Knot (Road Kill MC #2) (37 page)

Not stolen by the thievery of men who hold value only for their wants.

~ 4 ~

Mick takes my left hand as we impose an artificial and calculated distance between us. He raises it to his lips and kisses the hills of each knuckle, lifting his eyes to mine between the valleys of my left hand. My hand spasms in his grip, and his eyes tighten.

I'm embarrassed and try to snatch it away.

“No, Faren,” he says.

I can't make the damn thing cooperate. My lip rolls into my teeth, and I hold it there, worrying the supple flesh like a dog with a bone. Mick turns over my hand, and his deep brown eyes run over the fine scars that map where the doctors played Humpty Dumpty.

Putting me back together again.

I gasp as he lays his mouth against my shaking hand. It quiets under the heat of his lips, and a sigh escapes me. His touch commands a visceral reaction from my body. It's sensual when he doesn't mean for it to be, tender and resolute, taking me by surprise.

An unguarded moment, but not unwanted.

“He did this to you.” Mick’s tongue flicks over the uppermost knot of scar tissue, a peak in the center of my palm.

The press of his hot tongue undoes the yarn of my memory and the ball unwinds. I try to hold it back, but like all memories that hold savagery, this one runs like uncontainable water.

I see the knife stab my hand, pinning me to the carpet. A matted pool of blood congeals under me, binding me and cooling me. I can't move. Bunce gets close. He twists the knife. My fingers flinch involuntarily, movement where none was meant to be.

“Gotcha,” he whispers in a foul vapor of stale beer and unwashed teeth.

I scream deeply, my voice a hoarse shriek. Mom lays unblinking, one side of her face frozen. The other eye slides to her daughter crucified on the floor.

Bunce never sees her roll in a graceful turn of feral fluidity, the instinct to protect her child the only one that matters. The heavy glass sphere in her hand hits his head with a meaty
thwack
.

He's unconscious when I tear the knife from my palm. The metal slides and grinds as it sucks out of my flesh. I gasp in pain, swallowing it like the deeply bitter pill it is.

“Run, Faren!” Tannin Mitchell screams.

I stagger to my feet and stumble out the door and down the steps that led to our perfect house. Like a spoiling cake, the interior had rotted while the frosting remained pristine.

My call for help came too late to save my mom.

“Faren.”

I hear my name through my fog of recollection, a soupy existence on a plane only I know. My private hell.

My eyes open to Mick cradling me.

“Come back to me,” he says.

“I'm here.” My mind still floats in the horrible memory, suffocating me. I went away for a little while when he kissed the remnants of that battle for my life.

Mick folds my body against his. “I'd kill him if I could.” His face contains thunder.

For the first time in my lust-filled dilemma, I wonder who the real Jared McKenna is.

I come back to myself as Mick watches my personality fill the vacancy of my eyes. I see the truth in his. Mick doesn't want easy. He might even believe in fate.

I've never believed in fate more than I do in this moment. “I know,” I say, answering him.

His eyes search mine. “I really am sorry.”

I nod. His strong hands wrap around me. Then, inch by painful inch, he sets me away from him. Our bodies silently cry out for each other, and he actually winces.

Mick continues to gaze at me, seeming to come to a decision. Maybe it was him watching me battle a memory he can't know anything about. Maybe it's my recent close call with danger.

“I have something to confess.” A smile ghosts his full lips and I find myself licking mine in unconscious response.

Oh no, what now?

“I want you to know how I made my money.” His weighted eyes land on mine.

I shrug. 

Nothing he can tell me will bring him down to earth for me. I'm living a rare existence measured in breaths, not years. He can't affect me with his background, though I am curious. My heart races from remembered tragedy, from his nearness to me.

“I—I invented something.” The way Mick says it, he sounded as though he's admitting something embarrassing.

That’s not what I’d thought he would say. His words peg me to the floor as my mouth hangs open, begging for flies to catch. He chuckles, nervousness threading through his attempt at a light confessional.

He explains his invention, giving me the layperson's rendition, I'm sure. I fold my arms under my breasts as I get up and walk to my couch. I stare at him. The calloused hands, the muscles too striated for words make sense now. Those muscles don't dance before my eyes because he's a mirror lover in his thousand-square foot gym of glass and exercise equipment I imagine is at his disposal.

“Let me get this straight... You invented a fuel cell for airplanes? That’s ground-shattering technology. What, do you have an incinerator for the money in your mansion?”

Mick doesn't deserve my sarcasm. I can tell he told me that to normalize himself in my eyes. I scan his expensive clothes. His shirt is worth more than a quarter of my monthly pay.

His face hardens. The beautiful cleft in his chin is a dark spot like a period on the end of the sentence of his anger. “Listen, I never had money. I did the same thing my dad did, but with a twist. He was an auto mechanic, and when I was a kid, I dreamed of planes.” He stuffs his hands into his pockets, stares at his Italian shoes, and frowns. “I wanted to fly planes, but at the time, pilots needed perfect vision. So I became an airplane mechanic. I went through school, working full time, and I found I had a knack for making a leap of logic. Several, as it turns out.”

