The Token (#10): Shepard (16 page)

One week later

Some things had been settled. The French courts had determined the atrocities committed against Shepard while a boy in their charge had indeed been the fault of the country, and they had elected not to pursue unsubstantiated claims. We knew he was guilty of some of the accusations. We also knew that as soon as he could, Shepard chose a different path. Beginning with Juliette and ending with me.

The orphanage had been seized and shut down, and the perpetrators of abuse against children, imprisoned, putting a solid wrench in the cogs that made the machine of
la famille
operate.

Léo Dubois was truly free.

*

“Okay—give me a break with all this secrecy!” I say loudly.

Léo's hands are warm over my eyes while I fight tripping over my own feet.

“Voila!” he says with soft urgency and removes his hands.

The Eiffel Tower is the only view from the bank of French doors that take up the entire wall of his flat. My breath stills as my eyes run over the balcony, enclosed in ornate inky-black wrought iron. Nude stone statues lounge in the corners of the lengthy patio, holding cascading green vines from their clasped hands. A generously sized bistro table anchors the middle as the tower appears to rise from its center.

“Do you like it?” Léo murmurs from behind me, laying a gentle kiss at the bend of my neck.

“Like it?” I breathe as my hand flutters by my neck. Balconies line expensive, old architecture as far as the eye can see, and hanging baskets with bright flowers dot the rails of the balconies of Léo's neighbors. But my eyes stray back to the tower.

Léo's hands come to rest on my shoulders, and slowly he pivots me so my back is facing the tower and my front faces the living area.

Fourteen-foot ceilings have a plastered cornice that is deeply carved and a foot tall, breaking the wall from the ceiling, and at its center is a matching plaster medallion with a crystal chandelier hanging from the middle. Obviously antique, it drips with refracted iridescent light, flinging small diamonds around the huge space as the sun hits the facets.

Every piece of furniture appears hand-engineered for the space. The proper color palette, the proper scale. Baseboard over a foot tall wraps the wall between the floor and wall as it rises, giving the space a grounded look, all elegance.

I walk slowly toward where I think the kitchen is and gasp, covering my mouth as I take in quartz countertops in the color of marble. Two sinks, one in the island and one facing the incredible view, are brushed stainless. A six-burner stove tries for unobtrusive in the corner and fails. It's outfitted for a gourmet cook.

Not a girl from America with an impossible French dream.

Léo's presence is warm and solid at my back.

I check the bathrooms next. Gilded and glorious, they are elegant as well but not ostentatious. Three bedrooms round out the penthouse, spaciously appointed, and I think of how good that size will be. How opportune.

When we arrive at the master bedroom last, I run to the bed and whirl at him. “This is not a king-sized bed!” I say, leaping on top of the bed and bouncing on it. “This is orgy-sized.”

Léo's arm curves around a huge corner post of the bed frame, and he smiles. “It was custom made.”

“I'll bet,” I say, pressing my fingertips into the luxury.

Guilt swamps me.

I have to tell him. Before this goes further. He told me he loved me, that he's brought me here for something.

“Why the frown?” Léo comes close. “Do you like it?” he asks again softly.

I nod, tears draining from my eyes. I fuss with the material, and he stills my fingers from their continuous fret. “Are these happy tears, Marissa?”

“Kind of.”

He lets go of my hands, and I look up, but not before he places something between them.

Something soft.

I look down again, and a very small, very square black velvet box rests on my fingers. I curl my hand around the box.

Afraid to open it.

Afraid.

“Open it, Marissa.”

“Not before I tell you something,” I say in a voice full of the confession I need to make.

Léo shakes his head. His hair, once so short, has grown longer and curls around his ears a little. It doesn't make him less handsome.

Just more.

“There is nothing you could say to me,
ma chérie
, that would stop me from wanting you”—he lifts his chin, indicating the box that I hold—“from wanting what waits inside that tiny box.”

I take a deep breath and snap open the lid.

A princess-cut solitaire diamond sits nestled inside. I suck in a breath and bite my lip. Tears roll down my face.

Léo sees my problem and takes the ring out and slips it on my finger. It's a zillion carats. It looks enormous on my finger.
Huge
.

It's perfect.

