Noose (Road Kill MC #1) Page 3

  “Uh-huh. Stop using the big words, Snare. Makes my brain hurt.”

  “Not as bad as your dick, apparently.”

  I turn on him, pointing. “Listen, it's no big thing. I'm just distracted.”

  Snare nods, unconvinced. “You're never distracted, Hoss.”

  He knows me.

  We hop on our rides. I open my trunk and toss the empty moneybag in there. I tap my fingers on my thigh.

  Snare waits. I turn around, unable to make her out through the dark glass.

  Maybe Rose sees me looking. Maybe she's watching me. The thought of her watching makes me want to jerk off.

  “Gee-zus. Just go in there and make a play, Noose. What do you have to lose?” His large hands slap jean-clad thighs. His exhale is frustrated.

  Nothing. I don't have anything to lose because I'm not going to try. Rose is a classy chick. Sluts are easy—and not just for sex. They've got one thing that interests me. And that's enough.

  I shake my head, and Snare takes me at my silent word. We hit our kickstands and roll out.

  Just as we're making the turn out of the parking lot a, Fat Boy cruiser turns in.

  Chaos Rider.

  Hate those bastards.

  I peer hard at the guy, who seems sort of familiar. Not sure how. Road Kill knows every club in Washington and the states that surround it. This dude doesn't rep them great. He looks unkempt, like a shower is a wish never granted.

  As we pull out, I don't like the way it makes me feel to leave the bank, knowing a biker from a rival club will go in there and feast his eyes on Rose.

  Heat rolls over me in a hot tide of anger.

  Fuck.

  I'm already thinking of Rose as mine. But that's for brothers who want that ball and chain. Need it.

  And that's the problem with that. She's not mine.

  I don't want to own anyone.

  4

  Rose

  I throw the sign up, my heart thundering like a wild horse set loose. Forget that—an entire herd of horses is galloping through my chest.

  Naomi jerks her head at me in surprise as my rolling stool scrapes along the floor.

  “Bathroom,” I mutter, fleeing the scene of the crime. Actually, I handled myself professionally. I didn't do anything wrong.

  It's my body that betrays me, even after he's gone. Now that the big badass biker guy is gone, I can calm down.

  I haul my cell after me, gripping it like a talisman, and slap open the bathroom door. I stand right in front of the mirror, trying to figure out why that man was so interested.

  A flushed young woman stares back. I've never been a fan of my looks: weird coloring, big boobs, and a big ass. I guess my waist is small, and my body's toned from running. But my eyes are too big for my face, and my chin, too pointy. My hair can't make up its mind: sort of blonde with a hint of red, but nearly brown too. I've got the girl disease. Low self-esteem. We give it to each other. It's a thing.

  I grip the tile of the vanity countertop, another stray hair falling out of my topknot.

  I glance up quickly. Ugh. I had my least exciting hairstyle going. I'd just thrown my longish hair into a haphazard bun and speared a hair stick through the mess. A little red glass bead sparkles out of the bun at the top of the wood stick, matching my blouse. I jerk the V of my blouse higher to cover my cleavage.

  My boobs smile at the top. Great.

  Why do I care what that guy thinks of me?

  Because he made my crotch get struck by lightning when he looked at me as if he would eat me.

  Right. There.

  I groan.

  And how is he any different than Drake? Is this what Anna felt when she saw Drake for the first time?

  I shiver, releasing the vanity, and run the cold faucet. I slap icy water on my face, letting a few drops dribble down my chest.

  The fact is nothing's going to cool the heat of my pussy.

  His face was as hard as granite. That jaw could crush anything it clamped. He had eyes so light that I can't even remember the exact shade, only that they never left any part of me. Luminescent.

  His hair was a dirty blond, raked back into a tight ponytail at his strong neck. Colorful ink had peeked from the top of a black T-shirt. But the motorcycle gear had been a giveaway. Gang attire, as I think of it.

  Drake dresses a lot like this guy. But his leather vest has a different emblem. Chaos Riders.

