Noose (Road Kill MC #1) (15 page)

~ 2 ~

“Faren.” Mick grips the cufflink, and it winks its damnation at me.

What had possessed me to take it?

“I got mugged.” It's not a smooth lie, but it's all I have.

Mick searches my face, and his arm falls to his side.

His eyes drill me for a heartbeat, then Mick sets it down carefully on the small table that holds my keys. He frowns and puts his strong hands on his hips. “You were mugged by a man wearing cufflinks?”

What can I say? “I... yeah.” When his eyebrows pop, I quickly expound, “I think he was a pimp or something.” The web of deceit grows and sounds even more ridiculous.

And it does circle the truth fairly well. Of course, the whirlpool remains, and its vacuum is trying to suck me in.

Mick's gaze shifts to the cufflink again. “What did he look like?” Mick's trying to take charge, flesh out the culprit, exhaust the inconsistencies.

I don't lie. He and Ronnie don't run in the same circles, I bet. “He's about my height.”

That hot gaze slides to mine, full of rage, and I step back.

“Don't look at me like that. It's not my fault...”

He rakes his hand through his neat hair. It spikes and makes him look younger, though I know he hasn't seen thirty yet. Who the hell is worth a billion dollars and doesn't even have a gray hair? My distrust builds as quickly as my lust, and they jockey for position inside me like enemies.

“I know that.” His eyes sweep back to mine, the black of his anger bleeding into the deep chocolate of his gaze. “I'm not blaming the victim.”

His earlier comment about me leaving in this outfit stains the air between us, spoiling our breaths as he stares at me, yet he never references it. His brooding gaze seeks me like a heat missile, and I see something different in their depths.

“Come here.”

I take two steps that put me close to Mick, so near I feel the heat from our bodies. He makes me feel small, and I'm tall even without heels.
He must be 6'3”.
His hands land on my shoulders and stroke the skin. Mick moves those hands back and forth, warming me. His touch causes a riot of goose bumps that run to my nipples. They rise like small peaks on the mountains of my breasts. Mick's eyes flick down before they slowly rise to mine, holding my gaze prisoner. He captures me easily as though he understands on some basest enigmatic level... I never want to let go.

I step back. His hands slip down my arms, his fingers moving into my hands. Our fingertips cling for a breath before parting. My left hand twitches as he releases me, and I see him smile.

I smile back, reminding myself that he has the means to learn anything about me. He's already investigated me enough.

“I'm going to get cleaned up,” I say.

“You should call the police,” he says, his eyes tracking me as I make my way to the bathroom.

I nod. “You're right.”

His eyelids drop, covering his skepticism. “But you won't, will you?”

I shake my head and dip my head to hide my smirk.

Neither of us ask the biggest question: What was I doing that got me mugged by a man who wore solid gold cufflinks?

Why doesn't Mick demand to know where I was? His eyes ask, but nothing comes out of that sexy mouth of his.

How can Ronnie Bunce run from the law but do well enough to pay ten thousand dollars for a lap dance?

“I'm staying,” Mick states as he strolls to my couch and gracefully falls into.

“Suit yourself,” I murmur, when its all I can do to breathe through him being here.

His lips twitch and I stalk into the bathroom. I crank the shower faucet
on,
and it groans to reluctant life. I let the water run because it takes so long for hot water to travel through a thousand feet of eighty-year-old cast iron piping.

I strip out of my outfit and toss it into my small waste basket. It's garbage, like the memory it symbolizes.

There's so little material it fills up only a third of the hole in the can. My eyes fixate on the glittering sunset material and tears threaten. I know deep down that just because I've thrown away the evidence of what I do doesn't mean I won't do it again. I know Thorn will move the lap location like he does each week. He'll stay just one step ahead.

I just can't do it with that monster. Not now, not ever.

I can't tell Jared McKenna that my stepfather tried to attack me tonight. Jared can’t serve justice to Ronnie because the job I perform places me before him like a platter of forbidden fruit. My mom's sacrifice will be for nothing if I keep dancing.

I can't go back.

I must.

The water hits my neck, and I lift my chin and let it pool and run down the front of me. My billionaire... whatever he is, is sitting in my cramped living room while I bathe mere steps away. Arousal beats a path between my legs and pulses there. I leisurely soap myself, forgetting my brush with danger.

I take extra time between my legs. My guilt roars up in a hot flush when I remember how Mick assaults my lips.

My breasts.

I want him to do everything to me and know nothing about what I do, I bury the shame of using him deep.

It's a dangerous game that I've set myself up to lose. I simply don't have Mick's fiscal resources. I have to follow the path I've set, but I don't have to like it.

I finish washing my hair as the water cools. The tank in the old building blows through hot water in less than fifteen minutes.