“
Ah
—it looks so much better on my future wife than in the box.” His face rises from my hand, and his eyes search mine intently. “That is, if she will have me?”

I spring off the bed and rise up on my toes, hugging him for all I'm worth. “Yes,” I say in fierce answer.

When the doorbell rings, I sink back to my heels.

Léo frowns, and I race around him, sprinting to the door.

He follows closely, I'm sure worried about my erratic behavior, my strange reaction to the first time seeing his home. To everything.

Léo reaches around me and gently shoves me behind him. Protective to a fault.

He opens the door, and my second cousin stands at his entrance. “Bonjour.”

A woman who looks vaguely like me holds a toddler in her arms. Large, dark chocolate eyes gaze at Shepard, and eyelashes like ebony lace, impossibly long, flutter. A halo of light blond hair stands out in a kinky, curly flop around her shoulders. A chubby fist clings to Sandra's arm.

“Marissa,” Sandra says like a question, her eyes skating between Léo and me.

I nod.

Léo stands there, holding the door, his mouth agape.

“I wanted to tell you,” I say, ashamed.

Léo doesn't look at me; his eyes are all for his daughter.

Claire Augustine Martin DuBois. 

I proudly used his last name on her birth certificate. She is a dual citizen, born in France shortly after I arrived.

After a full minute of Sandra lingering by the door, shifting her weight, I mutter, “Say something.”

“Is this”—Léo coughs, clearing his throat—“beautiful creature my daughter?”

His voice shines as if each word is polished by hope.

I laugh, and he finally looks at me. “
Our
daughter, Léo. Claire is not an immaculate conception.”

I take Claire and make introductions between Léo and Sandra, which he nods through, never taking his eyes off Claire.

After closing the door, Léo immediately takes us in his arms, wrapping his arms around his discovered family.

“Why—”

“I didn't want you to feel obligated. I didn't know what you wanted from me—from us,” I confess miserably.

He pulls away, and Claire coos, lightly touching his face. He clasps his large hand around her tiny one. “I want it all, Marissa.”

I gulp, asking the words. Hated words. “Do you still want to marry me?”

He kisses Claire's forehead.

His face turns toward me, his eyes boring into mine. “More than ever. You are the mother of my child.” His eyes gleam. “You are the woman I love.” His voice cracks, and I hold him while his shirt is soaked by our tears.

Happy ones.

THE END

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NOOSE

A Road Kill MC Novella

Volume 1

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.

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Cover art by
Willsin Rowe

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Whores

A smorgasbord of sweet butts, one for every taste.

Noose has a sweet tooth that won't quit, and a clubwhore to suit his every need.

Being a part of the Road Kill Motorcycle Club isn't a hard choice for Noose. A former Navy Seal and expert knotter, he's seen realtime choices—in circumstances most never do.

It's killing road. Women and freedom are the benefits of being a one percenter.

Until Rose Christo comes along and slams the brakes on his outlaw existence.

Murderers

Rose Christo knows death.

Murder stole her sister, and gave her a son that's not hers.

Love doesn't come in neat packages; it comes in the form of a five-year-old boy.

Love is packaged in a man that tears out her heart with a brutal sexuality that strips Rose of her most sacred vow.

Never count on a man.

Never love.

Never.

When her sister's murderer comes calling, demanding his property, who does Rose trust?

Noose

I grab Crystal's hair, fisting it tightly against the scalp, and drive into her hard from behind.

She squeals, and I suck up the noise like a starving man.

Sweet butts are all the same. They want to be taken
.

I want to take.

I love bareback, but rubbers are key. This pussy has had more dicks than I can count, and it's like fucking another man if you're not wearing a raincoat.

Even when it's not raining.

I'm done being introspective. I don't have to be anymore. I just fuck. I wear a rubber so I can fuck and not think.

Perfection.

Like the knots I make. Like the ones I've made to murder with.

Crystal moans.

I thrust harder and start swirling my dick high in a semi-circle. She screams, her cunt squeezing my dick in big deep pulses.

My balls get ready for lift-off, and I come from my toenails, emptying the double barrel right on target.

My head tips back, and I give an exhausted exhale.