  This guy’s emblem was Road Kill MC. But really? What's the difference? I know what Drake is. And what he did.

  So this guy—he of the huge deposit—made me slick. I won't lie. I haven't had a reaction like that from a guy in…

  Well, I never have.

  My eyes meet my reflection again. “Don't even think it, Rose,” I say to myself.

  The Rose in the reflection stares back. She's thinking.

  Dreaming.

  What would it be like to be with someone who could consume me? There was a promise of that in his clear eyes.

  I clench mine shut against the need I see in the mirror. I'm so lonely for male companionship, I ache.

  But I won't do what Anna did.

  Charlie makes my life worth something. I won't endanger him because I want to get laid. There must be a man out there I can have sex with who won't be dangerous.

  Unfortunately, that's obviously not what does it for me.

  And that scares the living shit out of me.

  *

  “Rose!” Charlie squeals, running toward me at high speed.

  I plant my feet apart, knees slightly bent, preparing.

  He jumps, little legs wrapping my waist, and I awkwardly twirl him while wearing my high heels. It’s a talent.

  He laughs, high and pleased, and that tugs at my chest. Being a mother is awful.

  And beautiful.

  I smile into his upturned face, which is so like Anna's. His eyes are dark like mine and my sister's. But where my hair is this goofy indecisive color, his is whitish blond. The brown eyes and light blond hair are striking.

  He looks like a little angel.

  Charlie doesn't remember his mom. She died when he was one.

  I make sure I tell him who she was.

  Anna would be twenty-seven if she’d lived. Now there are only memories. I keep them alive for Charlie.

  “Did Mommy see my text?” His voice is as light as my heart is heavy.

  “She saw it. Mommy has a special TV in heaven.” I swallow past the lump in my throat.

  “Rose?”

  We turn, and I let Charlie slip down. He slides his little hand inside mine as I turn to smile at his teacher.

  “Hi, Carla.”

  Her warm smile never changes. I've known her a long time.

  She was a friend of Anna's.

  I picked this district so Charlie could be with someone else who loves him. Open enrollment, it's called. I'm grateful.

  “Here,” Carla hands me the cell. The state has provided a cell for Charlie as a weird little-known contingency.

  I fought for the mandate. He is the first child of this age to have one. Children who suffer the death of a parent through violence have more rights.

  All children whose parents die should have rights.

  But I hadn't uttered objections to Charlie’s special treatment. Charlie can text me when he wants or whenever he needs. He doesn't know very many words, but the pictures are great. And soon, he'll be texting what he learns.

  I can't wait.

  I lift the little cell. “Thanks.”

  Carla grins, ruffling Charlie's hair. “No problem.”

  “Mommy saw my text in heaven with her TV,” he exclaims in excitement. “My Lego castle!”

  Castle. I smile. I guess to Charlie, it must seem like one.

  A tremulous smile takes the place of the big grin Carla wore a minute ago. She fingers the ends of Charlie's hair, which tries to spring back in uncooperative curls. That was from Anna; my hair is only wavy.

  I suck in a shaky breath as my ey
es meet Carla's. “I'm sure she is so proud of you.”

  He puffs out his little chest. “Yeah!” He pumps his fist, running for the Smartcar.

  “Slow down, partner!” I yell after him with a chuckle.

  He doesn't of course, then jerks open the car door and hops inside.

  “Lots of energy,” Carla says.

  “Yeah,” I agree with a tired little sigh.

  We stand in awkward silence. A breeze comes up just then, undoing more of my hair and lifting Carla's tangled frizz around her head like a dark halo.

  “Do you need me on Tuesday?” she asks quietly.

  I need something. But I shake my head. “No,” I answer in a low voice. “You've got Charlie.”

  My face jerks up, eyes boring into hers, waiting for a verbal confirmation.

  “Always,” she answers immediately.

  My shoulders loosen.

  Carla opens her arms, and I move into them.

  She squeezes me hard. “For Anna.”

  I nod because I can't speak.

  *

  The meat sizzles as I churn the last bit of ground beef in a frying pan.

