Snare: Road Kill MC (A Novel) (14 page)

“Yes!” Jaylin yells, flying around to grab her jacket.

We leave, shutting the door behind us.

We stay at the park, where the huge sundial sits at the very top of a grassy knoll, until darkness edges in, eating the light of the day like a banquet of black satin.

*

“Let me take Jaylin. You need some
you
time, and I'm going to give it to you.”

I grump, folding my arms and shifting my weight, my gaze glued to my sneakered feet. My bright red Converses are loosely tied. Just threw them on. Not giving much shit about clothes right now.

“Look at me, Sara.”

I glance up at Lola and giggle. She's parked in six-inch clear platforms and a dress that's more a shimmering Band-Aid than an outfit.

“
Quit.
I know I look like a ʼho of the moment.”

Gales of laughter break out of me, and I slap my hands over my mouth, which somehow makes it worse—and better.

“Yuk it up, princess.”

Comedic relief. Totally needed it. I finally hiccup to a stop. “I can't see you as Candy, Lola.”

“And I never saw you as Kitty, Sara. The name change is easy for me.”

I nod. “Yeah. I still see you as Lola, though.” I pause for a second, feeling my smile fade at the edges. “Snare just—I don't know—blew me off.”

Lola shakes her head. “No way. No dude goes to all this trouble to get laid. You say he's a looker? With a badass scar and Mr. Biker to boot? And he's got a ten-inch shlong?”

Oh my God.
“Lola,” I warn.

She shrugs. “Looks like you were having trouble walking today. Those eight-inch plus penises, they'll get you bowlegged in a hurry. I just figured...” Her eyes twinkle.

“Don't,” I say, covering my hot cheeks with my hands. “I didn't say Snare had a ten-inch penis.”

Her eyebrow arches. “You didn't say he didn't.”

Oh boy.

We laugh, and I know it's better than crying.

“Let me take Jay-jay. Have a hot bath, a glass of wine. Hell, maybe old Snare will come back and find you naked in the tub and you won't care he's hours late.” She waggles her brows.

“Okay,” I agree reluctantly.

As if on cue, Jaylin exits her tiny bedroom with a bag of books and her stuffed Peter Rabbit.

“Auntie Lola is going to read to me again.”

“I'm illiterate,” Lola replies in a droll voice.

“Huh?” Jaylin asks with a frown, giving Lola's wardrobe choice a long look. “Is that your Halloween costume, Auntie Lola?” Jaylin's big blue eyes blink at her.

“How does she know about a holiday that doesn't come for another seven months?”

I smile. “They're learning all the holidays in school.”
Were learning.

Damn.

“Come on, cutie pie. Don't keep Lola waiting. I need to get out of these shoes. My feet are killing me.”

“I don't know how you can walk in them.” I laugh. Though I wear ones that are similar, I would never attempt real walking.

“Got your attention, right?”

I nod enthusiastically. “Perfect outfit for the Ds,” I say, mindful of Jaylin's sharp ears.

Lola smirks. “Exactly—for the Ds!”

I hold up my palm, and she high-fives me with a resounding smack. Lola doesn't even hate that I put in my notice at TC. Or that Thorn cut me slack for the two-week window.

That's why we're friends. Lola wants what's best for me more than she wants to hate me for pursuing a chance at happiness.

Snare

I've used my fists a fuck ton. I've fought for my life before. From my dad. From others.
But these odds?

They fucking blow.

Mover watches the action from the sidelines like a proud football coach.

Five Chaos Riders move in on Noose, and his hand slides a knotted rope from the depths of his jacket.

He shrugs off his cut and flops it over the seat of his bike at the same time I do.

Knives shiver out of their sheaths, and my stomach clenches, my balls crawling high.

Fuck.

The first few rush Noose, and his rope flies like a twisted snake, taking out two noses in a strike that looks like a whip of white magic in the depths of the forest.

Then I'm surviving my own catastrophe. Two Chaos Riders charge me, and I use judo. It's the simplest way to deflect the violence—using their momentum against them.

The two closest to me tumble over my foot-sweeping leg like bowling pins. One guy lands hard, square on his face, too fast of a move to save himself with his hands. The other guy knows how to move his body and rolls with the momentum, bounding to his feet behind me and moving in close.

I strike back with my leg, making a lucky hit to the groin. It only has to glance the jewels to make a man go to his knees.

He does, sinking and gasping like a fish out of water.

I hit the next guy in the throat with stiff fingers, and he staggers back, clutching his neck and relearning how to breathe, but two others catch one of my arms, wrenching it behind my back.

I twist hard, spinning in their hold, and break one off.

The other clocks me with his fist at my jaw, and I land on my knees hard. Bell soundly fucking rung.

Noose is also on the ground, bent back, his wrists locked, rope around one of their throats.

