The Token (#10): Shepard (18 page)

He won't stop until he has Charlie.

I can't let that happen.

His grimy fingers curl over the window rim.

I slam the gear in reverse and take off.

Drake snatches his hand away.

His glare haunts me even after he's out of sight.

Noose

“Fucking Kent.”

“Yup.” Snare squints up at the sky, taking in the Indian summer weather. “Don't really feeling like being errand boy today. Could be eating road.”

“Killing road,” I say.

He turns to me with a grin.

We bump fists again.

Good day to be alive.

I hit the kickstand with the toe of my boot, and it clicks into place. I let the Road King settle to the side, its engine ticking as it cools.

I'm the only brother with a King. I love the smoothness. Of course, I've had every thing under the sun done for speed. The pipes are bigger than a woman's waist.

Well, maybe not that big.

I grin, striding toward the bank where the club's money gets stowed. The manager's dirty.

He'll hold anything for the right price. Road Kill MC always pays the right price for the job. He's a cowardly little simp. But as long as green greases his palm, he's our dog on a leash. Works for us.

There’s lots of gang trash thinking they'll move into our territory and infringe on the club's rights. Road Kill will keep killing to maintain what's ours. Got to be proactive with disease, no matter what form it takes. Gangs. Drugs. Trafficking. Whatever. Cancer spreads.

Money that can't be laundered gets its own security net.

I look up at the sign. A big key logo hovers over the top, imposing and trying for that secure vibe. We're actually kissing distance to Covington. It's not quite the shithole Kent's become, but it's vying for second position.

I shake my head with my normal disdain.
Nothing's secure.

I move through the entrance, and Snare scans the exits and living,  breathing scenery. A good sergeant-at-arms will always tally ins and outs, potential threats.

This bank is new for us. The one in Tacoma changed hands, and now we have to dick with the newest lackey.

The Prez wants it done, so we go to Kent for the new account. Little intro. It's the right city size to cover shit—big, but not so big that we lose sight of our vitals.

Vince, aka Viper, has been President of the Road Kill MC since before I was voted in five years ago, and his intuition rivals my own. We make a good team.

Same as Snare and I do.

Instincts will keep a man alive. Not brains. Not education. Not attitude. That's all show. Living by your gut sees a long life. Men tied to their primal side survive.

He gives a low whistle that only I can hear, and I tense.

“What?” I offer in a voice just above a hiss.

“Check out that broad.”

I stifle an eye roll. I'm all business.
Get this money hustle out of the way and eat road.
I already had pussy for breakfast.

Then I see her, and time slows to a crawl.

My dick hurts at just a glance. It's not just one thing about her, but a million things.

Yeah, she does have some tits. But I've seen tits—dozens of cum-on-them tits. I'm not a piece man; I'm a package man. This chick's got that going in spades: exotic doe eyes so brown that they're almost black and dark-blond hair that's blonder than my own, but rich like honey.

I imagine her pouring over my body like the sweet condiment.

“Right?” Snare pants with full-on lust.

I jab him in the ribs.

He huffs. “Fuck you, Noose.”

“Come on.”

I pick up one boot after another.

I'm never nervous around chicks. They're just a place to park my prick.

I lick my lips, wondering for the first time in forever what I threw on to cover my body today.

Well, my cut, for starters.

Snare and I stand at the silken twisted rope. I read the sign.
Please wait for next available teller.

A text pings, and I slip my phone out of my jeans.

It's the simp manager, Ned.

Go to teller number three.

Cryptic fuck.

I don't text back. Guess who's teller number three? You got it—dark, dainty, and delicious.

She’s like a fucking chocolate eclair. My tongue darts out and runs over my lip again, betraying my thoughts.

She looks up.

My balls lift.
Holy fuck.

“May I help you?” she asks.

Hell yes.

She's got one of those low contralto voices to match the package. Her words burn through me.

Snare puts an elbow in my side.

I move forward. “Yeah.”