  Charlie crosses his arms across his chest. “I don't like enchiladas.”

  I know that look.

  “I'll put extra cheese in.” I raise my eyebrows, waiting for the young prince to decide.

  He seems to consider my idea, his little fingers cupping his chin. God, he's cute.

  I pull out my trump card. “You can't go to Papa and Nana's unless you eat your supper.”

  Guilt pangs riot inside me, but I hold the course, sticking to my tone like glue. He's got to eat, and he needs to visit his extended family.

  My parents have been really good. They take Charlie every Friday night, and he visits them three nights a week while I exercise. I get Saturday to myself too. Actually, I'm thinking they want me to move on, have some kind of a life outside of the tragedy of four years ago.

  The courts would have loved to give Charlie to them, but they're too old.

  Anna and I were dream children. We came after doctors told Mom she couldn't have kids. She was forty-two, and dad was forty-four. What does medicine know about miracles?

  Anna was born first.

  We’d had a picture-perfect childhood from parents who thought they would never be blessed with a family.

  Then tragedy came and wrecked everything.

  But not before the gift of Charlie. Mom and Dad help, but the burden of a young boy when they're almost seventy isn't fair.

  Besides, I wanted Charlie.

  And he wants me. I see love in the shining gazes Charlie gives when he thinks I'm not looking, and the ones when I am.

  He caves. “Okay, Aunt Rose.”

  I nod. “Good choice, sweet pea.”

  Charlie scrunches his face. “Sweet pea is a baby's name.” He frowns.

  “I call you that because you smell sweet,” I say, folding the meat, cheese, and beans into a tiny tortilla.

  I pretend I'm considering something, humming a little tune. “I could call you ‘dirty worm’ instead?” I nod as if I'm agreeing with myself. “Yes,” I say with finality.

  I bring his plate to the table, set it down in front of him, and slide into the seat opposite him.

  I plop my chin in my hand. “Eat your supper, dirty worm.” I bite my lip to keep from laughing.

  Charlie purses his lips.

  I smile.

  He starts cracking up, and a laugh bursts out of me too.

  When he can breathe again, he says, “I think sweet pea's okay. For now.”

  I nod solemnly.

  “For now,” I agree, thinking about how sad it'll be when I stop calling him that.

  *

  “Hey, Dad.” I kiss Dad on the cheek, and he wraps me in a bear hug.

  “Princess,” he says with a wink and bends over, opening his arms wide. Charlie jumps into them.

  “Dad,” I chastise, “your back!”

  He nods. “That'll be the day when I can't pick up my grandson, right, Sir Charles?”

  Charlie nods in awe. Dad is very formal with him, always calling him Sir Charles and treating him with the utmost respect.

  I love Dad. It's so great Charlie has a positive male role model.

  I hate the alternative.

  “He's had supper?” Mom asks.

  I get my eyes from her. My parents still look good for their age. Mom plays tennis at the local fitness club, and they golf together. Thinking about them golfing brings a rueful smile to my face.

  Dad's been known to toss a golf club when he misses a shot. I must get some of my fire from him.

  I answer Mom, “Yeah, enchiladas.”

  She taps Charlie on the nose. “Did Rosie give you extra cheese?”

  “Yeah, but I had the squishy beans,” he says, pulling a long-suffering face as Mom carries him away.

  “Protein!” I call out loudly as they disappear into the kitchen.

  Dad chuckles. “Squishy, huh?”

  I nod. “Yeah. He's a texture kid. If it has the wrong ʻfeel,ʼ he's not a fan.”

  “I understand completely,” he says with gravity, and I shoot Dad a smile. Two peas in a pod.

  Dad gives me a head-to-toe look. “Wish you weren't going running. It's almost dark.” His gaze moves to the sidelights that flank the door. My parents live in a modest split level house from the late 70s at the end of one of the many cul-de-sacs of Scenic Hill. The park is at the foothills of the development.

  I've been going to the park since I was a kid. I’m not stopping now. Drake won't control me through fear. I'm not Anna.