I step out, towel myself off, and wonder if Mick wears a suit to bed. How does he look without it? My cheeks singe.

My cell rings outside the bathroom, and I let it go. After the fifth ring, it cuts off, and I hear the melodic tones of Jared McKenna.

Jesus, maybe it's Thorn
. Or someone equally awful. My heart starts an unlawful rhythm.

Why would Mick answer my cell? That... He just thinks he can do anything.

I jerk the towel around myself and stomp out to the living room. My long hair wet enough to drip a trail of pissed off behind me.

Mick's eyes flick up. His large hand holds a big rectangular cell. One I don't recognize.

He finishes his conversation. “Yes, I’ll be there.” His eyes glitter as he takes in my lack of clothing. “I've said yes twice. Handle it.” His head dips, and his gaze slides away.

Mick listens to the anonymous caller and says, with finality in his voice, “I won't revisit this conversation, Jimmy. That's what I hired
you
for.”

He swipes the cell and it appears to power down, the screen brightening like a falling star before winking into velvet blackness. Mick's shadowed eyes return to mine. He points the cell at me and cocks his head. “You know... I like what you're wearing, don't get me wrong, but shouldn't you have clothes on?”

My face flames. Images of where my hands were on my body filter through my mind like a shuffling deck of cards and I reply in anger as I often do when I'm nervous.

Or cornered.

“You answered my cell,” I accuse.

Mick smiles. “No.” He lifts his own in answer.

I feel my face furrow.

He expounds, “Same ring tone, perhaps?” He crosses his leg casually. His eyes belie the aloof mannerism. Holding heat, his gaze never leaves the bare skin my towel reveals.

I back up and want to cross my arms so badly I almost drop my towel. He smirks again. Nothing so obvious as that. When Mick smirks, just the corners of his lips turns up.

“Prove it,” I bark.

And with a thumb press, his phone blinks back to life and my ring tone sounds from his phone.

“So it's a coincidence,” I say quietly, mollified.

“It appears so.” His eyes touch mine then look away. “Though I am not a believer.”

My head whips to his. “In what?”

Those eyes lock on mine as he stands and stalks toward me. He watches the water drip around the hollows of my collarbones, running to the shadow between my breasts.

“Coincidence.” His breath whispers against my face as he reaches me.

~ 3 ~

He inserts a finger inside the terrycloth that tightly circles my breasts. I clutch it with my good hand while my bad hand loosely holds the fine material of Mick's lapel.

“I want to finish something between us,” he says. Mick's eyes roam over all my exposed flesh.

“And I want to know what you're doing in my apartment,” I answer, and Mick chuckles.

It seems as though he's always laughing at me, but nothing I'm doing is funny. Time's at a premium. I barely escaped from “psychotic daddy: and now I have sex-on-a-stick moneybags who blanks my thoughts every time he's within a mile of me. That's a good thing. I’m not much for introspection at the moment.

I need to take back the reins. I glare at him, wanting him while despising his assumptions.

Mick spreads his hands inoffensively. “I am a man of many talents.”

“Okay.” My death grip on the towel tightens without mercy. “This is your modus operandi? You pick girls' locks as an attraction maneuver? Because I've got to say, pal, that’s a creeper move.” My brows rise. “For the record, after the whacked out night I've had, coming home to you was the cherry on top of a freaky cake.”

Mick's eyes crinkle and he laughs, filling my small apartment with the genuine and wonderful sound.

“What's so funny?” My tone changes into clear suspicion.

His grin stays as he answers, “You.”

“Fine, you park out here like the rich stalker you are. When I come back, I expect a full explanation.”

“Yes, ma'am,” Mick answers. It sounds more like
come and get me
.

Or maybe that's my overactive imagination. I’ve been doing a lot of that since I met Mr. McKenna.

I slam the door to my bedroom, rip off the towel, and fling it into the corner. I stride to my dresser, tear open my top drawer, and hunt through my panties and bras. I pick, without shame, my sexiest matching set. They remind me of the outfit I threw away. That I can't afford to throw away.

The memory that sunset dress represents is worse than keeping it around to remind me. I slide the all-lace thong onto my body, the edges glowing like a deep burning sunset along my creamy skin. I throw my bra on with a vicious hook and twist, dumping my breasts into the wide lace. The thickest part barely covers my nipples.

I take a quick look in the mirror, the adrenaline from my escape the fuel to the fire of my eventual consumption by Mick.

I want answers. Why is he in my apartment? Why is he taking over my life?

Why am I allowing it?

I know why but can't admit it. Too many truths in too short a time. I feel as if a fuse in my brain has short-circuited. A trend where he's concerned.

