Wring: Road Kill MC #5 (4 page)

Up close, his coloring is
even more fair than mine. He's like a cool, smooth walking glacier
of muscle and menace.

Maybe I shouldn't have
begged silently for help. Maybe this is a prime example of jumping
from the frying pan into the fire.

His eyes move over me in
two seconds, lingering on my face a heartbeat longer, then he turns
his attention to Vincent.

Vincent's free hand flexes
into a fist. “You got a problem, Road Kill maggot?”

The stranger smiles at
Vincent. The expression is so frightening, I take a step
back.

I watch Vincent frown at
my retreat. Without ever looking at me, he crushes my wrist. I yell
helplessly, dropping to my knees.

“Oh God, please.” My hand
struggles over his to release me.

“Let the girl
go.”

That voice.
It's deep. Articulate. Resonant. The tone strikes
me like a wake-up chime, and I ignore the extreme pain, daring to
look up.

His crystalline eyes are
for Vincent—he never looks at me or acts like I'm even
there.

I pant through the
grinding white-hot agony of my wrist.

“No, man, she's a whore
bitch. Just getting some facts straight between us. Not Road Kill
MC biz. You feel?”

Disgust and resignation flash
across the stranger's features. Finally, he turns to me, and the
full weight of his gaze seizes me, gripping me in a cosmic thrall.
I gulp.
Holy hell.

Who
is
he?

His eyes slim on me with
clear disbelief. “This true? You this gang prick's
whore?”

Instead of answering, I
scream as Vincent mangles my wrist. Stars burst at the sides of my
vision, and I sway, beginning to crumple. I hit the sidewalk with
my shoulder, and my teeth click together, hard. My wrist is still
held in his grip. I can't feel my hand.

“Okay.” The stranger steps
forward without hesitation and punches Vincent in the
nose.

Not a regular, movie type
of punch that's all neat and pretty. The hit snaps Vincent's head
back like a door got opened in his face.

Releasing my wrist, he
folds like a human chair, out cold. His head bounces off the
sidewalk, landing with a crack.

I perform a klutzy crab
crawl, trying to distance myself from my torturer. I use my hands
to push myself up and scream, falling immediately. My wrist is
useless.

Strong arms lift me from
the cement, and I scream louder. A hand covers my mouth.

“Shut up.” His voice fills
my ears.

Instantly, I
still.

Oh God, oh God, oh
God.

“Listen to me, and listen
carefully. I'm in the middle of Blood territory, and I need to get
the hell out of here. But you answer a question first.”

Huh?

He turns me, his hand
still covering my mouth. Tears run out of the corners of my eyes;
my wrist is a mass of numb heat.

“You going to
scream?”

I shake my head. But I'm
still scared.

He gently lifts his hand
and sets me on my feet.

I fight nausea and the urge to
faint.
I will not be weak.

Vincent groans behind us,
and my bladder hiccups.

“You his
whore?”

My mouth pops
open.

He grins, eyes flicking
over my shocked expression. “Didn't think so. Don't have the look.”
His gaze scrapes down my once-pristine outfit.

Nice. Lech.

I fold my arms, yelp at my
wrist.

He frowns. “I can get you
somewhere.”

Oh.
Vincent.

This dangerous man can get
me somewhere before Vincent wakes up.

I narrow my eyes, and he
waits, looking bored.

“Or you can stay here and
take your chances with Mr. Wonderful Gang Leader.” He walks closer,
towering over me, even though I’m wearing heels. “Unless I
misinterpreted the message from those pretty green eyes of yours?
You were needing help, right?” he asks in a soft whisper, but
somehow, his words are clipped and angry.

I nod, tears scattering
before I can stop them.

He scowls, taking my good
wrist and hauling me behind him. My heels make a racket, echoing
off the concrete. His muscular legs swings over his bike, then he
drops my hand and flicks his jaw behind him. “Hop on.”

I've never been on a bike
before. I don't know him.

Vincent is crawling toward
the curb, after us.

“Stay sleeping, fucker, or
I'm going to knock your teeth down your throat,” the stranger says
in casual warning to the crawling Vincent.

“Don't… you… fucking—”
Vincent gasps through his ruined nose.

The stranger cups a hand
behind his ear. “Don't? You? Fucking?” He slaps his thighs, a dark
chuckle shooting out of his mouth like a cannon. “I'm not planning
on
fucking
you.
Sacks of shit are not on the menu.”

“Get on,” he barks at me
again, and I mimic his mounting of the bike, though I hike up my
skirt to mid-thigh to slide on the back. He reaches behind him and
cups his hands on my butt, and I gasp as he hitches me against him.
“Hang on, blondie.”

Blondie?

I slip my hands around his
waist, favoring the bad one, and he takes ahold of my uninjured
hand. I notice how automatic he is. Smart.

“I got you.”

He rolls out of there. The
bike shakes between my legs, and his hard body is in front of mine,
heating me through his leather vest.

I turn just my head around
to look at Vincent, and his angry eyes follow us with death
standing in his gaze.

Mom and I will never be
safe. This gorgeous stranger just granted us time.

Like a stay of
execution.

Wring

I feel the vibration in my
pocket and with a blatant disregard for the law. I extract my phone
from my pocket and glance at the text.

Noose:
Don't be a dickbag. Rose is making pancakes.

Fucker. He knows I like Rose's
cooking. Especially the pancakes.
Damn.

