Wring: Road Kill MC #5 Page 6

  Heat suffuses my cheeks as I give a decisive shake of my head. “He—I was attacked.”

  “She's not gonna be hurt anymore,” Wring growls, and Doc's graying eyebrows pop.

  I whip my face to Wring, suddenly angry. “Don't make promises you can't keep. Vincent wants what I have. It's my mess. You got me out of there, and I'm thankful. But I think you and I both know he'll be back.”

  Quiet descends.

  I understand I just made things weird between us, but I had to say the words. If I'm nobody special—and I shouldn't be—then his responsibility is null and void after he drops me off at my house today.

  Finally, Wring nods. “You're right. I'll let Doc look at you, and then you can go home.”

  He's releasing me. It's the right thing to do. So why do I hate the feeling that this is it?

  Doc moves gentle fingers over my wrist, and on two places he touches, I cry out. “Hurts,” I whisper between clenched teeth.

  He gives a disgusted exhale. “The guy strained her tendons. Badly. Going to need a brace.”

  My heart races. I can't afford that. Gah!

  Doc's friendly eyes find mine, clearly reading a lot in my expression. “It's okay. Settle down. I've seen down and out. Hell, I've been there myself. Let us help you. You don't owe me nothing.”

  I nod. The muscles of my shoulders and back are stiff from me trying to hold my wrist still. I'm getting tired in a hurry.

  He wraps my wrist, and I suck in shallow breaths as the ACE bandage wrap tightens over the bone. He proceeds to hand out meds like candy. I read the label. Great meds. I know because of Mom. Our house is practically a pharmaceutical store.

  “These go for a boatload of dough on the street.” His eyes slim on me. “Don't get hooked,” he warns without a pause, “and take with food.” His expression says he clearly doesn't think I eat.

  Doc's sharp.

  “Okay. Thank you.” I grab the bottle of pills with my right hand. My left feels like a lead-encased club.

  “Two weeks. Minimum. Come back here, and we'll check it.”

  His eyes move to Wring's. “Wrist can't go through that again. Not without some permanent damage.” He scowls. “You know who did this, Wring?”

  Wring nods. “Yeah.”

  “Good,” Doc replies as if that closes things up.

  It doesn't for me. Their information loop didn't include me, and I thought we'd just gone over how un-special I was.

  “Let's go,” Wring says to me and walks out of the office.

  I hug the Doc. Porn surfer or not, he patched me up.

  He hugs me back. “Be careful, Shannon.”

  I nod and turn quickly, jogging after Wring. Catcalls and whistles follow me, even with my sexy club hand.

  Wring whirls, and I bounce into his chest. When he steadies me with a strong hand, I swear my stupid heart flutters.

  “No,” he points at the general group of guys, and they shut up.

  “This is Shannon.”

  I raise my good hand, but their eyes are on my bad one.

  “She's not to be fucked with.”

  Eyes move over my body then swing to Wring's serious features.

  “Whatever, brother,” one guy says from the shadows.

  Wring scowls, and I creep a little closer to him. “Just as long as we're fucking crystal clear. You won't be seeing her around anyway.”

  My gut twists at his words, but I know they're true. I look down at my feet.

  Assent is voiced all around.

  The guy from the corner says nothing as he and Wring stare each other down.

  Finally, Wring walks out without a word.

  I follow, knowing this is my last bike ride. I’m happy for the day to be almost over—and sad for reasons I don't look too closely at.

  Chapter 7

  Wring

  Fucking women.

  The one at my back is giving me an epic boner. Her. Shannon.

  I wanted to kill men who are my brothers—men I would die for—because they were giving her an eye fuck as she jogged after me with her arm cast and cute ass.

  If I admit it to myself, what I'm really pissed about is taking her home—and that I told her I would have rescued any chick in distress. That’s only mostly true.

  But Shannon's not any chick. I don't know how I know. I just do. It’s like when I would hear a twig snap in the night and know it was the wind. Or when it was the enemy. I just knew.

  Like I know now.