Her caramel eyebrow arches, and my eyes run all over her body, starting at the rack.

She's not some slut. She's built better than any girl I've ever seen, but she's modestly dressed.
Christ on a crutch, she looks like she just graduated high school.

Finally, my eyes hit her face again.
Those eyes.

Oh yeah, she's trouble.

A fine blush runs across her cheekbones.

I've embarrassed her. I don't care. She's just some banker chick.

My spine straightens.

Ned sidles up behind her, placing a familiar hand at her shoulder. A finger slides up the skin of her neck, and I watch her fight to not shrug it off.

My lust moves right into anger.
Handy.
The emotion chases my fog to the shore of my mind. I can think again.
Thank fuck.

“Rose,” Ned says, “these are the special clients I told you about.”

Rose
, my mind whispers like a prayer.

Fear edges her eyes as she takes me in the way I just did her.

My eyes tighten.
Must be the tats. Or the cut. Or me.

Probably me.

I give a sideways look to Snare. His eyes are glued to the tiny bit of cleavage peeking out her fire-engine-red blouse.

Dick.

“Yes, thank you, Ned.”

I sort of hear,
Fuck off, Ned
. Maybe it’s wishful thinking. He appears to give her an affectionate squeeze, and she shivers.

Pleasure?

A look of distaste moves across her features and is gone almost before I notice.

Nope.
Revulsion.

I glare at good old Ned, and he shrinks away. I watch him until he disappears into his glass-walled office.

“I can help you,” she says quietly.

I reach into the flat leather satchel I have and slide a zippered and locked bag across the countertop between her and me.

Rose's fingers tremble as she takes it, careful not to touch me.

Her fear pisses me off. I would never hurt a woman, even if she begged me to. I'm not one of those sadist fucks.

Why do I give two shits if Rose is scared of me? We're the Road Kill MC; lots of people are scared of us.

I look at Rose, her dark honey-colored head bends over the money as she puts it in an automatic currency counter. I don't like
her
being afraid of me.

That makes me even more pissed.

She's just a woman, like any other woman. They all have vaginas. They are good for fucking. That's it.

My dick throbs. And I'm back to goddamned
thinking
again. How'd that nasty little habit rear its head again?

She finishes and looks up. Eyelashes like amber lace sweep down, fanning over the soft-pink color of her cheeks. She looks up from beneath them, and my breath stutters.

Her lips move, and I think about kissing them.

“What?” I say in slow motion.

She’s clearly flustered at having to repeat herself. “I have your receipt.”

I nod and hold out my hand. She hands me the square piece of paper. I glance at the figure.

Correct.

My fingers wrap hers, and the transaction receipt crinkles between us.

I can feel her heartbeat through my hand.

Our eyes lock.

“Thank you,” she says quietly. Her features tighten.

“Welcome,” I manage, releasing her hand.

She sits there, stunned.

Stunning.

I pivot to walk away, and Snare follows, smart enough to keep his trap shut.

I stuff the receipt inside the security bag and throw it in the satchel that diagonally crosses my body.

Snare punches open the door ahead of me, and I move through first.

I've been in combat, and taken lives. I've brushed death so closely, I could taste rot on my tongue.

But today I've been undone by some bank teller.

I'm fucking losing it.

“What the fuck was
that
?” Snare asks, eyes roaming the parking lot.

No thugs leap out of their possible hiding places. My shoulders ease down.

“What?” I ask, purposely misunderstanding. I hate explaining shit I can't. To myself. To others.

“The fucking chick back there.” He yanks his head back at the doors we just passed through. “Your brains were leaking out your ears. And,” he says, voice going low, “you scared the fuck outta her. Nice, Noose. Way to turn on the charm.”

“Not all of us can be beautiful.”

Snare snorts. “It's not that, you fucking clown. It's that you were all intense and didn't talk, then we deposit a hundred grand? Real circumspect, is all I'm saying.”

“Uh-huh. Stop using the big words, Snare. Makes my brain hurt.”

