Wring: Road Kill MC #5 (9 page)

Then my mouth is on hers.

I think she's so startled that she doesn't know
what to do.

But I know what to do. I lift her with my arm,
walk her to the small entryway, and push her up against the wall.
Shadows swallow us whole. My knee goes between her legs,
automatically seating underneath her pussy through her jeans.

“No,” she says with a husky catch, but she's
kissing me back.

Generally, I ignore words and listen to a
chick's body. Shannon hooks her heels around my calves, and I lift
her up by small ass cheeks and press her slender body into mine. My
cock fits right where it meets her most tender part.

“Tell me to let you go.” I kiss her throat,
licking a long hot line from earlobe to collarbone, and she
shivers. “And I will.”

“Why?” she breathes.

“Don't know. I'm so fucking hot for you, I'm
going to blow. Tried to ignore it. Can't.”

“I won't do this,” she says against my mouth as
her hips press against my raging hard-on.

I pull away, pinning her body with my knee, and
rest my hands on either side of her head. We're still kissing
close, but I'm not doing that soft shit anymore.

I won't be fucking
played.
Can't afford to be. I'm a fucking menace. To
her.

To myself.

I can't even fucking catch enough z’s to
goddamned think.

She searches my face. “I don't know what that
look means, but it scares me.”

I stroke her jaw. “It should. I'm a fucking hard
man, Shannon. Harder than that little stroke Vincent could ever
pretend to be.”

She nods. “I know.”

“You don't. You don't know anything about
me.”

She leans forward, touching her forehead to my
shoulder, and something tight unbinds inside me. “I know one
thing,” she states quietly.

My heart thunders, and I stay still, trying to
get control of my shit. “What do you
think
you know?”

Her hands creep around my neck, small fingers
lighting on my skin like licks of fire. “You're the man who
protected me.”

Fuck.

“I didn't want to,” I admit. Like just seeing
her somewhere, deep down inside, I knew she'd change shit.

“Then why did you?”

I groan, sidestepping her question and pulling
on her mouth with a sucking press of lips and tongue. Shannon
responds, cradling my face with her hands and kissing me back.

“I don't know.”

My confession sits uncomfortably between us.
Finally, she squirms and gasps, eyes flying wide and pinning my
gaze.

I grin. “Knee's in the right place.”

She blushes. “I suppose it is.”

I press upward, and she grips my shoulders.
“Wring—I can't.”

“You keep saying that shit, then you keep
rubbing one out on my kneecap.”

“Oh God. The way you talk.”

I didn't think skin could turn that red. I
stroke a finger over her hot flesh. “You like the way I talk?” I
ask softly.

She nods, ducking her chin, not meeting my
eyes.

Well,
damn
.

I gently lower her to the ground, my face
tightening when I see her wrist wrapped in that fucking
bandage.

Pulling a knuckle over her collarbone, I watch
the blush slide after the touch, soft pink color rising underneath
the slide of my finger.

She grabs my hand. “Wring,” she says softly, and
I look into her eyes. “I don't need a boyfriend, or anyone
else.”

“I'm not a boyfriend.”

Shannon inches her body from between me and the
wall. “What are you?”

I swallow everything I'm feeling, cramming it
deep down inside. These new feelings? They don't mean dick.

“Nobody.” I turn around and walk back to my
bike, taking my time. I turn it on, flip on my brain bucket, and
begin to roll out backward.

When I look up, Shannon's gone.

And that cavernous empty spot inside me grows
bigger.

Shannon

After unlocking the four locks on the outside of
the house, I slip inside.

The powerful engine of Wring's bike grows more
distant. I shut the door, blocking out the motor.

I turn, placing my palms flat on the door, and
try to forget that moment in the entryway.

It's harder than it should be.

I rotate around slowly.

Mom sits in the gloom. The small lamp she reads
by casts a soft glow and shadows throughout the space.

Her face rises from her book, and she smiles.
Then Mom takes in my disheveled outfit, and something in my face
must tell her.

“What is it, darling?” she asks.

I duck my head, hiding the quivering of my
bottom lip.
Wimp
, I chastise myself. “I had a tough day.”
Understatement of the year.