I put the cell up to my
face and audio my anger into a text.

Me: Keep your nose out of
my shit.

A full minute
passes.

Noose: I wouldn't do dick
if I didn't give a rat's ass.

I know. It's what I need,
but I can't accept. Something won't let me.

Noose means well, the
stubborn fucker.

I speak my reply, and the
letters appear on my phone. I hit
S
end.

Me:
just give it a rest.

Noose:
for now. Swing by our place. Have grub.

My eyes watch traffic
beginning to finally get on the road on the only lazy day of the
week. I tap my fingers. Thinking. Trying not to.

Me:
Ok.

I slide the phone back
into my inner pocket of my cut and take a right on 240th heading
west, toward Noose’s.

I cut through Kent
Station, a relatively new depot, strip mall and condo complex they
threw in the valley a couple of years ago. They did a good job,
unlike a lot of older Kent enterprises, where infrastructure and
planning were afterthoughts.

I pass a funky old faded
red house squeezed between two high-rise commercial buildings on my
right, spotting local gang tag shit hidden in plain sight. Symbols
are buried in allowed graffiti that looks like artwork. I
slow.

Hate this block. The ritzy
condo place where Noose lives is only ten blocks from Blood
territory. Top Shelf Condos.

It's a tangible distance.
Proof of what the Bloods are quietly doing is right here, breathing
down our collective necks.

And Road Kill MC is going
to make them bleed. We don't allow gangs. All of our charters are
working hard to defend territory. It's simple. Basically, if they
try to move into ours, we kill them. Sends a permanent
message.

Lots of final-looking rope
burns decorate gang members throats who thought they would push
their agenda. The marks are like a Road Kill MC calling card
now.

There's no open casket for
those fuckersʼ funerals.

A loose smile fills my
face at the thought of eradicating those shitbags.

My expression and
momentary happiness fade at the sight that catches my
eye.

Gang leader—don't know his
name—sporting Blood colors has a solid hold on a woman.

She’s blond, slim, and
built to fuck. Not cheap.

I frown. Image doesn't
work. Fucking Bloods are starting to sell flesh to get fast cash.
This girl doesn't look like a working girl.

Judging by her body language,
she’s not real
willing
,
either.

Next to the tall gang
fuck, she looks like a porcelain doll. Long blond hair falls to a
shapely ass. Her sexy-secretary getup shows kick-ass acres of
smooth fair skin at her arms, legs, and throat. Creamy, not
pasty.

I turn away, concentrating on
the road and beyond that, Noose's place. He’s got food.
Fucking starved.

My instincts fire off over
what I just saw, interrupting my thoughts.

Fuck.

I glance over my shoulder,
and green eyes like seawater meet mine. The plea in that gaze turns
my stomach.

Don't put your dumb fucking
nose in gang shit.
No brothers at my
back.

You don't know this bitch,
Wring
.
Leave
it.

Tears run down her face,
as clear as day, sparkling like captured diamonds of
sadness.

Fuck it.

I execute a tight U-turn
and come around, rolling the bike into the stall. Kill the engine
and hop off.

The closer I get, the more
I want this fucker to let her go, the feeling creeps over my skin
like ants on their favorite hill.

“Fucking Road Kill mofo,”
the prick says, adjusting his undersized junk.

Hmmm.

He's hurting the woman.
I've never been a fan of men putting their hands on females. Find I
become less of one all the time.

I stare at this piece of
shit, willing him to be smart with my gaze, trying to convince
myself to hold back.

“You got a problem, Road
Kill maggot?” His jaw kicks up, tempting me with breaking it. My
eyes line up on the bulls-eye he's presenting.

That's about the point
when I figure I can't hold back.

I smile at him.

The girl is the smartest
one of all three of us. She takes a look at my face and steps
back.

The fucker clamps down on
her wrist, and she falls to her knees, giving a pitiful cry of
pain. “Oh God, please.”

Adrenaline roars through
me, singeing my guts—all of me. I embrace the familiar thrill of
it. My body gets loose. Ready. Resigned to the immediate future.
“Let the girl go.” I'm still giving him a chance.

For me, that’s fucking
patient.

“No, man, she's a whore
bitch. Just getting some facts straight between us. Not Road Kill
MC biz. You feel?”

I'm not feeling him. Never
will. This girl looks as new as a shiny penny. She doesn't have
that weary vibe. Her eyes are pure of the grime of life. I look at
her again.
Most of it, anyway.
The type of life this fucker offers hasn't left
its stain on her.

I assess that in seconds,
but I gotta be sure. “This true? You this gang prick's
whore?”

Her mouth opens to answer,
and I notice how beautiful she is. Her lips have a deep cupid's bow
above the upper lip.

Distracting as
fuck.

I lick my lips, committed
now.

Then the prick twists her
wrist, and she falls against the sidewalk with a yell.

“Okay.” I nod decisively,
stepping into him like a dance partner.

With my fist.

I strike hard, checking my
swing at the last second so I don't actually kill him. An immediate
Blood war, we
don't
need.

Man’s got to employ a lot
of finesse when his hands are considered lethal weapons. I use that
now, knocking the idiot out without killing him.

He'll be okay,
I muse regretfully.

He drops like a rock, head
tapping hard on the sidewalk.

I grin.
Love. It.

The girl tries to crawl
away, and I get a flash of lacy panties and pop a boner right in
the middle of the mess.