  I cruise as slowly as I ever have. Late-Sunday traffic is nothing to navigate. I use the familiar shortcuts people take in this shitty town where the roads and streets weren't thought out and drivers have to fucking screw around on all the back roads just to get from point A to point B.

  When I hit Kent Station, I take a left into the meat of the area. People are scattered around the train depot, but traffic isn’t heavy the way it usually is, so I take the reverse direction toward Noose's place.

  I pass Top Shelf and keep heading north. Shannon squeezes my body with her thighs, and I tense, fighting my body's reaction to her. To her nearness.

  We glide past where that fucker hurt her, and her arms tighten around me. But the place is empty of action and people. A few more blocks, and we arrive at her house again. She taps my shoulder, and I nod.

  When she dismounts, I grab her good hand, helping her down.

  Goosebumps cover her arms, even though she borrowed Rose's spare leather jacket.

  I lick my lips, wanting to warm all that exposed flesh. My eyes rise to meet hers, and Shannon's are sad. I put my hands on my thighs to keep from comforting her.

  Touching her.

  “Thanks again.”

  I don't look at her. “I'll come back in a couple of weeks, swing ya by Doc’s, and see how you're healing up.”

  “Okay.”

  Between us, the engine ticks, cooling. I'm hyper alert to the possibility of the Bloods visiting while it's just me here. Or just her.

  I gotta know. “Why is this Blood hassling you?” I tear a palm over my skull and try to ask a rational question, “Why do you know him?”

  She laughs, and the sound has a hysterical edge to it. I swing my head in her direction, sharpening my gaze on her.

  The wind kicks up, and she shivers. Sometimes, late August into September is cool. The easterly usually blows warm. Not today.

  I study my fingers, taking note of the callouses from knotting. Working. Fighting.

  I look up again, calming my shit. I don't own this girl. I have no right to any information she doesn't want to give up.

  Shannon looks into the wind “It's been a couple of years now.”

  I wait, wanting a smoke pretty bad. Fuck it. I open up the pouch between the handlebars and reach in. Flipping the hard box lid open, I bring it close to my mouth then flick a cig out the top and catch it between my lips.

  Nasty little habit, I think—until the first drag calms my fraying nerves.

  Shannon doesn't seem to notice. “I didn't know who he was. Just another thug that doesn't wear pants that fit.” She gives a pathetic laugh.

  I snort. She looks at me, and the expression on her face has my smile fading.

  “He and his friends—”

  “Gang members,” I say.

  She nods. “Yes. He and his thug friends kept coming by the house, and I'd notice their traffic patterns. Same time of day. Looked like a habit was forming. I phoned the police.”

  I sit up straighter at that.

  Damn.

  She sucks in a deep breath before letting it out in an irritated rush. “The cops said people have a right to walk around.”

  Her eyes meet mine. “Then I found out the gang owned the buildings.” Shannon points to the buildings on either side of her small red house.

  “The first time they knocked on my door…” She shudders and looks at me. Shifting her weight, she looks away. “They scared my mom.”

  Her throat moves as she swallows past the memory. “They s
cared me.”

  Fuck.

  I get off the ride, suck a last drag, put the cig out on the tread of my boot. then stuff the butt in a small cup I keep inside my pouch.

  Shannon holds up her hand. “Don't”

  I stop. I wasn't going to do anything. Right? My eyes move down her body.

  Right.

  “Anyway, he told me his name was Vincent, and they'd buy our house.”

  My eyebrows rise then come together. “How much?”

  “Two-fifty.”

  I whistle. “Not bad, really?”

  She exhales, and pale-blond strands of hair float around her face like displaced angel hair. “That's the money part of the offer.”

  Ah.

  My hands fist. I want to beat that fuck. Hard. My fingers burn for the knots that have his name on them. Vincent.

  “He said I could be…” She covers her face with her hands. “His personal bitch,” she whispers between her fingers.

  “Nope.”

  Her face turns to me. “What?” She clears her throat, wiping at tears she just realized were on her face. “What do you mean ʻnopeʼ?”

