Wring: Road Kill MC #5 (6 page)

My embarrassment moves right into envy. Wow,
it's so obvious they're in love. He might be crude and rough, but
clearly, he adores his family.

Wring takes that moment to lean over the granite
countertop on his elbow and pop a grape from a nearby fruit bowl
into his mouth. “Pussy whipped,” he comments as Noose and Rose have
their moment.

I blink.
What have I gotten myself
into?

“You're next,” Noose says smugly, pointing a
finger at him and pretend shooting.

They exchange a private glance.

“I'm sure Shannon is all worn out after her
ordeal and needs food.” Rose slips out of Noose's grasp and hands
him his daughter. He picks her up and lifts her high into the air.
“Better not barf on Daddy,” he says, squinting.

Looks like maybe that's happened before. I bite
the inside of my lip to keep from laughing.

“Aria probably needs fresh pants.” Rose cocks a
golden-brown eyebrow high, and he sighs, resigned to diaper
duty.

“Man, I used to be cool!” He trudges off to do
the deed, and Wring rolls to both elbows on the countertop and
props his chin in his hands.

“You were never cool, Noose,” he comments in a
droll voice.

“Fuck
off
!” he yells from another
room.

I smirk. They act like family.

Or the family I remember from long ago when Dad
was alive. Of course, ours was a more sedate rendition. Mom would
die if this many
F
bombs blew up around our house.

I grab a fork and knife off the countertop, stab
a plain dinner-plate-sized pancake, and drop it on an empty plate.
My fork hovers over the second stack. Not sure what fruit is in
there.

“Fresh blackberries,” Rose says proudly,
guessing at my hesitation. “I can still find a few patches around
here. Kids and I like to pick.”

There used to be wild blackberries growing all
over our property. It makes me sad they're gone. My eyes rove to
the fruit pancake pile again.

The hell with it.
I stab a fruit pancake
and lather it all in real butter, pouring maple syrup over the
whole load.

Wring watches my movements like a hawk sighting
prey. I'm almost too hungry and strung out with fatigue to care.
Almost.

I find a seat at the kitchen table and plop
down, digging in. As I chew my food, I look out the huge windows at
the view of Kent from the top floor of the condominium complex.

I groan over the taste and close my eyes.
Heavenly.
A stab of guilt takes me out of the moment. Mom
would love these. She's so skinny. The RA has stolen her appetite
and dampened her sense of smell and taste.

“Like that sound,” Wring comments quietly at my
elbow, and I startle, my eyes snapping open.

My face heats. I set down the fork and put my
hands to my cheeks.

“Hey,” he says, voice low, “I didn't mean
anything by that.”

I can hear Rose clanking dishes in the
background. It's just me and Wring.

Our gazes lock. “Yes you did.” Defiance laces my
words.

He nods really slowly. “You're right. I
did.”

My blush flares to life again.

Wring turns, digging into his own pile.

I watch him eat for a few seconds, then
laugh.

One of his pale-blond eyebrows shoots up.
“What?”

Eyeing up his six-pancake stack, I ask,
“Hungry?”

He nods. “Fuck yes, starved. Feel like I just
woke up after a ten-year nap.”

Noose comes around the corner, securing Aria in
a football hold at his side. “What nap? You sleep like shit.”

Aria's chubby feet dangle, and she giggles.
Noose chucks her underneath her chin, tipping her upright and high
against his hip. Her arms curls around his beefy shoulder.

Wring runs a hand over his short buzz cut.
“Yeah. Feel good right now, though.”

“ʼCause you just pounded that Blood.” He shrugs
like it's obvious.

They grin and tap knuckles across the table.

I take another bite then chase it down with icy
orange juice.

“So spill it,” Nooses says, eating a quarter of
a pancake in one bite.

Wow, he's aggressive with the food.

Rose approaches the table, smirking.

Noose breaks off a little bit of pancake and
pops it in Aria's mouth.

“Num-num!” she yells into the feasting.

I laugh. “She's adorable.”

Rose beams, and Noose says to her, “You're
welcome,” dragging Rose in for another kiss.

She whacks him. “I had
something
to do
with it, you know.”

Noose winks. “Oh, I know. I
so
know.”

“Noose…” she says in warning.

He ignores her, pulling her into his lap. “Great
food, wife.”

Rose's cheeks get pink, and he feeds her a bite
from his fork, kissing her again as Aria scoops up a second tiny
section of pancake. Her hair is dark, but her eyes are like her
dad’s, light gray. Syrup gets all over her chubby fingers.

“Ah, she's a mess, Noose,” Rose chides.

He shrugs a muscular shoulder, his leather vest
creaking with the movement. “She's a baby. They're dirt
magnets.”

“Amen,” Wring says, cleaning the last of the
syrup from his plate with a half pancake.

Rose sighs, getting up, and Noose slaps her
butt. “Love the view, babe.”

She gives him a long-suffering look, but
underneath that is happiness. Rose loves him.

Noose turns back to me like a dog with a bone,
steepling his fingers underneath his chin. “Why's that Blood prick
after you?”

He gives Aria a little bit more pancake without
missing a beat.

She mashes it between her fingers and stuffs it
into her mouth. “Num-num!”

Both men stare holes through me. “I don't want
to involve you in my…” I struggle for a few seconds to explain and
finally settle on simple. “Troubles.”

“Too late,” Wring says, mopping up one last drop
of syrup and grabbing his glass of OJ. He swallows half a glass,
and I watch his powerful, thick throat work.

God, he's a handsome man.

He wipes his mouth with a napkin then crumples
it before tossing it on the plate.

My heartbeats stack, my body flat out responding
to his.

Wring watches my face and leans forward, pupils
dilating. His lips part.