The same big fucker from last night is beating him from behind.

But Noose doesn't budge from strangling the third body until someone hits him over the head with the brass.

Noose slumps.

I evade the same treatment, too fast for them to nail hard. But even judo experts can trip with uneven footing provided by roots, slick moss, and a forest floor that's not inside a dojo.

I do an accidental somersault. Once I’m on the ground, more Chaos swarm over me like angry bees, and my consciousness fades to black with their fists that sting.

And fading with it, my promises to Sara.

*

I wake up. My first conscious thought is:
I can't feel my arms.

My eyelids flip open, but I don't move my head. Experience has taught me to avoid quick movements if I don't want to hurl chunks and make the headache fucking worse.

Cautiously, my gaze scans the surroundings.

Cinder block walls are painted in gun-metal gray. No windows. Drain in the middle of a concrete floor with rust stains that probably won't come out for all the bleach in the world.

Shit
.

Road Kill's got a room like this. It's where fuckers go that aren't feeling like being chatty. Teeth get pulled—nails too. Most of the subjects find themselves wanting to sing like canaries after a few exposed nailbeds greet the open air. That'll do it.

I realize after a moment why I can't feel my arms. I'm hanging from a ceiling like meat on a hook. Bad. Very bad.

A loogie flies, landing by me with a dull splat. Blood-laced snot.

I turn my head slowly, so slowly. Still, my vision warbles like glass under rain. I don't shake my head to clear it. I shut my eyes, giving my body time to adjust to the fact I asked it to move before it's ready. “Noose,” I croak. My voice sounds as parched as my throat.

“Yeah.”

“You okay?”

He laughs. “Yeah.”

I crank my eyes in the direction of Noose's voice. Using my heels, I slowly turn my hanging body until I find him.

Fuck me
, he's in as bad a shape as any man I've ever seen. Crisscrossing rope burns abrade the taut flesh of his neck. There's not a free spot of skin without the marks of ropes.

“They fucked you with your own ropes, man.”

Noose chuckles, spitting out more blood. One eye's swollen shut. “Pussies couldn't strangle me if they tried. Don't know what the fuck they're doinʼ. Probably can't tie their shoes either. Fucktards.”

Noose jokes while we're hanging from the Chaos Riders’ ceiling, awaiting another fun torture session.

“Can't see the humor,” I admit and cough. Pain flares through my head, and I grimace.

Noose's one pale gray eyeball finds me. “There's always humor, Snare. Don't you forget it. In the end, sometimes that's all a man has. His balls, his woman, and his sense of humor.”

That's up for debate.

My gaze shoots to the ceiling, where a stainless shank is clamped to an eye bolt that balances all of Noose's weight in a sort of upside down
V
of chain. Any degree of shifting and he’d make the situation worse.

“Looks like they knew what they were doing with this tie-up.”

Noose grunts. “Fuck ʼem.”

Noose raises his arms, huffing and puffing through his bruised throat. Spreading his arms wide, he lifts his body weight by his bound wrists. “Try it,” he says between harsh breaths, “you might like it.”

Fuck.
I do it, and pain radiates through my shoulders to my hands as I begin to shove my arms down flat by my sides. “Hurts,” I hiss like a snake.

“Embrace the fucking pain, Snare. You want the use of your arms when these fuckers undo us.”

If they undo us
remains unsaid.

We do a series of five each. Noose came to before me so he's ahead of the game, but I like the way I can feel my arms now. Pins and needles march like biting ants from shoulder to wrist. Pain is better than numb and helpless.

The doorknob rattles, and we still, giving each other a full glance before Mover saunters inside along with what looks like a big, shambling mouth-breather prospect.

His eyes inspect our tethering with an easy smile. Coming to hate this fucker for so many reasons. “Gentlemen.”

Noose and I stay silent.

“You're here today for a few reasons.”

I don't know why Chaos would hike our guns, beat the fuck out of us, and take us into their torture room. Because make no mistake, I know what the fuck is what in a room that's windowless with a drain in its center.

“One, Ned was a naughty boy, and though he might have thieved from Road Kill—he
destroyed
us.”

Mover confessing his secrets can't be good for us.

Noose's eye flicks to mine.

I know what he's thinking. That Mover will justify, and whatever they do next is payback for my interference with Sara. I just don't get how all of it ties together.

Mover walks to a chair, straight-backed and all wood. He twirls it around and sits on it backward. He plucks his slacks up and flashes argyle socks. He makes a fist with one hand and drops his chin on top of where it rests on the arched wood.

He's younger looking than Viper and has an air of sophistication that Viper lacks. But Mover is a window-dressing kind of guy. How the two of them could have ever been friends, rode together—beats me. They don't agree, and he doesn't seem like a rider.

“Now we have a new ʻNed.ʼ” He frames Ned's name in finger quotes, a vague smile on his mouth.

