuck out of her. I don’t know at first what it is.

  Then I slowly get it.

  I’m tall. I mean, I’m used to being tall and don’t give it fuck-on-ditty attention. But her reaction to my nearness tells me she’s not used to being this near a man who’s so much taller than her.

  The tenseness in her body gives her away as she practically flinches to avoid the closeness. I frown. That kind of response tells me she’s probably seen the business end of some fists.

  Some fuck put hands on her.

  It’s one thing to enjoy a bitch. It’s a whole fucking other to hurt her. Women weren’t put on this Earth to fuck up. Men protect women. And the ones who don’t need to have a quick end—or a painful slow one. Depends.

  If it were up to me, it would be a knotted termination.

  I miss doing that—taking care of shit up close and personal. Now I count beans for the club because I have a mind for figuring. I always have. I’ve figured every stage of my life, and I’m not bad on strategizing either.

  I don’t spend a shit-ton of time being slow. Life depends on making snap decisions, instinctual shit. Slow just gets a man dead.

  Safety is not what I want Angela Monroe to worry about, that I’m just another fucker who beats women.

  All this slides through my mind in seconds. What I do outwardly is take the heat down a notch.

  I perch on the stool, and her shoulders relax, sinking a touch. I knew sitting would help.

  Without looking away from her, I hit my knuckles on the bar, and the little weasel bartender who makes weak drinks scurries back.

  She gives her order—something tooty-fruity. I snort. I don’t meet a lot of females who like straight beer. It seems to offend.

  I shoot a daggered glance at Smarmy—pretty sure he gets the hint. Bartending simp better put enough vodka in her drink for it to taste like one.

 
; Angela Monroe slides onto the stool, letting an elegant ankle dangle just above the circular metal bar that encompasses the bottom of the stool’s legs. She sits as though she’s poised to take off.

  “Shane Dreyfus,” she murmurs.

  My chin jerks up, and I realize I’ve been fantasizing about her leg, and shit a lot higher up.

  I’m usually not this obvious.

  “Call me Lariat.”

  She lifts a brow but doesn’t comment, her lips tweaking in a secret smile.

  Makes me wonder what she’s thinking. I frown, breaking a long-standing internal tradition of I don’t give a shit.

  I prop an elbow on the bar as her drink comes. The bartender sets a tall, icy blue concoction in front of her with a skinny, bright red, plastic swizzle stick.

  I spare him a dark glance. “Better not be weak, pal.”

  He looks at me, Adam’s apple doing a throat dance. “No way.”

  I grunt and turn back to her.

  “I’ll get right to the point.”

  My dick nods when her sultry voice starts in. Timing sucks, but the fucker has a life of its own. I’ve never had a body part as uncooperative as my prick. I shift my weight, trying to subtly adjust the goods.

  “The point would be good.”

  Her exhale is slightly irritated, and that pisses me right the fuck off.

  I straighten. I’m mad because of my body’s response and pissed because she acts like she’s God’s gift. “I’m here because of your fucked-up message, so say what you gotta say.”

  She nods, seemingly unfazed by my words. “I should have never come, but Mini assured me you were her only hope.”

  Her eyes pierce me, waiting for my response.

  Shit. “Mini?” Man, I thought she was gone—dead. Dad told me before he bit it that he didn’t know what happened to her. We figured she moved away, or hell, that she was dead.

  I can’t hide my excitement and concern. “Is she all right?” Dumb question. Why would she lawyer up if things were fucking good?

  Angela sweeps an inky strand of hair that’s come loose from some bun thing behind her ear.

  I want to touch that soft tendril—badly. I want to feel if it’s as silky as it looks. I try to shake off the urge.

  We’re talking about my cousin that I haven’t seen in ten years, and I’m lusting over her lawyer.

  I take another pull of beer from the icy bottle Smarmy brought, trying to calm my tits.

  Angela laces her fingers together as if she’s trying to work up to what she needs to tell me.

  “What?” I bark, harsher than I meant the one word question to be.

  But Ms. Monroe doesn’t seem to be moved by my brashness.

  “She is okay, but I’m trying to assure her safety. Get her out of a place she definitely doesn’t belong in.”

  Her eyes have thawed, and I realize in that moment that she cares about Mini.

  “Mini’s in trouble,” I say, guessing the obvious.

  Angela nods. “She’s in prison.”

  I laugh because I can’t help it. I remember Mini as a snot-nosed little girl, following me around like a puppy. I was the big brother she never had. Then shit went south, and that was all she wrote. “Come on, ya gotta be joking.” Even I can hear the thick disbelief in my voice.

  “I’m an attorney.”

  I shrug. “Guess I have to believe you.”

  “Why else would I want to meet with you?”

  Ouch. I give her the look, check out her tits, and raise my eyebrows.

  “Please, spare me.” She rolls her gorgeous golden-emerald eyes. “I wouldn’t have sex with you if you paid me.”

  Now that just pisses me off. “Not your type?” I ask way fucking cooler than I feel.

  She looks me over—really slowly, as though she’s memorizing my pores. Her jewel-colored eyes rise to my face, and for a heart-stopping moment, I think she’s going to say something utterly different than what she says next.

  “No.” She sighs. “I hate to burst your bubble, but this is not a sexing endeavor. Your cousin is in prison for aggravated murder, and bail is set at one hundred thousand. Having met you, I now understand that is beyond your means. As she mentioned, it was a long shot.”