  I smile, and it's the first real one of the day.

  “God—your face.”

  Yeah, my face. “Why didn't you take the deal?” I've gotta know.

  She bows her head, her blond hair turning to the color of blood with the setting sun.

  “I can't. My mom is dying. She shouldn't be moved. I don't want her to be taken from the only home she's ever known.”

  I slide my jaw side to side. Hell, shit's complicated. Figures. “What's wrong with her?”

  Her eyes flick away. “She's got rheumatoid arthritis.”

  “Joint bullshit?”

  She sighs. “Yeah, something like that. Listen, Wring…” She begins to walk away, and I follow her. Nobody walks away when I'm talking to them, and I grab her, swinging her around.

  Shannon yelps, putting her hand against her chest. “I'm tired, and I'm frustrated. I know Vincent will be back, and now I’m even more defenseless. The meds my mom has taken so she can move normally have ruined her body. So now—she's doesn't have much time. And this gang loser just wants to take what little bit we have and use me in the process.”

  I know she's saying words, explaining what's wrong, why she's in this mess.

  But I'm mesmerized by her lips. I want to taste them. Wrapping an arm around her, I pull her in close.

  I'm so fucked up. My needs. My want.

  Shannon's mess is just secondary. Once I get us worked out, I'll clean shit up. Clean up her disaster.

  “What—”

  Then my mouth is on hers.

  I think she's so startled that she doesn't know what to do.

  But I know what to do. I lift her with my arm, walk her to the small entryway, and push her up against the wall. Shadows swallow us whole. My knee goes between her legs, automatically seating underneath her pussy through her jeans.

  “No,” she says with a husky catch, but she's kissing me back.

  Generally, I ignore words and listen to a chick's body. Shannon hooks her heels around my calves, and I lift her up by small ass cheeks and press her slender body into mine. My cock fits right where it meets her most tender part.

  “Tell me to let you go.” I kiss her throat, licking a long hot line from earlobe to collarbone, and she shivers. “And I will.”

  “Why?” she breathes.

  “Don't know. I'm so fucking hot for you, I'm going to blow. Tried to ignore it. Can't.”

  “I won't do this,” she says against my mouth as her hips press against my raging hard-on.

  I pull away, pinning her body with my knee, and rest my hands on either side of her head. We're still kissing close, but I'm not doing that soft shit anymore.

  I won't be fucking played. Can't afford to be. I'm a fucking menace. To her.

  To myself.

  I can't even fucking catch enough z’s to goddamned think.

  She searches my face. “I don't know what that look means, but it scares me.”

  I stroke her jaw. “It should. I'm a fucking hard man, Shannon. Harder than that little stroke Vincent could ever pretend to be.”

  She nods. “I know.”

  “You don't. You don't know anything about me.”

  She leans forward, touching her forehead to my shoulder, and something tight unbinds inside me. “I know one thing,” she states quietly.

  My heart thunders, and I stay still, trying to get control of my shit. “What do you think you know?”

  Her hands creep around my neck, small fingers lighting on my skin like licks of fire. “You're the man who protected me.”

  Fuck.

  “I didn't want to,” I admit. Like just seeing her somewhere, deep down inside, I knew she'd change shit.

  “Then why did you?”

  I groan, sidestepping her question and pulling on her mouth with a sucking press of lips and tongue. Shannon responds, cradling my face with her hands and kissing me back.

  “I don't know.”

  My confession sits uncomfortably between us. Finally, she squirms and gasps, eyes flying wide and pinning my gaze.

  I grin. “Knee's in the right place.”

  She blushes. “I suppose it is.”

  I press upward, and she grips my shoulders. “Wring—I can't.”

  “You keep saying that shit, then you keep rubbing one out on my kneecap.”

  “Oh God. The way you talk.”

  I didn't think skin could turn that red. I stroke a finger over her hot flesh. “You like the way I talk?” I ask softly.

  She nods, ducking her chin, not meeting my eyes.

  Well, damn.

