Wring: Road Kill MC #5 Page 5

  Hmm. Not real independent. Still lives with Mommy. I fight my irritation.

  I guess she couldn't be perfect. Whatever, I didn't want complicated anyway. Got her away from the Blood dick. Get her seen by Doc. Get her the fuck home and out of my life.

  Hell, even got her to eat something. I do like thin chicks, but a little meat on their bones can't hurt.

  Shannon is too thin.

  “Fine,” I clip.

  She tenses. “I don't want to be a bother. I just have to check on her.”

  I don't say anything, walking my bike backward out of the stall. I turn it on and gun it out of the underground parking area. “Where?”

  Shannon tells me.

  I just about upend the bike. That place?

  I ask twice.

  She replies pretty clearly.

  Okaaaay.

  Five minutes later, I'm pulling up into the driveway of the small faded old house I'd just thought was in the strangest place in all of Kent.

  Deeply shadowed between two commercial high-rises, it has a tiny garage that probably was once a carriage house for horses. A narrow front yard holds bright flowers behind a picket fence that's gray in spots. Its old white paint bleeds into the fissures of the decaying wood, giving it a bleached appearance.

  There's a slight upward grade to the concrete driveway, and we roll up there. I park then turn off the ride.

  Shannon taps my shoulder then dismounts. With a little smile and wave, she begins to walk away. The small gesture of both thanks and temporary goodbye makes something deep inside me shift.

  Fuck.

  I don't know if I can let her go, this girl who lives in a shitty little house crammed between these buildings.

  My eyes follow her, taking in the legs sticking out of the skirt, the low-heeled shoes, and the blouse.

  She would look so hot in the stuff I have in mind.

  I watch her until she's safely inside, then light a smoke. I inhale deeply and shoot the smoke into the air, thinking that stress and smoking go together. The two Ss.

  I chuckle, folding my arms. Looking way up at the buildings, I remember something. I swing my leg over the seat and take in the colorful graffiti running along the concrete bulkhead that borders both buildings, ending abruptly at Shannon's property line.

  At first glance, it looks exactly like what it should. Art. Graffiti isn't unlawful everywhere anymore. Good old Kent decided to embrace it here. But hidden in the colorful swaths of bubble letters and rainbow artifice are the skillful tags of the Bloods.

  See our territory? those symbols hidden in plain sight ask.

  Road Kill's seen them. Read them. Knows what they mean for the club.

  My gaze travels again to Shannon's battered little house. The front windows sparkle like good-humored eyes. I peer closer. There aren't any weeds in the flowerbed. The front door has a fresh coat of paint, and the gutters are clean.

  I chuckle again, not that there's any debris to clog. The damn buildings flanking her place don't allow much from nature.

  I suddenly sit up ramrod straight, flicking my cig on the ground and tramping it down with the toe of my boot. That's why that Blood is after her.

  Shannon's house stands between two Blood buildings. Sure, they look legit. That's why they're here—trying to get some place that makes their shit seem aboveboard. Actually, they would like to make a new place as seedy as the old one.

  Fuckers.

  What I can't figure out is why she wouldn't get the hell out of here when the worst gang in the four-state area is nipping at her heels.

  Shannon that stubborn? A smile spreads on my face. I like ʼem feisty.

  She opens the door, exiting the front. Her face is relieved. I can see it even though she stands in profile.

  Shannon uses four locks on the door.

  Oh yeah, she knows how dangerous continuing to live here is.

  As she walks over to me, I notice she took the time to change.

  Tight jeans hug her small body, and her long-sleeved T-shirt, a deep-green color, is just as tight. Black short boots are on her feet. Gone are the librarian clothes. Thank fuck. They were not sexy. Not that Shannon has to be sexy.

  Yeah, she does. My chin sinks, and I hide my smile. She grabs the leather jacket she borrowed from Rose and shrugs it on. It just about works. Except across the chest.

  Rose has got the biggest tits. Shannon's still look pretty fucking perfect to me.

  “What?” she asks defensively, then her face tightens as she struggles to get the other sleeve of the leather on.

