Wring: Road Kill MC #5

WRING

A Road Kill MC Novel

Volume 5

New York Times
Bestselling author

MARATA EROS

All Rights Reserved.

Copyright © 2016 Marata Eros

This book is a work of fiction. The names,
characters, places, and incidents are products of the writer's
imagination or have been used fictitiously and are not to be
construed as real. Any resemblance to persons, living or dead,
actual events, locales or organizations is entirely
coincidental.

This book is licensed for your personal
enjoyment only. This ebook may not be re-sold or given away to
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Marata Eros Website

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Cover art by
Willsin Rowe

Editing suggestions provided
by
Red Adept Editing.

DEDICATION:

Camilla Olina T.

The spoken and written word—any talent,
finesse or success that I possess—I owe to you. I loved you, Mom. I
love you still.

I am forever... your Darling.

Music that inspired me
during the writing of
WRING
:

Skin

by Beth Hart

SYNOPSIS:

Can a man's loyalty serve
his country, his club and his woman at once?

Wring is a former Navy Seal expert knotter,
and has given up serving his country to serve another cause: his
club. He doesn't want commitment. Instead he's satisfied going
through life on a river of contented autopilot.
When Wring meets Shannon, it's at the wrong place and time. Wring
doesn't need a woman to take away his numb; feeling is for
others.
But Shannon deliciously melts away old wounds while Wring fights to
ignore their growing passion. Can Wring save Shannon from
circumstances that threaten her? Can he save himself?

Works by
Tamara Rose Blodgett:

The
BLOOD
Series 1-6

The
DEATH
Series 1-8

Final Enforcement
ALPHA CLAIM
1

Shifter
ALPHA CLAIM
1-6

The
REFLECTION
Series 1-3

The
SAVAGE
Series 1-7

Vampire
ALPHA CLAIM
1-6

&

Marata Eros

A Terrible Love
(
New York Times
bestseller)

A Brutal Tenderness

The Darkest Joy

Club Alpha

One of Many
(co-authored with Emily Goodwin)

The
DARA NICHOLS
Series, 1-8

The
DEMON
Series

The
DRUID
Series 1-10

Final Enforcement
ALPHA CLAIM
1

Road Kill MC
Serial 1-5

Shifter
ALPHA CLAIM
1-6

The
SIREN
Series

The
TOKEN
Serial 1-10

Vampire
ALPHA CLAIM
1-6

The
ZOE SCOTT
Series 1-8

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Wring

I bolt upright in my bed,
the upper half of my body dripping sweat. My eyes automatically
scan the room. Finding nothing but shadows seeking me from
half-closed drapes, I toss myself backward against the soft pillows
of my bed, trying to calm my racing heart.

Easier fucking said than
done.

Flinging a forearm over my
eyes, I force myself to take in my surroundings, moderating my
breathing with a familiar, deliberate rhythm.

I'm not in the
sandbox.

I'm staying in the fucking
boondocks of Ravensdale. Having a place built in rural Orting. The
club's letting me stay here until my house is finished.

After a full minute of
coming to myself, I sit up, swinging my legs over the side of the
narrow bed. My feet find purchase on the lukewarm scarred wood
floor of the cabin.

Running a hand over my
flat top buzz cut, I let a final shaky breath escape. My heart is
still coming down from the nightmare adrenaline buzz.

Probably not one hundred
eighty beats a minute. Maybe just one sixty now. Fucking
Afghanistan. Got an honorable discharge. I'm tough as fuck… except
for the dreams.

The nightmares won't let
me go. I've done my time, and now, my commitment runs to less
patriotic endeavors.

Like Road Kill
MC.

I wish my brain could
switch gears. Consciously, I've made the commitment, and my years
of service, violence, and chaos are behind me. Subconsciously, the
brain won't release me from my obligations. As a knotter. As a
SEAL.

I rub circles on my chest,
trying to ease the panic that seizes me like one of the knots I so
skillfully execute.

Slower.
Heart stops galloping. Fucking finally.

I take more deep breaths,
letting them out in measured increments. Fucking shrink told me to
own my physical body and the rest might follow.

Not working.

Naked, I stand and pad
across the confining space of the cabin to the fridge and open it.
It's a fucking antique, groaning and burping its displeasure all
day long.