“Not as bad as your dick, apparently.”

I turn on him, pointing. “Listen, it's no big thing. I'm just distracted.”

Snare nods, unconvinced. “You're never distracted, Hoss.”

He knows me.

We hop on our rides. I open my trunk and toss the empty moneybag in there. I tap my fingers on my thigh.

Snare waits. I turn around, unable to make her out through the dark glass.

Maybe Rose sees me looking. Maybe she's watching me. The thought of her watching makes me want to jerk off.

“Gee-zus. Just go in there and make a play, Noose. What do you have to lose?” His large hands slap jean-clad thighs. His exhale is frustrated.

Nothing. I don't have anything to lose because I'm not going to try. Rose is a classy chick. Sluts are easy—and not just for sex. They've got one thing that interests me. And that's enough.

I shake my head, and Snare takes me at my silent word. We hit our kickstands and roll out.

Just as we're making the turn out of the parking lot a, Fat Boy cruiser turns in.

Chaos Rider.

Hate those bastards.

I peer hard at the guy, who seems sort of familiar. Not sure how. Road Kill knows every club in Washington and the states that surround it. This dude doesn't rep them great. He looks unkempt, like a shower is a wish never granted.

As we pull out, I don't like the way it makes me feel to leave the bank, knowing a biker from a rival club will go in there and feast his eyes on Rose.

Heat rolls over me in a hot tide of anger.

Fuck.

I'm already thinking of Rose as mine. But that's for brothers who want that ball and chain. Need it.

And that's the problem with that. She's not mine.

I don't want to own anyone.

Rose

I throw the sign up, my heart thundering like a wild horse set loose. Forget that—an entire herd of horses is galloping through my chest.

Naomi jerks her head at me in surprise as my rolling stool scrapes along the floor.

“Bathroom,” I mutter, fleeing the scene of the crime. Actually, I handled myself professionally. I didn't do anything wrong.

It's my body that betrays me, even after he's gone. Now that the big badass biker guy is gone, I can calm down.

I haul my cell after me, gripping it like a talisman, and slap open the bathroom door. I stand right in front of the mirror, trying to figure out why that man was so interested.

A flushed young woman stares back. I've never been a fan of my looks: weird coloring, big boobs, and a big ass. I guess my waist is small, and my body's toned from running. But my eyes are too big for my face, and my chin, too pointy. My hair can't make up its mind: sort of blonde with a hint of red, but nearly brown too. I've got the girl disease. Low self-esteem. We give it to each other. It's a thing.

I grip the tile of the vanity countertop, another stray hair falling out of my topknot.

I glance up quickly. Ugh. I had my least exciting hairstyle going. I'd just thrown my longish hair into a haphazard bun and speared a hair stick through the mess. A little red glass bead sparkles out of the bun at the top of the wood stick, matching my blouse. I jerk the
V
of my blouse higher to cover my cleavage.

My boobs smile at the top.
Great.

Why do I care what that guy thinks of me?

Because he made my crotch get struck by lightning when he looked at me as if he would eat me.

Right. There.

I groan.

And how is
he
any different than Drake? Is this what Anna felt when she saw Drake for the first time?

I shiver, releasing the vanity, and run the cold faucet. I slap icy water on my face, letting a few drops dribble down my chest.

The fact is nothing's going to cool the heat of my pussy.

His face was as
hard as granite. That jaw could crush anything it clamped. He had eyes so light that I can't even remember the exact shade, only that they never left any part of me. Luminescent.

His hair was a dirty blond, raked back into a tight ponytail at his strong neck. Colorful ink had peeked from the top of a black T-shirt. But the motorcycle gear had been a giveaway.
Gang attire
, as I think of it.

Drake dresses a lot like this guy. But his leather vest has a different emblem. Chaos Riders.

This guy’s emblem was Road Kill MC.
But really? What's the difference?
I know what Drake is. And what he did.