  “Let me do it,” I say and walk to her.

  “No.” She stumbles back. “I got it.”

  “Not gonna hurt you, Shannon.”

  Her eyes flick to mine then away. “I know.” The empty sleeve dangles off her shoulder, and she cradles her hurt wrist against her chest.

  “I'm not that Vincent prick. If you recall, I'm the one that gave him the little knuckle face dance, and I fed you. Technically, Rose fed you—had you meet some of my people.”

  Her lips quirk, and she looks at me, nodding quickly. “I know.”

  Awkward silence stands between us. I exhale in an irritated rush. “Then what's the fucking problem?”

  She twists her hands then cries out.

  A crack starts inside me from that sound, and I take her good hand, pulling her against me.

  Shannon resists, putting her good arm between us. The sleeve flops around.

  I wrap her against me, tucking her head underneath my chin. She's just barely short enough to do it, but I mash her against me.

  “Stop fighting whatever this is.”

  “What is it?” she asks softly. Fragile.

  “Fuck if I know. I'm just a guy that saw another dude rough you up. Didn't like it.” I lift my shoulder, arms still securing her against me.

  “So I could have been any female, and you would have pulled over and taken care of it.”

  I think about her words. I'm an honest guy. Gets me into trouble. Some might call me “brutally honest,” but it’s just who I am.

  “Most,” I admit.

  She struggles from underneath my chin, and my stubble captures loose strands of platinum hair the quick braid she did before coming back out.

  “So I'm nothing special?”

  Not yet. I cup the back of her head for one second then step away. “No.”

  Shannon smiles, looking relieved.

  Pisses me off.

  I turn away from her and speak as I walk toward my ride. “Let's ride. Get ya to the club and then you can go home.”

  “Okay.”

  She slips in behind me, and her body feels right. Like she's always been at the back of my ride, against me. Like she's a piece of me I've been missing.

  I know it's bullshit.

  Shannon is just another sweet butt in prissy clothes. I'm never going to have what Noose and Snare have. That's fairytale shit.

  And—I never believed.

  I feel a tap on my shoulder and scowl. What now?

  I crane my head around and look at her. Already pissed. She sort of rejected me. Crushed my autopilot mode I was just fine on.

  “Wring?”

  “Yeah,” I reply, suddenly dying for a smoke. Or ten.

  She touches my face briefly. “Thanks for helping me.”

  “Yeah,” I turn around fast, chest tight. Chicks.

  I roll out of there fast, not asking any more questions. Not giving a fuck.

  Giving too many.

  Chapter 6

  Shannon

  I cling to Wring's muscled back, trying to keep my mind on what's important. Figuring out my wrist. Then getting back to fix mom's supper.

  When my thoughts turn to Vincent, I squeeze my eyes shut, and envision a future where he's skulking around every corner.

  Not much of one.

  I try not to think about how despondent it made me to hear Wring admit I was just a random woman in need of rescuing. But what did I expect? He'
s in some rival gang to the Bloods or whatever they are.

  That still doesn't explain why Wring, by his own admission, took such a huge chance by stepping in where he clearly didn't belong.

  Forget it, Shannon. He doesn't matter.

  Figure out your priorities: Mom. Wrist. Job. God, my job.

  I forget it all, trying to look around me and put my thoughts on a little-used shelf inside my tired brain. I don't dust the things I put there; I just push them to the back where they don't taunt me with their presence.

  Wring takes me up West James Street, and we climb the roughly five hundred feet out of Kent Valley, the bike a warm rumbling presence between my thighs.

  We cross Benson Street, now 515, and catch a rare green light just when we need it. He flies through, tempting the forty-five miles an hour speed limit.

  When we get to 132nd and take a left, I lose track. After two more rights and a left, we roll down a long driveway and up to a huge old concrete building with windows really close to the roof.

  Speaking of the roof.

  I look up—way up. It has glass panels, similar to a greenhouse. I feel my brows come together. Huh?

  When Wring turns off the bike, I wait. He pats my leg, and I have a pang of regret.

  I've never ridden on a bike before Wring.