“I'd say,” she says with a wry twist of
lips.

I jerk my head up at the tone in her voice.

“I saw that young man outside.” Her smile
remains.

Oh God.
A blush flares to life, and I
feel like my head will blow up.

“Mom, you're not supposed to run around.”

She smooths her painter-style shirt over her
wasted thighs. “I believe my days of running are long over.”

I roll my eyes and fold my arms. “It's an
expression.”

“I'm aware, Shannon.” Her lips purse. “Tell me
what's bothering you.”

“Did you go to the bathroom?” My gaze dives
toward the walker at her left, leaning up beside the end table
where it should be, and I see it’s positioned slightly differently
than I left it. I breathe out a sigh of relief.

“Yes”—she gives a small smile—“I accomplished
that at least.”

“I'm sorry.”

“Stop apologizing and tell me what's happening.
Don't shelter me. We've made a vow with each other—”

“To never lie or deceive through omission.” My
gaze locks with hers.

Mom's smile widens, and I remember, very
vaguely, a time when she wasn't in pain every minute of every
day.

I smile back.

“Exactly,” Mom answers.

I inhale deeply. “You remember Vincent?”

Her brows meet. “The unmentionable?”

I laugh again, though it's not funny. “Yes, him.
He's back,” I admit on a shaky sigh.

Mom sets down the tea she was drinking, and I
automatically check the thermos, wondering if it's still full of
hot water. A small bowl next to it holds two used tea bags. “And?”
she asks, sipping.

“He hurt me.”

Mom sits up straighter, all pretense of forced
calm gone.

I bring my injured wrist around to the front of
my body. I know when her vision grabs onto the bandaged
appendage.

“What did that horrible man do?” Her eyes,
usually so gentle and compassionate, are blue ice chips in her
face.

“He—he tried to get me to see his
perspective.”

“Oh, Shannon.” Mom sets the cup down with a
rough clank and dumps her face in her gnarled hands.

I rush to soothe her. “It's okay—for now. Wring
happened to come by and saw… saw what Vincent was doing and stopped
him.”

Slowly, Mom lowers her hands and stares at me.
“The bike rider?”

My lips quirk. Wring is so much more than that.
But whatever he is, I don't know exactly what.

He’s the man who rescued me from a guy who means
me harm. And Vincent wants to make me suffer. Not because I've ever
done anything against him—just because that's his way.

I shiver.

“You can't go to your job by foot anymore,
Shannon.”

“Mom!” I say, exasperated. “I need the money.
We
need the money. I can't hole up here and hope that he'll
just go away. He wants our house.”

Mom's lips become a flat line. “Is that all he
wants?”

I look at my toes, thinking about my job. I
sigh. I'll have to phone, do damage control.

What am I going to say
? I can just hear
myself now. “Yeah, Sally—there's this gang guy and he harasses me
so he can make me his little whore and steal my mom's house. So
sorry. Today, he just happened by and wrenched my wrist while a
gang biker guy saved me and…” Yeah.

Aloud, I say, “No. It's not all he wants.”

“Let's phone the police again.” Mom spreads her
fingers on her thighs.

I shake my head, biting my bottom lip. “That's
not going to work. These guys are just smart enough to not get
caught hassling me.” I look into her face. “And you. What happens
if they get really bold and break in here while I'm at work?”

Mom hikes the archaic phone that habitually
rests on the table top beside her lamp and well-worn paperback. “I
phone 9-1-1.”

I hang my head. “Mom, they could hurt you before
the police could respond.”

“Maybe it's time for that state home, Shannon,”
Mom confesses in a low voice. “It's
beyond
time. Sell the
house, give it to that thug; keeping our home is not worth our
lives. Get what money we can and fund my care that way. You could
get a proper job and have a degree of autonomy you've never had
before.”

I walk toward Mom and sink, resting my butt on
the heels of my boots.

She searches my face, smoothing my hair back,
and smiles. “I've robbed you of your life, darling.”

I vehemently shake my head, afraid I'll cry if I
speak.