  I don't say that to Dad. It would be cruel.

  Instead, I lean forward, rising to my tiptoes, and kiss him on the cheek. “I'll be careful, Daddy.”

  His lips flatten, every bit of how he feels in the tenseness of his body.

  But he lets me go.

  5

  Noose

  Vince sits at the head of the table, fingering a medallion.

  The gold circle looks like one of those cheap-ass 1970 holdovers from when dudes wore the open collar and had five chains to show their wealth or wow the chicks.

  I know better.

  It's a solid-gold medallion from a war buddy who didn't make it. Vince earned a purple heart after that little showdown. He's a deliberate dude-and the closest I've come to a dad in my life. My old man split when I was a toddler.

  I just had my whore of a mom.

  She meant well, but using was more important than taking care of some kid with no man around. And if she didn't have money for her drugs, there was always her body.

  So the state took over.

  Foster care was a carousel of hell. I learned a lot about the absence of mercy. Being a Navy Seal taught me how to be a man, though. Real men are selfless. That's being brave. Not acting tough or feigning shit.

  Doing the right thing for others when there's no audience because you believe it—that's real.

  Vince keeps that system going in the club. We don't want men who pretend. We don't want citizens. They don't get it.

  They don't get us.

  “Money in the bank?” Vince opens church.

  “Yup,” I reply instantly.

  “Problems?” His intense eyes shoot first at me then at Snare. New bank, new dog on a leash. Solid question.

  “No. No problems,” Snare confirms.

  A flash of the Chaos Rider slides through my head.

  I must make some sound, because Vince turns sharply in my direction, eyebrows rising.

  I blow out an exhale. “Saw a Chaos Rider going in as we were coming out.” I shrug. I just want a record of it. That might mean something; it might mean jack.

  Vince narrows his eyes. “Don't like it.”

  My gut tightens. That was my feeling. I sure don't like hearing it from Vince.

  “Coincidence,” Snare offers, throwing out his palm.

  A few others murmur agreement.

  Vince pla
nts his elbows on the solid-wood table that stretches nearly the length of the room. “Coincidence is for assholes.”

  Snare barks out a laugh. “True. But the dude wasn't hiding his presence. And he came in after us.” He folds his arm, lifting a palm off his tatted bicep.

  My heart rate does a little speeding.

  Rose.

  Vince leans back with a nonchalance I know he's not feeling. “I don't like a Chaos sniffing around where our money's held.”

  “It's not near everything we have. Peanuts, Viper,” our Treasury officer says.

  Vince drums his fingers on the polished wood. “I still don't like him being there with a new bank. Hell, that pencil dick Ned—he'd suck his own dick if he thought it'd get him more money.”

  Everyone laughs.

  The image of Ned putting his hand on Rose rises in my mind.

  The sound of a pen snapping in my hand wakes me up. Lariat, Snare, and Vince look at me expectantly.

  “Holding out on us, Noose?” Vince asks quietly, taking in my tension.

  Fuck. Need to come clean. “I've got a hard-on for this girl.” Enough of a boner I know everything about her now.

  Snare plunges his forehead into his palm.

  Vince throws his head back and laughs. “Oh, that's rich. And?”

  I shift my weight.

  Vince's smile dies on his face, dark eyes glittering at me. “We're not talking pussies here, Noose. We're talking green and MC.”

  I give a miserable nod. “Yeah, gotcha.”

  A beat of silence drums between us.

  He can't contain his surprise. “Spit it out, son.”

  I look at Vince, tearing the soft hair band out and raking my long hair back. Strands that are still damp from the shower stick to my fingers. I flick them off with an irritated jerk. “The chick that took the money…”

  Vince's eyebrows knot. “Yeah? What, a teller?” He gives Snare a hard glance, eyebrows glued to his hairline.

  God love Snare—he doesn't say a word.

  “Yeah.”

  “What do I do with this?” Vince asks, meaty palms out at his side. “Am I pulling hen's teeth here?” He slaps his palms on the wood table, and the sound echoes.