When I finally come down, I slap her tight ass and withdraw, stripping the spent rubber from the top and rolling it off as I walk. Chucking the limp sheath in the trash can, I turn around. She's still there, tits still mounded on the tabletop I pushed her on, pussy all bright pink and plump.

Splayed for the next guy.
If any were dumb enough to enter my lair.
I smirk.
They sure as fuck shouldn't be.

An exhale drives out of me, and I tear calloused fingers through my hair, wanting a smoke bad.

I glance again at Crystal's slit. It's a shame when a perfectly good pussy isn't leaking cum. I shake my head in partial regret.

Can't have it all.

Her head pops off the table, and she moves to the side, her natural large rack sort of rolling toward the tabletop. Crystal puts her head in her palm, studying me.

I admire the view as I hop into my jeans. Commando. I'll figure out underwear when she's outta here and I can grab a shower. For now, I just want to get my ass covered and have my post-coital drag.

I rummage through shit on the top of my battered chest of drawers and spy the hard box of cigs underneath a pair of clean underwear.

Snapping open the lid, I give the pack a wrist flick, and three cigarettes slide out. I open my lips and nip one out.

After flipping the lid closed, I toss the pack back on the dresser. I grab the lighter out of my jeans pocket and light up. Cupping my hand around the flame, I take the first drag then shoot a smoke ring toward the peeling paint of the graying ceiling.

Relief washes over me. I got off, time for a kick back, then I go back to work. I'm already hashing shit out for the day in my head when Crystal starts talking.

I’d forgotten she was there.

Her lips purse. Some girls think pouting is cute.
I
know it's the cue for a potential mega-rant in my near future.

Not having that noise.

She runs her hand through her bleached-blond hair, puffing it out on the side that was mashed against the tabletop.

My lips quirk. Her effort to be sexy is sort of fun, like free entertainment.

“Hey, baby, let me stay for a while,” she says in a voice that tries too hard for bedroom smooth, finger trailing over her tit and tweaking the nipple.

Nice.
I clamp the cig between my lips and shake my head. “Nope. Out.” My thumb slings toward the bedroom door.

The big pout ensues, full bottom-lip treatment. “But”—she sits up, tits jiggling, and starts to walk fast after me—“I thought we could—”

“Nope,” I repeat, flicking ash toward the ashtray as I stride toward the bathroom. Most of the inch-long ash lands in the glass bottom that reads Road Kill MC. How's that shit for propaganda? The Prez believes in the club like the Holy Grail.

I do too. It's all there is for us one percenters.

It's the road. The bike. And the women. Not always in that order. I don't need anything more than that. I never have.

I turn around fast, and Crystal bounces into my chest. My hand rests against the doorjamb leading into the bathroom. “Listen, you're cute.” I give her chin a little chuck. “But I'm not looking for anything long-term.” I lift my shoulder, blowing another lazy oval toward the ceiling.

Crystal looks ready to cry. God
damn.

I stuff my cig in the ashtray, mashing it in half. Spirals of smoke curl upward. Grabbing my wallet off the nightstand beside the door, I jerk out two twenties and a ten.

I shove them at Crystal.

“Go buy yourself something hot. Something that shows tits and ass.” Chicks like to shop.
What do they call it? Oh yeah—retail therapy.

She grabs the money, looks down at it for a second, then throws it in my face. “I'm not a whore!”

I wince. The green bills floats to the worn carpet.
Act like a whore, look like a whor
e
…

“You're a sweet butt. And you
were
sweet.”
Not so much now.
“But it's time for you to take off.”

Her face reddens. “You're a jerk, Noose.”

I've been called worse.

I step into the bathroom. I don't look at the sweet butt picking up the crumpled cash.

I kick the door closed behind me then give a hard turn to the faucet.

When the entire bathroom is steaming, I get inside the shower.

She'll be gone when I get out.

They always are.

*

I should have done my sets before I showered.

But no way was I going to have Crystal around while I work my shit out.

Tonight I'll do pushups, twisted sisters, and burpies until the cows come home.

There's always the punching bag. Nobody's ever using it when I come in. My fists will tire me out.

Fucking insomnia. The witching hour is officially mine. I own it.

I owned it over in Afghanistan too. Can't sleep when you know someone might kill you.