  The lack of faith from Mini and from Miss Stuck-up Lawyer adds insult to injury.

  Angela stands, running a hand over her skirt and lifting a small black purse onto her shoulder. She sighs and gives me a semi-disgusted look that she doesn’t bother to hide. “Thank you for meeting with me, Lariat. You were our last hope.” She removes some cash from her purse.

  I snatch her wrist, feeling the fragile bones beneath my hand, and heat whips through me at the contact. My hard-on comes back full tilt.

  Angela’s eyes widen, and I know in that moment, she feels it too. Raw chemistry swamps us.

  I might not be her type, but I’m something. Anything else is a bald-faced lie.

  “I can.”

  She tries to yank her wrist away, and my hold tightens, easily keeping her.

  Angela’s smart so she stops struggling. “You can what?”

  I lift a shoulder. Fuck. “Provide the bail.”

  Her surprised expression is satisfying as fuck—and just as insulting. Her fear is less satisfying, even though it’s laced with excitement. “Let go of me.” Her voice is low and careful.

  “Sure.” I release her wrist with a flourish, and she rubs it, though I know I didn’t hurt her.

  Angela’s slim black brows fold together. “You ʻcan’?”

  I nod. “Fuck yes. I might be rough around the edges, but I have the cash.”

  I sip more beer, even though I’m not in the mood to drink anymore.

  Her cocktail sits nearly untouched. But at my proclamation, she lifts it to her lips and takes a sip.

  I’m riveted by her mouth. Her lips are a deep raspberry red. I wonder if they really are that color or if it’s carefully applied makeup.

  I hate makeup. Smells like shit, and it’s false advertising.

  A small laugh escapes those kissable lips, spreading them over white teeth. “Yes, you’re rough, all right.”

  We stare at each other over the rim of her glacial blue drink.

  “You like rough?” I ask, and my next breath stalls out waiting for her response.

  She takes another sip, and my eyes peg her lips again. My dick begins to throb.

  Those crystalline golden eyes meet mine. “Yes.”

  Holy fuck.

  “You make my dick hard, Ms. Monroe.”

  Her laugh is a throaty shout, and it’s like music to my ears. “I’m afraid there’s nothing I can do about that.”

  “Hell yes, there is.”

  Angela sets her drink on the bar again. She opens her purse and digs around for a few seconds then extracts a card. Carefully, she lays a ten-dollar bill under her half-finished drink.

  She slides a glossy rectangle across the bar. Her card.

  Am I being dismissed? Fuck that. Twice. “Are you telling me to fuck off?” I laugh, crossing my arms and refusing to touch the card.

  A fine blush spreads across her cheekbones. It feels good to know I’m getting under her skin.

  “I don’t know what this is”—she flicks her finger between us—“but the focus needs to be on my client. Her safety.”

  “I got that figured, Angela. Business is through. Now we’re talking about fucking it out.”

  She blinks, taking a step back, and I watch the pulse in the hollow of her throat flutter beneath skin so light it’s nearly translucent. “I don’t think I’ll be your partner in that, Mr. Dreyfus.”

  I stand, and she holds her position.

  The mutual want suffocates us like smoke.

  “Please phone me on Monday morning so we can talk about capital. In fact, swing by my office before nine, and we’ll hammer out the particulars.”

  Capital. Springing Mini. Yes. My eyes go to her mouth again.

  I grip her shoulders, and a gasp slides
out between her lips. Definitely natural color, I decide, inspecting her deep red lips close up.

  I knead the small muscles where her shoulders meet her neck, and she bites back a groan. Her head sort of tilts backward.

  “I’ll see you Monday, but it’s not gonna be about money.” My eyes search her face, memorizing every contour. “I already said I’d pay. But now there’s something else I want.”

  She jerks away from me and spins, walking toward the door without a backward glance.

  I’ll take care of my blood, and Ms. Monroe will take care of my libido.

  Whether she realizes it or not.

  Chapter 3

  Angela

  Arrogant prick.

  Fuck it out. Right. I don’t care if he’s hot. And that’s some kind of magnetism I just walked away from.

  I’m not an alley cat.

  My palm slaps the entrance door to the restaurant. The drink Lariat bought for me is curdling like spoiled milk inside my stomach. He got me so fired up, I do the unthinkable and drop a habit I’ve clung to for almost a decade.

  I don’t take in my surroundings.

  The cool air slaps me like an invisible hand as I step outside into deepening twilight. I shiver, the noise from the bar instantly silenced as the big door swings closed behind me.

  My concealment permit allows me to carry a handgun, but the inconvenient location inside my handbag makes it a fumble if I really need to get it quickly.

  Like now.

  “Hey, bitch,” a voice says from my left.

  I react instantly, slamming my elbow backward into where I assume the largest part of where that threatening voice came from.

  It’s a wasted blow, but the element of surprise is important. A satisfying oof sound disseminates, and I take off, heels clicking on the pavement as I race to my car, hoping I bought myself time.

  A hand latches on to the knot of hair at my nape, dragging me backward.

  Didn’t buy myself any time.

  Reaching my arms up, I seek my assailant’s eyeballs with my thumbs and scrape my nails against his jaw instead. I let myself fall, becoming dead weight in his hold, forcing him to let me go.