But she holds my face with her crippled hand and
tilts her head. “The disease has.”

A sick exhale slides out of me. I can't dispute
that fact. “Yeah.”

“What does it matter if this Vincent gets the
house? Let him have it for—what was it? Two hundred fifty thousand
dollars? I could receive help; you wouldn't be in this never-ending
cycle of caretaking.” Her eyes search my face. “You could have a
career with children. Like you've always wanted.”

Her words fill my head like a dream.

Except the nightmare of Vincent isn't going to
go away.

“I want that. I mean, if there was anyone who
could take care of you the way
I'd
want it done.”

Our rueful smiles match.

“Anyway,” I say, putting my hand over hers, “he
doesn't just want the house anymore, Mom. Maybe, if we'd said yes
the instant he'd asked a couple of years ago, the deal would be
done. Our home would belong to a gang member.”

She gives a regretful sigh. “No one ever said
life would be easy.”

No shit.

“But now he wants me to be some kind of slut
groupie or something.” My laugh is sad even to my ears.

“Absolutely not.” Mom gives an emphatic shake of
her head.

I shrug, gently taking her hand inside my own. I
turn it over, staring at the tissue-paper-thin skin covering slim
blue veins. “I know. That's the thing. Now, it's personal.” I
search her face. “I can't agree to one without agreeing to the
other.”

Mom's smile is sudden, clever.

“What?” I ask, excited. She's thought of
something. I know it.

“Let's just commit, Shannon—put the house on the
market. It's zoned commercial. There's no reason why someone else
wouldn't be interested.”

Her eyes gleam with unshed tears. Instinctively,
I know Mom would never sell our family homestead unless I was on
the line. She's that stubborn.

But she's not stupid. And if I say the gang guy
wants to make me part of some messed up harem, she'll do everything
in her power to get me out of harm's way.

Unfortunately, I feel the same way about her.
The two of us are a real pair.

“He'll know.”

Mom's chin lift is defiant. “Ask me if I care.”
Her snow-white eyebrow, speckled with pewter, quirks.

“Do you care?”

Her smile is sure. “Not a fig.”

We grin. “Okay, maybe we can get the place sold
quickly. We grab the money and run. Get you full-time in-home care.
I can get more hours at the library.”

If they'll still have me.

“What is it?” she asks, and I'm too late to halt
my expression. Mom's lips twitch. “I could always read you,
darling. Every emotion you have shows on your face. You're very
expressive.”

That's the problem.
Vincent knew I wasn't
going to ever cooperate. I didn't have to tell him. He read it on
my face.

Nothing wrong with that chode's street smarts.
Except they’re focused on me.

“By the time Wring helped me, I'd already missed
reading hour.”

Hot tears threaten, and I brutally beat them
into submission. If Mom senses how distraught I am about all this,
she might backtrack and try to take on more than she should.

“Your job? Pfft,” she says dismissively. “Phone
Sally, explain the incident with this ruffian. She'll understand.
But don't wait.”

I stand. “Can I help you to the bathroom? Get
you a snack?”

Mom inclines her head back. “I'm
fine
.
I've used the little girls
ʼ
room and
fetched some crackers and ginger ale. Take care of you, Shannon.
Stop fussing.”

Fussing. Yeah, that's me.

I begin walking away to call my boss.

“And I want to hear all about this new man. This
biker.”

I stop, turn. “There's nothing to tell.”

There's so much to tell.

“I think that any man who would come between you
and that hoodlum is better than most.”

I nod. “He is, but I'm not ready for what he
offers.”

I'm actually judging Wring harder than my own
mom is.

She frowns. “And what is that? Besides being a
good Samaritan?”

I reply slowly, “Danger.”

Mom chuckles and I frown.

“Don't be so quick to judge, Shannon,” she says,
echoing my thoughts.

The memory of him picking me up off the ground
by my butt and hammering me against the wall with his mouth,
splitting me with his dick, rises to the surface of my brain.

Unforgettable. No, I think my assessment of
danger is right on target.

I need to stay away from Wring as much as
possible.

But not because he's a physical danger to me.
Instinctively, I know he would never hurt me.