I don't miss his double entendre. My ear has been to the ground since the minute I lay on that cool street, his hand in mine as his bike rumbled in the background.

Mick meets my eyes. A trick of light makes them look like low burning embers of raw emotion and conviction. “It's not only planes. The part I conceptualized to advance fuel economy has given me the means to do more than I’d ever imagined. I've used those means to grow an empire of holdings. But in the beginning, I was just a kid with a dream who used what he'd been given.” His eyes bored into me. “With a ton of sweat and determination, I made my life what it is now.”

I don't know what to say. If he says he misjudged me, I'm guilty of that as well. I feel shame, but for different reasons. If he has billions of dollars, why does Mick choose to run the premier strip clubs of the west coast? His Black Rose establishments pepper this side of America. If he's so goddamned good, so hardworking, so
everything
... why is he okay with selling flesh?

He nods, almost to himself. “There you have it. I'm not some rich guy who... what did you say?” He chuckles.

“Poops gold,” I reply absently, buried in my conjectures.

Mick laughs in a rich baritone that makes my insides clench and my core tingle. I'm so in trouble. Why did I have to meet someone who seems so tailor-made for me when I can't fully realize the potential? It's like a horrible tease. As Mick unwraps his history like a finely packaged gift, the mystery, the fine layers of the man don’t dissuade me. His motivations should alarm me.

Instead, they heighten my desire.

“Hey,” Mick says in a quiet voice, seeing something on my face that makes him move toward me in two graceful steps. His eyes search mine. “I told you that because I want you to know we're not much different.”

I shake my head with a little laugh. “
Au contraire
, Mr. McKenna. We
so
are.”

His lips twist in sage agreement. “You're right. I'm jaded and you're... innocent.” 

I feel the heat from my blush and hate it. I hear another low chuckle and move away, erecting that careful distance again. But Mick gently tugs me against his hard body.

“No, we're the same where it counts, Faren.”

He laces his fingers through mine and raises our knotted hands to his heart. I swallow through the heat of my desire and my despair at my circumstances.

I feel the warmth of our hands through my thin cami and close my eyes, so lost in the sensation that I can't think. His words slip into me like cool water against my parched mind, soothing... complete.

Dangerously drowning.

“In here.” Mick presses my good hand more tightly against himself. His heartbeat pushes against my flesh.

He doesn't elaborate. He doesn't need to. Our hearts beat in sync like they were always one, and I suddenly know. He wants meaningful sex.

And I want more.

~ 5 ~

We bounce apart like guilty teenagers caught making out as pounding reverberates against the door. “Faren!”

Kiki.
Fuck.

I give Mick an apologetic look. He frowns but walks over to where his jacket lies neatly folded. My heart rate decreases. I heave a sigh and undo the three locks. The chain keeps the door latched as I take in Kiki's brown eyeball.

“What?” I hiss.

Her wide eye lights on my body, roaming me head to toe. Seeing I'm in one piece she glances behind me at Mick.

“I heard.”

“Not now.”

“Yes now,” she insists.

I close the door, slide the chain back, and open the door. Kiki breezes in wearing half of her costume from the club. Mick gives her a considering look, the wheels in that fine mind turning. I guess he really doesn't know who works for him.

Too many women to keep track of.

Mick sure as hell knew who Thorn is though. But acknowledging him in my hospital room would have meant explaining why, and I don't think Mick's ready for me to know that part.

He hasn't told me he owns ten clubs on the west coast. His confession might have meant more to me if he'd come clean about that. However, it's not a requirement.

I cast my eyes to the floor, regaining my composure.

It's not fair that I expect him to tell me why he owns strip clubs when I don't admit I'm one of his many employees. 

I turn my bad hand over and look at the healing bruise on my wrist. Using my wrist as a balancing tool on the pole instead of gripping had become too much. I don't know how much longer I could have kept it up. Certainly not on the complicated sets. That'd been a small part of my decision to move to laps. They were awful, but they didn't take hand work.

Well, not that kind.

“The cavalry's arrived,” Mick says dryly.

I smirk, my eyes roving to his crotch in what I think is a subtle glance. His brows pop as he catches me checking on the condition of his package. I feel heat climb my body, and I want to gag at my obviousness. He's making me obtuse.

“Yeah,” Kiki says, her hands on her curvy hips. She looks from me to him. “Did I interrupt anything?”

Kiki doesn't care. She asks the question as she faces me so Mick doesn't see her expressions. Not obvious or anything. Yeah, right.

But he sees my expression. My eyes are the window to my soul.

Finally, I answer, “No.” My eyes flick to Mick's, and his tighten with my words. “Mick was just leaving.”

I don't want to put him off. But he was waiting in my apartment, breaking and entering. Into my body.

My heart.

I should be scared by his intense interest. Worried over him waiting for me. Alarmed about his knowledge of me. But I don't have the time.

I have time only for what I choose.

Mick's unhurried gaze roams my body, pausing where he wants. He moves to the door, giving Kiki a second glance. He seems to be trying hard to place her.