  I gently lower her to the ground, my face tightening when I see her wrist wrapped in that fucking bandage.

  Pulling a knuckle over her collarbone, I watch the blush slide after the touch, soft pink color rising underneath the slide of my finger.

  She grabs my hand. “Wring,” she says softly, and I look into her eyes. “I don't need a boyfriend, or anyone else.”

  “I'm not a boyfriend.”

  Shannon inches her body from between me and the wall. “What are you?”

  I swallow everything I'm feeling, cramming it deep down inside. These new feelings? They don't mean dick.

  “Nobody.” I turn around and walk back to my bike, taking my time. I turn it on, flip on my brain bucket, and begin to roll out backward.

  When I look up, Shannon's gone.

  And that cavernous empty spot inside me grows bigger.

  Chapter 8

  Shannon

  After unlocking the four locks on the outside of the house, I slip inside.

  The powerful engine of Wring's bike grows more distant. I shut the door, blocking out the motor.

  I turn, placing my palms flat on the door, and try to forget that moment in the entryway.

  It's harder than it should be.

  I rotate around slowly.

  Mom sits in the gloom. The small lamp she reads by casts a soft glow and shadows throughout the space.

  Her face rises from her book, and she smiles. Then Mom takes in my disheveled outfit, and something in my face must tell her.

  “What is it, darling?” she asks.

  I duck my head, hiding the quivering of my bottom lip. Wimp, I chastise myself. “I had a tough day.” Understatement of the year.

  “I'd say,” she says with a wry twist of lips.

  I jerk my head up at the tone in her voice.

  “I saw that young man outside.” Her smile remains.

  Oh God. A blush flares to life, and I feel like my head will blow up.

  “Mom, you're not supposed to run around.”

  She smooths her painter-style shirt over her wasted thighs. “I believe my days of running are long over.”

  I roll my eyes and fold my arms. “It's an expression.”

  “I'm aware, Shannon.” Her lips purse. “Tell me what's bothering you.”


  “Did you go to the bathroom?” My gaze dives toward the walker at her left, leaning up beside the end table where it should be, and I see it’s positioned slightly differently than I left it. I breathe out a sigh of relief.

  “Yes”—she gives a small smile—“I accomplished that at least.”

  “I'm sorry.”

  “Stop apologizing and tell me what's happening. Don't shelter me. We've made a vow with each other—”

  “To never lie or deceive through omission.” My gaze locks with hers.

  Mom's smile widens, and I remember, very vaguely, a time when she wasn't in pain every minute of every day.

  I smile back.

  “Exactly,” Mom answers.

  I inhale deeply. “You remember Vincent?”

  Her brows meet. “The unmentionable?”

  I laugh again, though it's not funny. “Yes, him. He's back,” I admit on a shaky sigh.

  Mom sets down the tea she was drinking, and I automatically check the thermos, wondering if it's still full of hot water. A small bowl next to it holds two used tea bags. “And?” she asks, sipping.

  “He hurt me.”

  Mom sits up straighter, all pretense of forced calm gone.

  I bring my injured wrist around to the front of my body. I know when her vision grabs onto the bandaged appendage.

  “What did that horrible man do?” Her eyes, usually so gentle and compassionate, are blue ice chips in her face.

  “He—he tried to get me to see his perspective.”

  “Oh, Shannon.” Mom sets the cup down with a rough clank and dumps her face in her gnarled hands.

  I rush to soothe her. “It's okay—for now. Wring happened to come by and saw… saw what Vincent was doing and stopped him.”

  Slowly, Mom lowers her hands and stares at me. “The bike rider?”

  My lips quirk. Wring is so much more than that. But whatever he is, I don't know exactly what.

  He’s the man who rescued me from a guy who means me harm. And Vincent wants to make me suffer. Not because I've ever done anything against him—just because that's his way.

  I shiver.

  “You can't go to your job by foot anymore, Shannon.”

  “Mom!” I say, exasperated. “I need the money. We need the money. I can't hole up here and hope that he'll just go away. He wants our house.”