All night long.

A couple of lonesome beers
stand crooked in the drawer, along with a bunch of science
experiment shit.

I chuckle.
Nice.

I grab a beer and take off
the metal top with my college ring. Naval Academy. I take a lot of
flak from the brothers for being a college graduate. Whatever. Dad
was a graduate. Seemed like if I could follow in those footsteps, I
should.

When Dad died from a heart
attack, I turned SEAL.

Or the Navy turned me
SEAL.

My lips twitch. Yeah, they
pretty much turned me. I was a mess. And the boys saved my
ass.

They're my family now—Noose,
Lariat, and even dumbass Snare, who's really
not
dumb. Fun to razz his ass,
though.

I roll the chilled bottle
across my forehead, still feeling kind of spooked from the memories
that claw their way up my throat in screams I don't
voice.

I take a long pull, set
the bottle down on the narrow countertop beside the fridge, and
walk to each of the windows and the door.

Securing the
perimeter.

Natural as breathing. Not
having any fucker sneak up on me.

My exhale is frustrated.
Should have taken Noose or Snare up on their offer of a room
instead of this bum-fucked Egypt location that is so soundless, it
seems like I'm the only person in the world.

I shake my head, denying the
thought as soon as it intrudes. Yeah, that'd been great. Yelling my
guts out in the middle of the night while their kids are trying to
sleep?
Don't think so.

I can just hear the questions
now.
“Daddy, why does Uncle Wring freak
out in the middle of the night?”
That
would be the one from six-year-old Charlie, and Aria, Noose and
Rose’s new kid, isn’t even sleeping through the night half the
time.

Don't want to fuck up
other people's lives. Don't want to see pity in Rose's eyes and
empathy in Noose's.

Ditto at Snare's.
Now that he knocked his sister up again.
I chuckle. It is abso-fucking-lutely choice to
work Snare over with the sister angle. Does't matter that fuck of a
father, Riker, is gone from this earth. Technically, they're not
even step siblings anymore. Still entertaining to yank his
chain.

I scrub my scalp, feeling
the prickle of my short blond hair. The pale color was a hassle
when we were stealth. Had to be blacked out. I'm fucking white
bread and hate not blending in. My looks didn't help the fun
torture I went through, playing with the locals in
Afghanistan.

Nope. They weren't partial
to my all-American good looks. I didn't fucking care. And that
attitude is a bad combination during interrogation.

Read: torture.

Probably not as hard as
Noose—Sean King is some kind of other species of crazy—but I'm damn
close. We watched each other's backs. Sometimes that camaraderie
hurt the three of us, but mostly, it felt damn solid.

I press my forearm against
the wood divider that separates the panes of glass inside the
antique cabin window. The glass is cold as the day turns gray,
night breathing its last breath.

As I watch, bright white
light washes the sky, singeing the tops of the trees to low-burning
torches. When the red of daybreak creeps over the top of the woods,
light like scarlet blood sears everything in its path.

Too bad that fire can't
cleanse my ass of the past.

I take another pull of my
beer, watching my millionth dawn claim the day, thinking I barely
have the fucking sack to see another.

*

The Harley Davidson Fat
Boy feels almost as good as a sweet butt between my
legs.

Low purring vibrates in
all the right places, but doesn't talk back.

I smirk.

My smile fades as I think
about Noose and Snare and what they have. A woman who backs
them.

Who they can sleep
with.

I crave that intimacy
almost more than fucking. I've sexed every club whore in Road
Kill—I'm not short on tail.

What I really want is to
wake up next to a woman. To feel the silk and warmth of her soft
curvy body next to my hard one.

I squeeze my eyes against
the image. No bitch who can take what the night brings
me.

The nightmares steal the
hope of anything permanent.

So I just fuck. Eat. Shit.
Exercise. Sleep. Repeat.

It's a life, just not the
one I wanted. Not the one I planned for.

If it weren't for Road Kill, I
wouldn't be here. I slip the kickstand up and roll out of the rural
driveway, giving a last look at the small homestead that Viper
inherited from his great-grandparents.
Morhorse
? Something like that. It's
not Vipe's last name, but I guess the family was a big deal back in
the day. Homesteaded Kent, had a few holdings in
Ravensdale.