So this guy—he of the huge deposit—made me slick. I won't lie. I haven't had a reaction like that from a guy i
n
…

Well, I never have.

My eyes meet my reflection again. “Don't even think it, Rose,” I say to myself.

The Rose in the reflection stares back. She's thinking.

Dreaming.

What would it be like to be with someone who could consume me? There was a promise of that in his clear eyes.

I clench mine shut against the need I see in the mirror. I'm so lonely for male companionship, I ache.

But I won't do what Anna did.

Charlie makes my life worth something. I won't endanger him because I want to get laid. There must be a man out there I can have sex with who won't be dangerous.

Unfortunately, that's obviously not what does it for me.

And that scares the living shit out of me.

*

“Rose!” Charlie squeals, running toward me at high speed.

I plant my feet apart, knees slightly bent, preparing.

He jumps, little legs wrapping my waist, and I awkwardly twirl him while wearing my high heels. It’s a talent.

He laughs, high and pleased, and that tugs at my chest. Being a mother is awful.

And beautiful.

I smile into his upturned face, which is so like Anna's. His eyes are dark like mine and my sister's. But where my hair is this goofy indecisive color, his is whitish blond. The brown eyes and light blond hair are striking.

He looks like a little angel.

Charlie doesn't remember his mom. She died when he was one.

I make sure I tell him who she was.

Anna would be twenty-seven if she’d lived. Now there are only memories. I keep them alive for Charlie.

“Did Mommy see my text?” His voice is as light as my heart is heavy.

“She saw it. Mommy has a special TV in heaven.” I swallow past the lump in my throat.

“Rose?”

We turn, and I let Charlie slip down. He slides his little hand inside mine as I turn to smile at his teacher.

“Hi, Carla.”

Her warm smile never changes. I've known her a long time.

She was a friend of Anna's.

I picked this district so Charlie could be with someone else who loves him. Open enrollment, it's called. I'm grateful.

“Here,” Carla hands me the cell. The state has provided a cell for Charlie as a weird little-known contingency.

I fought for the mandate. He is the first child of this age to have one. Children who suffer the death of a parent through violence have more rights.

All children whose parents die should have rights.

But I hadn't uttered objections to Charlie’s special treatment. Charlie can text me when he wants or whenever he needs. He doesn't know very many words, but the pictures are great. And soon, he'll be texting what he learns.

I can't wait.

I lift the little cell. “Thanks.”

Carla grins, ruffling Charlie's hair. “No problem.”

“Mommy saw my text in heaven with her TV,” he exclaims in excitement. “My Lego castle!”

Castle.
I smile. I guess to Charlie, it must seem like one.

A tremulous smile takes the place of the big grin Carla wore a minute ago. She fingers the ends of Charlie's hair, which tries to spring back in uncooperative curls. That was from Anna; my hair is only wavy.

I suck in a shaky breath as my eyes meet Carla's. “I'm sure she is
so
proud of you.”

He puffs out his little chest. “Yeah!” He pumps his fist, running for the Smartcar.

“Slow down, partner!” I yell after him with a chuckle.

He doesn't of course, then jerks open the car door and hops inside.

“Lots of energy,” Carla says.

“Yeah,” I agree with a tired little sigh.

We stand in awkward silence. A breeze comes up just then, undoing more of my hair and lifting Carla's tangled frizz around her head like a dark halo.

“Do you need me on Tuesday?” she asks quietly.

I need
something
. But I shake my head. “No,” I answer in a low voice. “You've got Charlie.”

My face jerks up, eyes boring into hers, waiting for a verbal confirmation.

“Always,” she answers immediately.

My shoulders loosen.

Carla opens her arms, and I move into them.

She squeezes me hard. “For Anna.”

I nod because I can't speak.

*

The meat sizzles as I churn the last bit of ground beef in a frying pan.

Charlie crosses his arms across his chest. “I don't like enchiladas.”

I know that look.

“I'll put extra cheese in.” I raise my eyebrows, waiting for the young prince to decide.