I see it when he does, and I clamp down hard on my expression.

“Have we met before Miss King?” His piercing scrutiny is unnerving.

Kiki tilts her chin up to meet his eyes. “Just here, with Faren.” She gives nothing away, and I want to kiss her.

They have a stare-a-thon while I stand uncomfortably beside them.

“I guess not,” he says in a slow drawl, his eyes shifting to mine.

She nods. “See ya.”

His eyes meet mine in a fierce stare. He pulls me against him as if Kiki's not there, as if his realization of who she is and what it means for us doesn't exist.

Mick's thumbs press under my jaw. His long fingers wind around my neck, and he lifts my mouth to his. My platform flip flops bringing me inches closer to those full lips.

But it's not enough.

His head bends, and I rise to my tiptoes to meet him. The kiss grows, and I melt against him as his tongue slides between my lips. When my hands move to his shoulders, I grip his lapels, dragging him nearer. Mick resists deepening the contact, releasing my face and stepping away. His eyes flick behind me. The translucent brown of his irises are replaced by the black velvet of desire.

“I'll be in touch, Faren.”

My lips still tingle with the touch of his. I can still taste him. My hand covers the mouth he just kissed and I say nothing as I watch him leave.

Kiki walks around me and shuts the door with her ass, slapping her palms on the wood and stares at me. “What the fuck was
that
?
”

I turn away, guilty over Kiki not knowing. I don't know what to do, so I talk about what I can. “My stepfather showed up.”

“What?!” she shrieks, put off course by the revelation.

I cringe before I go to the stove and slap on the tea kettle that Mick had moved. My hand shakes as I turn on the burner.

“Faren? Sweet Jesus, talk to me.”

I don't say anything, cranking up the heat while I wipe down the already clean countertop.

“Okay,” Kiki says and paces behind me. “I got a weird ass email from Thorn saying that all laps have been suspended. He gives an alternate address for the next lap place. I'm on call, so I still get the emails.”

I pivot toward her. “Yeah... There was some kind of raid tonight.”

Kiki's eyes go from slits to saucers, her brow furrowing. “What? Laps aren't illegal.”

Neither one of us talk about the extracurricular stuff, but someone obviously did. I don't think any of the girls don't do the extras. I might be the only virgin, but I'm certainly no longer innocent.

Kiki exhales sharply, and a strand of dark hair floats around her face. “Bunce was there?”

Kiki's face crumples. “What the fuck is he doing? I mean, he should be in jail, and he's going to lap dance venues?”

“I was the auction girl,” I admit as neutrally as possible.

“Oh shit-in-a-sack, girl.” Kiki's eyes narrow. She puts it all together easily. Pity, sympathy, and fear mix in her expression. “He won you.”

I nod again, my eyes still dry. That’s a miracle. “Yes. I didn't know. It was like it was a setup, but I don't think Thorn knew.”

“How...?” Her brows rise.

“Cops busted in as he was chasing me around the room.”

Kiki puts her hand to her ample, heaving chest. Her throat convulses in a hard swallow. “That was close.”

“Yeah, it was.” My anger rises like high tide, swamping all my other emotions. “He has no right.” I shake, my bad hand trembling with my anger. “Mom is in that stinking mental limbo—lights on but nobody home—because of
him
. Yet all he can think about is getting at me. What the hell is Bunce doing that he can even afford to come to a place like that?”

“We gotta go to the cops!” Kiki says.

I shake my head. “What do you think will happen if we do, Kik?”

After staring at me for several moments, Kiki answers, “They'll throw your ass in jail because of the extras.”

“Bingo, give the girl a prize,” I mutter. Neither of us says what I'm thinking. I wouldn’t be able to see Mom. I wouldn’t make money. Mom would go into a state home. Ronnie Bunce might go to jail, but maybe not. He's free to come after me. He obviously has financial means.

Somehow.

“It costs a lot of money to be a member,” Kiki says speculatively, voicing my thoughts.

My cell chimes with an email notification, and I ignore it. The kettle whistles, so I pour the water into cups I always keep on the stove top. I stuff tea bags inside the cups.

“How much?” I ask as I face the stove.

“When I worked there, the other girls would talk. It's a short term occupation, obviously.”

I glance at her, and again that silent communication flows between us. It's a grab-the-cash-and-go job. Or become more than a lap dancer. I have an epiphany, and I almost drop the tea.

Kiki's eyes move to my face as she twines the tea bag string around her finger and dunks it. “What?” Kiki whispers, watching my expression as as the lightbulb flicks on.

“Holy crap, I think I know what that creep is doing.”

Kiki studies my face, pumping the tea bag up and down, her eyes full of questions.

“Pimp,” I say emphatically.

A light goes on in her face. “You think?” Her shaky breath skates across her hot tea, and her eyes meet mine over the rim.

“I know,” I say, taking silent inventory in my memory banks. I think about how he acts as though he owns women, especially me. I've witnessed his attitude with Thorn at the club. Of course, I know better.

Nobody owns me.