  I've never had a man sacrifice for me. I'm no saint. I've dated—a lot. But once a man realizes I come as a package deal, they're out of here.

  So I kind of gave up. On myself. On life.

  Not that Wring would have been in the category of guys who would put up with Invalid Mom. It's almost enough to make me laugh.

  Wring gets off after me, and I hand him the helmet he lent me. I give a little shiver. The bike is warm, the man is hot—but I'm not wearing a bike-riding outfit.

  He gives me a lopsided grin, lifting his chin. “Helmet fits like shit.”

  I smile back. It was a little loose.

  He puts his hands on his hips, seeming to think about something, glancing at the structure behind us. “It's Sunday, but there's some guys already here.” Wring stops, and so do I. “This is our new digs. Nobody knows where we're at just yet, and we want to keep it like that.” His serious eyes hold mine.

  I lift a shoulder. “Of course.”

  “Stay by me, or the guys will hassle you.”

  I stop walking toward the door again. “Why? I'm not doing anything wrong.”

  He throws his head back, full belly laughing.

  Not funny.

  “You're gorgeous. And nobody's property, so yeah, sweet thing—they're gonna tag team you, Shannon.”

  I can feel my lips purse. “Tag team?”

  He sighs, passing his palm back and forth over his hair in frustrated swipes. Wring walks slowly toward me, and I fight not to back up. He's all menace. And even though Wring doesn't direct it at me, it's clearly a part of who and what he is.

  He must see something on my face. “I'm not gonna hurt ya.” He sounds insulted.

  I nod, meeting his bright azure eyes. “I know. But I-I had a scare today, and my wrist hurts and…” I study my scuffed old boots. “Maybe I don't have a job anymore,” I end quietly.

  I bite my lip and duck my head against my chest, trying to gather whatever remaining fortitude I have, forcing myself not to lose it in front of this man. “And I don't want to be ʻhassled,ʼ” I whisper.

  Strong hands grip my shoulders. “Shannon, look at me.”

  Slowly, I lift my face and look into a gazer that rivals the blue of the Caribbean seas. Staring into his face, I know it would be so easy to forget the package of violence Wring represents.

  His fingers clasp my chin loosely. “I know this isn't your world, and I'm sorry, but it's mine. I love the club, and I'm taking you here to get fixed up, and then you can go back to whatever citizen's existence you live.” His astute eyes search my face, missing nothing. “But it wouldn't be right to just throw you to the wolves in there. These guys won't hurt women, but they sure like fucking, and you're just fresh meat to them.”

  I blink, and the first traitorous tear crawls down my face like a bloated, hot slug.

  His face goes hard. “Don't fucking cry.”

  I shake my head, and more fly off my face. “Can't seem to help it.” I suck in a breath, feel like I'll hyperventilate, and hold my breath.

  My vision swims.

  “Whoa—shit!” Wring hugs me. “Don't worry, Shannon, nobody's going to touch you in violence here.”

  “I can't stand it anymore, Wring. I'm sorry. You've just caught me at a bad time.” That strikes me as funny, and I start laughing. Can't stop.

  Wring holds me through my crying, snotting, laughing meltdown.

  When I'm through, he steps away. “You gonna be okay?”

  I look at him for a full minute. Finally, I nod. “I think so.”

  He takes my hand, and I let him, remembering his words that I wasn't anything special.

  Good to know.

  *

  Wring wasn't kidding about the reception I would receive.

  Speculative eyes roam my form as Wring and I walk through a crowd of bikers and scantily clad women. Ice clinks in glasses filled with booze before noon, and loud music blasts from four corners where Bose speakers are attached up high on the wall.

  It appears as though construction just wrapped for the interior. A staircase leading up to the second floor has only particle board treads, naked of carpet or wood. Maybe the first floor is finished and the second isn't?

  A large man moves toward us like a locomotive, and instinctively, I move behind Wring.

  “Yo, Wring, my man!” His eyes are a striking blue, deeper than Wring's, and his hair is jet black. A cruel scar bisects his face.