He seems to consider my idea, his little fingers cupping his chin.
God, he's cute.

I pull out my trump card. “You can't go to Papa and Nana's unless you eat your supper.”

Guilt pangs riot inside me, but I hold the course, sticking to my tone like glue. He's got to eat,
and
he needs to visit his extended family.

My parents have been really good. They take Charlie every Friday night, and he visits them three nights a week while I exercise. I get Saturday to myself too. Actually, I'm thinking they want me to move on, have some kind of a life outside of the tragedy of four years ago.

The courts would have loved to give Charlie to them, but they're too old.

Anna and I were dream children. We came after doctors told Mom she couldn't have kids. She was forty-two, and dad was forty-four. What does medicine know about miracles?

Anna was born first.

We’d had a picture-perfect childhood from parents who thought they would never be blessed with a family.

Then tragedy came and wrecked everything.

But not before the gift of Charlie. Mom and Dad help, but the burden of a young boy when they're almost seventy isn't fair.

Besides, I wanted Charlie.

And he wants me. I see love in the shining gazes Charlie gives when he thinks I'm not looking, and the ones when I am.

He caves. “Okay, Aunt Rose.”

I nod. “Good choice, sweet pea.”

Charlie scrunches his face. “Sweet pea is a baby's name.” He frowns.

“I call you that because you smell sweet,” I say, folding the meat, cheese, and beans into a tiny tortilla.

I pretend I'm considering something, humming a little tune. “I could call you ‘dirty worm’ instead?” I nod as if I'm agreeing with myself. “Yes,” I say with finality.

I bring his plate to the table, set it down in front of him, and slide into the seat opposite him.

I plop my chin in my hand. “Eat your supper, dirty worm.” I bite my lip to keep from laughing.

Charlie purses his lips.

I smile.

He starts cracking up, and a laugh bursts out of me too.

When he can breathe again, he says, “I think sweet pea's okay. For now.”

I nod solemnly.

“For now,” I agree, thinking about how sad it'll be when I stop calling him that.

*

“Hey, Dad.” I kiss Dad on the cheek, and he wraps me in a bear hug.

“Princess,” he says with a wink and bends over, opening his arms wide. Charlie jumps into them.

“Dad,” I chastise, “your back!”

He nods. “That'll be the day when I can't pick up my grandson, right, Sir Charles?”

Charlie nods in awe. Dad is very formal with him, always calling him Sir Charles and treating him with the utmost respect.

I love Dad. It's so great Charlie has a positive male role model.

I hate the alternative.

“He's had supper?” Mom asks.

I get my eyes from her. My parents still look good for their age. Mom plays tennis at the local fitness club, and they golf together. Thinking about them golfing brings a rueful smile to my face.

Dad's been known to toss a golf club when he misses a shot. I must get some of my fire from him.

I answer Mom, “Yeah, enchiladas.”

She taps Charlie on the nose. “Did Rosie give you extra cheese?”

“Yeah, but I had the squishy beans,” he says, pulling a long-suffering face as Mom carries him away.

“Protein!” I call out loudly as they disappear into the kitchen.

Dad chuckles. “Squishy, huh?”

I nod. “Yeah. He's a texture kid. If it has the wrong ʻfeel,ʼ he's not a fan.”

“I understand completely,” he says with gravity, and I shoot Dad a smile.
Two peas in a pod.

Dad gives me a head-to-toe look. “Wish you weren't going running. It's almost dark.” His gaze moves to the sidelights that flank the door. My parents live in a modest split level house from the late 70s at the end of one of the many cul-de-sacs of Scenic Hill. The park is at the foothills of the development.

I've been going to the park since I was a kid. I’m not stopping now. Drake won't control me through fear.
I'm not Anna.

I don't say that to Dad. It would be cruel.

Instead, I lean forward, rising to my tiptoes, and kiss him on the cheek. “I'll be careful, Daddy.”

His lips flatten, every bit of how he feels in the tenseness of his body.

But he lets me go.