His eyes fall on me like a physical blow. I wish I could tell Noose,
You know how when someone is going to say something terrible, you fucking feel it?
My skin crawls before Mover’s words begin.

“I believe you know him—intimately, Snare.”

My heart beats a rhythm out of my chest.

“Riker Locklear has come on board. And we're happy to welcome him into the arms of the Chaos Riders MC.”

No.

He flips his suit coat lapels behind his hips, resting his hands flat on his thighs as he leans back and surveys our reaction. Never seen the prick's cut.
Does he even have one?
I think, trying like fuck not to think about my dad being a player in our rival MC.

What it means for me. For Sara.

“Ned was a cunning fox. Stayed hidden, had a great cover, but he was getting sloppy with the flesh trafficking and had outlived his usefulness. Or so we thought. We believed, wrongly, he'd lost his Midas touch. That he could no longer finger our fortunes and turn them into gold. What it really was? Ned was keeping all the treasure for himself.” Mover gives a rueful shake of his head, as though considering Ned’s stupidity.

Can't argue with that.

“Then you should let us go. You understand what Ned caused to happen. Robbing us of guns when we're trying to regain our losses was a bad move.” Noose's jaw slides back and forth like he's chewing his words and spitting them out.

Mover flops a finger up and down in Noose's direction. “No. What Riker lacks in finesse, he makes up for in brute control. He has a drug connection that, if he can keep off the sauce for an extended period of time, he should be able to funnel all the capital we need to get our endeavors back on line. We need the guns.” He flips his palm out. “Capital.”

I stare at him. “What does my dad have to do with why I'm here?”

Mover digs in his suit coat pocket, extracting sunflower seeds and popping a handful inside his mouth.

Makes me salivate I'm so fucking starved.

He kicks his chin up, spitting the shells out like bullets in the general direction of the drain. Waffling his hand back and forth, he says, “Riker wanted information. We gave it to him. I was performing a bit of research on the girl he wanted to know about. And unfortunately, you happened upon us at exactly the wrong time.”

“The right time,” I say in a voice that has made other men piss their pants.

Not Mover. He's immune to my threat. He smiles at my words, his bright white teeth grinding away. He spits more seeds, and I clench my fists, balling my shoulders together like I'm preparing to swing my arms down.

Noose gives an almost imperceptible shake of his head.

I've never wanted to kill someone like I do Mover in this moment. My hands burn with his murder, my fingertips aching with the urge to dispatch his life.

Can't.
I'm strung up like a pig for slaughter.

He lifts a shoulder, going on. “So he wants this young woman. He will take her whereabouts in exchange for the first shipment of drugs. How could we refuse? The guns help finance this.”

I bellow into the room, a scream of pure anguish.

Mover and the lumbering prospect wince as my anguish fills the space. Riker has sought Chaos so he can have Sara.

And now Sara's waiting for me in her apartment. Unprotected—vulnerable. Maybe thinking that I went back on my word. And there's no way to inform Trainer.

All of it fucking crucifies me.

Mover stands. “So you see, if you'd just not walked into that room while she swallowed my load, you wouldn't even be here.” He shrugs. “The guns were a bonus. I'll meet with Viper. He'll be distracted, because his sergeant at arms and his precious knotter are missing. I'll put the screws to him, tell him I have you both. Sara will be long gone.”

“Don't let him have her, Mover. Please.” I swallow the lump in my throat. “I'm begging you.”

He appears to shiver, hunching his shoulders and giving a little delighted chortle. “I enjoy the sound of begging.” His eyes slit thoughtfully. “No can do. The deal's done. Sara the stripper is Riker's property now.” He swings his gaze to the ceiling, appearing to think his words over while a cold sweat breaks out over my exposed skin in a roll of slick terror. “Or whatever Riker's version of property is. I don't think his idea of property matches the MC version, do you?” Mover doesn't really want an answer, he wants to maim with his words.

“I'll leave you boys to hold hands or chat about your wretched predicament, but one final piece of news I have especially for you, Snare.”

My body tenses.

His smile is slow, insidious in its cruelty. “Riker just fed me a little tidbit about his stepdaughter. His soon-to-be new whore.” He clasps his hands behind him, appearing thoughtful.

“Sara has a daughter.”

My breath literally stops. I can't draw air, think—move. The kid she babysits? It's
her
kid?

“She's four years old or so now. Black hair.” His eyes run over my head. “Blue eyes.” His gaze meets mine significantly. “Too bad you didn't know your little stepsister birthed your spawn.” His smile is knowing, while I try to fight my throat closing in acute panic. “Now she'll never know her daddy,” he says, his voice gone low.

Mover turns the chair around, righting it against the cinder block wall where it was, and whistles tunelessly as he makes his way out the door.

The metal clanks in finality as he throws the bolt from the other side.