  He and Wring tap knuckles, then the other guy grabs him, hugging him and clapping him hard on the back. His eyes take me in over Wring's shoulder and narrow contemplatively. “Who's the sweet butt?”

  I'm really beginning to hate that term.

  Wring smirks. “Nah, man, it's not like that.”

  He peers around Wring and gives me steady eyes. He's huge, like the rest of them, but his eyes are kind.

  “Ah-huh. So what's her story?”

  “Later, Snare.” Wring's voice tells the guy not to push.

  Snare grabs his chest like he's having a heart attack. “Are you dismissing my ass?”

  Wring smiles crookedly. “Yup.” He pulls me after him.

  Snare plucks at my sleeve, catching my bad wrist, and I hiss.

  Wring whirls, grabbing Snare by the collar, and I stumble backward.

  “Don't touch her.”

  Snare's eyes widen. “Hey, ya dicklick, I got Sara, you fucking ʼtard.”

  I hold my injured hand against my chest. The room's sudden silence is deafening.

  “What. The. Fuck?” Snare says. “Get your hands off me.”

  Wring tosses his hands away Snare, looking embarrassed, pissed, and unsure. It’s a look I'm sure he doesn't wear too often.

  “I'm sorry, he—Snare?” I ask a question at him, and he gives a quick nod. “He accidentally touched my wrist.” I give a little shrug, and my face heats as everyone inside the club focuses on me. I want to crawl underneath something.

  Snare gets to the heart of everything quickly. “Let me see.”

  I raise my hand, holding my breath as he touches my wrist and flips my hand over.

  I breathe through the pain.

  His eyes meet mine, filled with a knowledge I didn't give him. “What guy did this?”

  My brows come together. “How do you—”

  He shakes his head.

  “I know.”

  “Fucking Blood,” Wring says in both answer and explanation.

  Shouting erupts, making me jump.

  “Crips!”

  “Fucking gang bangers!” From my left.

  I cover my ears, and the noise goes away.

  Suddenly, Wring is there, his eyes on mine. “Shannon.”

  I
nod.

  He looks at Snare. “Getting Doc to see her.”

  Snare asks, “How'd you happen to be Johnny-on-the-spot?”

  Wring's lips twist, and he's handsome again. Heartbreakingly handsome. My hands drop, my wrist howling at being used.

  “Just lucky, I guess.” His hand rises to tuck a stray hair behind my ear.

  I gulp back a wave of tears caused by the unexpected gesture. What's wrong with me? I guess I'm so freaked from Vincent and all the… whatever this is turning into.

  “Yeah,” Snare says, but not like he agrees. He backs away from Wring. “Well, I'll leave you to it, you temperamental flyaway fucker.”

  Wring gives a sheepish grin. “Sorry, brother, don't know why I flew off the handle like that.”

  Snare smirks, opening his mouth to speak.

  “Don't say it if ya wanna live,” Wring warns.

  I want to know in the worst way what Snare would've said.

  “Doc just came in. You got lucky.”

  Naked relief crosses Wring's features.

  Probably can't wait to get rid of me.

  “Great, let's go.”

  I let him drag me to the back and through a door marked with a medical symbol—sort of. It has a silver naked lady right underneath it. Someone's got a sense of humor. But I'm not laughing.

  I walk in behind Wring, and a man is perusing something on his laptop, scouring something pretty thoroughly.

  “Doc, shut off the porn. I've got a real live patient.”

  Oh God.

  The man looks up, flustered, and shifts his weight, quickly closing the laptop.

  Gross.

  He stands, and I keep my eyes on his face.

  Doc's on the good side of sixty, with spindly arms and legs and a jolly Santa Clause belly. He kind of reminds me of a human spider, but like Snare, he has compassionate eyes.

  “Okay, what do we have?”

  Wring points his jaw at the guy, indicating I should move forward. I stay put. “I don't have any medical insurance.”

  Wring gives me a curious look, and Doc says, “You showing up with Wring is the only insurance payment I need.” He chuckles.

  I inhale deeply, and without moving forward, I lift my hand, but he doesn't touch it right away. After a full minute, his voice is void of emotion when he asks quietly, “You staying with the man who did this?”