I concentrate on his mouth, sliding my damp
palms underneath my thighs.

“Yeah,” Noose agrees slowly. “Road Kill mess
right now.”

I turn to him in a semi-daze, food coma and lust
undertones coming on. “What? Road Kill?”

He nods slowly. “We're motorcycle club men,
Shannon.” Noose says the words like they hold weight or mean
something I should know.

I look to Wring.

The room seems to be holding its breath.

“I don't know what motorcycle club means.” I
lift a shoulder. “Like what? You guys like riding together?”

Noose starts braying like a donkey.

Wring doesn't join in.

“This is fucking rich,” Noose says, slapping a
denim-encased thigh with his hand.

“Cut the shit, Noose,” Wring says, glaring.

“What am I missing?” I divide my attention
between the two.

“Wring here”—he flings a thumb in Wring's
direction—“went all white knight and shit, saving you from whatever
that Blood had in mind.” He tilts his head, clearly waiting for a
response.

That's true.
I nod.

“So the Bloods are going to look at that whole
little event as a declaration of war. Unless you are someone
important to Wring?”

I vigorously shake my head. “I don't know
Wring.” It occurs to me in that moment they have really weird
names.

Wring leans back in his chair, carefully lacing
his fingers. He cups the back of his head, hooded eyes on me.

I risk a look at his crotch. I don't know why.
Because I'm crazy. Or curious. Both.

There's a healthy erection seated between his
legs.

I squeeze my eyes shut
. Oh my God.

“Wring?” Noose asks, and I manage to open my
eyes and keep them on his face this time.

His expression is amused.

He knows I was checking his dick out.
I
about die. I'm blushing so hard, I feel like my head will
explode.

“I don't want an old lady. Hell, I want easy
tail.”

I blink.

Noose chuckles, beginning to drum his fingers on
the table. “That's what I thought, too.”

“Num-num!” Aria chimes, and Noose slides another
piece of pancake onto her tray. She makes a fist, squishes the
pancake and syrup into an unrecognizable ball, and crams it into
her tiny mouth.

“Tail?” I ask, feeling outraged. I stand,
looking down on two amused faces and a startled baby. “I—ah!” I
pivot on my heel and stomp out of there, intending to find
Rose.

And where is Charlie?

I walk to where I hear faint voices, escaping
their dumb conversation about old ladies,
tail
, and
gangs.

Idiots.

Rose and Charlie are sitting together on his
bed. A half-eaten plate of pancakes lies between them.

“Hey,” she says softly. She sits up, reading my
expression and getting kind of alarmed.

“Where's Aria?”

“She's out there, getting stuffed with
pancakes.”

“What's wrong?”

So much is wrong. I open my mouth to tell Rose
some of it, realize I don't know her, and decide against it.

“The guys are so…” I waffle my hand back and
forth.

“I know exactly what you mean.” She kisses
Charlie as he eats the rest of the pancakes and stands. “Time for
Aria's nap.”

Of course. Because my story hour was supposed to
be at ten. And now it's almost one, and I can't
—

My mom.

Fear goosebumps spread over my flesh. I wonder
if Vincent tried to go by the house?

“What?” Rose asks, searching my features.

I look into her big brown eyes. Eyes that have
seen a few things.

“I better get home,” I say in weak response then
remember my manners. “Thanks for the breakfast.”

Rose grabs my arm as I move to turn.

I look at her.

“I know Wring—all of it, them—seems tough.”

A laugh bursts out of me.
No shit.

She studies my expression, and her face turns
rueful. “But they—MC men,
our
MC men—they're real guys.
Treat women well. Protective. Wring won't let anything happen to
you.”

I shake my head. I'm sure I look as puzzled as I
feel. “I think it's great he helped me out,” I say slowly. I put my
wounded hand on my chest and cringe from the pain the movement
fires off. “But he isn't responsible for me.
I'm
responsible
for me.” I spread my fingers over my chest and suddenly wince at
the motion. I finally give up and let my mess of a wrist fall to my
side.

“Oh my God.” Rose covers her mouth. “Did that
Blood do that to your wrist?”

I hold out my hand and really look it over. It's
swollen, the little bone that normally pokes out where my hand and
wrist connect is hidden in the inflamed flesh. “Yeah.” A weary
exhale slides out of me.

No health insurance. I'll just have to ride it
out. I close my eyes. Tired over the challenges, taking care of my
mom, and finances. Now this.

“I was going to take her to Doc.”

I whirl. Wring's there, leaning against the
doorjamb, looking tantalizing.

“I'm going home.”

“No you're not. I'll take you by the club, get
ya patched up, see what's what with your wrist, then you go
home.”

His eyes are flint, unyielding.

I fold my arms, thrusting a hip out—body
language for digging in my heels. “I can say no.”

We stare at each other.

He slowly nods. “You could.”

I shrug, and it pushes my breasts up. His eyes
cling to the view. Something deep and low pulls inside me at that
look.

Wring's smile is secretive. “I highly suggest
you don't.”

Wring

“I don't need to be seen by a doctor.”

I sweep my palm behind me, and Shannon sighs,
hiking her leg over the seat and sliding in behind me.

Grabbing her hand before she can protest, I
gently rotate it. Finger-shaped bruises ring the narrowest part of
her arm. It's a mess, flesh inflamed. Looks like she couldn't use
it if she tried.

“You're gettinʼ seen. Period.”

I carefully place her wounded hand around me,
and she tightens around my torso with her forearm but grips me with
her other unhurt hand.

“Hang on,” I say gruffly.
Bitches never
listen.

She lays her head between my shoulder blades
like she's tired. “I—can we go by my house first? I have to check
on my mom.”

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.