Or you might have to be the one doing the killing.

I move through the club with a lot of stealth, considering my size. It's part of why I was never a jumper in the military. Big guys get fucked up fast.

Six feet, four and two hundred twenty pounds of male has all kinds of potential for getting broken to bits. “The bigger they are, the harder they fall” has new meaning in a parachute.

That's why hands-on assassinations are so much more appealing.

Knots.

When I'm stressed out, my mind does them. My hands are restless to feel ropes under my fingertips—the abrasive kind or the slick new style that knots faster than my mind can think it.

I pass the kitchen, a hangman's knot wrapping my thoughts. The loop's perfectly symmetrical, winding and wrapping until there's a little loop, then I pull through—

“Noose!”

A rough hand claps my back, and I frown. ’
Bout had that knot.
My favorite. Hence the namesake, I guess.

My team would know why, even though the club guys don't. They're probably under the impression it's a tough name or that it’s cool.

It's not. Noose has meaning. But to those of us who fought side by side, we don't talk about obvious shit.

Our time just was.

I give a broad smile. Lots of us brothers have similar names.

Take Snare, the guy who’s just put his hand on me. He gets out of those—traps, close calls, the works. The dude's got nine lives.

Nothing like a cat, though.

He lifts his fist, and I bump my knuckles with his. “Hey, man.”

“Saw Crystal go outta here in a huff.” His eyes, a blue so pale that they're the color of frozen water, hold humor. Snare's about three inches shorter than I am, but he’s built like a brick shithouse.

I shrug at his words.

“How was she?” His eyes are hooded. He’s probably thinking about the platter of pussy we have strutting around all the time. He hasn't sampled the Crystal hors d'oeuvre yet.

I lift my shoulder. “Same as the rest.”

His eyebrows jerk in surprise. Snare's got some Native American in him. His hair's jet black. White folk never get hair that dark without help. The mix of light-blue eyes and black hair is striking—or so the ladies seem to think.

My hair is shit dishwater. Can't make up its mind between brown and blond. That doesn't matter; I keep the sides short and the top long. When it gets in my way, the whole load gets tied down.

Since I'm on the back of the bike half my waking hours, hair's tied down a fuckton.

I even have a little invisible hair tie for the beard. I keep that long and square. It's darker than the hair on my head, with a touch of ginger. Had a sweet butt ask me last month if I was Scottish.

Fuck if I know.

I guess I'm American, for what that's worth.

I'm a mad bastard,
I told her. Then I went to town on her twat. That shut up the questions in a hurry. Just a lot of moaning and shit after.

That's how I like it—don't ask me for history.

“Come on, Noose, she's always pining for you. I haven't had a crack at her.”

I chuckle. “Nice choice of words, bro.”

He flings his muscular arms wide. “Not just another pretty face.” Snare winks.

His face is not pretty. Snare got some blade time and a close call that almost took out his eyeball. The twisted scar tissue bisects one eyebrow, narrowly misses his eye, and travels in a hooked line that ends at the cleft of his chin.

Some girls are shy about Snare.

I think scars add character, though. It makes him look bad ass, which, in turn, freaks out the chicks.
Love/hate thing. Not bad for the sack.

I exhale. “Crystal doesn't pine. She whines.”

“Now who's the poet and they don't know it?” Snare asks, glacial eyes widening.

I flip him the bird. “Ass.”

He nods. “Yup. But put in a good word for me anyways.”

I give a lopsided grin. “I don't think Crystal's gonna think
any
of my words are good after our interlude.”

Snare whistles, walking outside with me.

Brilliant sunlight belts me in the face, and I flick my sunglasses open. They’re high-end and polarized. I don't like glare when I ride.

I slide them on my face, loving the anticipation of the wide-open ribbon of black asphalt.

“Interlude?” he asks in disbelief.

I throw up a hand and waffle it around. “Pelvic grind, hip bump, pipe la
y…
”

Snare grunts. “You ever done anyone twice, Noose?”

I narrow my gaze at him behind my dark glasses. “Nah.”

“Figured.”

Our attention turns to our rides. The windshields glint in the sun like sleepy, winking eyes.

“Let's ride,” I say.

Snare doesn't need another invitation.