Mick hit me with his motorcycle. Even I have to concede how weird that is. Mick knows a lot about me, but he doesn't know about my terminal illness. He doesn't know that Ronnie Bunce bought me for ten thousand bucks and never got his dance because of a fortuitous raid.  What's with his relaxed attitude? Wasn't his “classy” Black Rose going to get tarnished now that his revolving lap dance club got nailed by the police?

Exchanging sexual favors for money is illegal. A spike of shame pierces me. It feels so real, the hot poker of my embarrassment is there regardless of my justifications for why I do it.

Mick would probably die a thousand deaths before he'd date a dancer. Unlike him, I know what will happen. My fate is set. My eyes slide down my body in the reflection, noting the healing bruises. The one high on my upper inner thigh is a pale gold smudge. The one from McKenna's bike is solid with the faintest trace of tread. I fight the urge to laugh, Mick’s ownership is a stark duality. I work at his club, and it bruises me; his bike hits me, and I bear his mark.

Bruised but not beaten. The final consummation remains.

An idea forms, and my lips twitch. I can taste whatever I was before drowning in my current reality. The truth sets us free.

I slip on a pair of shorts so skimpy the bruise from the bike is in full relief, a lash of purple against my leg. The proof of my occupation lays hidden where Mick can't see. Yet.

I want the pole bruise to show like the brand it is. I want His Hotness to be acutely reminded of how we met. Though I know he remains blissfully ignorant of that pivotal first meeting.

I'll never forget the way that filthy money felt as I clutched the damp bills.

I throw a pewter cami over my bra and turn slowly in front of the mirror. The soft pewter sweatpant shorts look like mist against my pale skin.

The color is a perfect compliment to the bruise, showcasing it. I slip on platform flip flops with a glitter thong of silver and walk out of the bedroom.

Project Guilt Trip is in full throttle. I want to provoke Mick. Shatter his reserve.

I'm shaking off my stepfather trying to resume abusing me. I'm moving toward my goal of spending my remaining life the way I want. People always think about what they'd do if they have no time left, but I surprise myself every day. My plans morph as time unravels.

I walk out of my bedroom and pause when my eyes catch Mick reclining on my couch. His long arms flow along the back, nearly spanning the length of it, and I gulp. Mick's sheer size moves me, makes my attraction to him more acute. I like the idea of being overwhelmed by him.

He has shed his jacket. His cufflinks glitter on the bare glass of my coffee table. As I move toward him, Mick studies me with eyes that stand at half-mast. He appears casual, but I'm familiar with pain and anxiety. It's how I gage how much torture my physical therapy patients can endure.

I smile when I see how I'm playing him perfectly. His eyes roam my form and skitter to a pulse-freezing stop at the large bruise. Mick takes a cleansing breath and the exhale shudders out of him in an empty echo.

“Okay,” he relents, “let's talk.” His eyes don't move from that mar against my pale skin, heavy and damning.

“Go ahead.” I sit down across from him. I cock my head, my long hair sliding over my shoulder, and I watch him lick his lips. “After all, the burden is on you. Every bit of it.”

“I'm sorry, Faren.”

“You spend a lot of time apologizing.”

His eyes narrow, deepening to dark chocolate. “You know, you're goddamned rude sometimes.”

I nod. I don't know if that's the truth but it feels right. “Yes.”

“Fine,” Mick says, non-plussed. “As long as you know it.”

I lean forward, pushing my elbows into my sides, the motion driving my breasts forward and Mick's speech is arrested, his gaze pegging my assets as surely as the sun rises.

“Listen,” I begin, “you hit me with your bike.”

His eyes return to mine and a flush takes hold of his face. It's subtle, a heightening in the color across his cheekbones. It spreads as I watch, lighting the top of his ears slightly. I watch Mick fight his emotions.

Bingo.

If there's one thing lap dancing's taught me, it's my value. My body is a powerful tool. I've given up chunks of who I am in exchange for control over others. It's evil.

It's also a terrible necessity.

I put his feet to the fire. “And you more or less called me a whore. You implied that I was faking innocence.” I lean back, and cross a long leg,
so
utterly not innocent.

Mick watches my movement with a look I can't read.

“And now”—I throw my palm vaguely toward the door—“you've shown up in my apartment through entry of dubious means. I think the weight of explanation lies firmly with you.

That color that rose to the surface of his skin fades. “Fair enough. But you might not like what you hear.”

We stare at each other as my heart drums a rhythm that's fierce and insistent, reminding me I'm alive. That reminder is brutally beautiful.

“Fine. I'd rather have the bald truth. It's better than lies through omission,” I say.

His dimple flashes and disappears. Mick plows a hand through his hair, and I take in the edges of a sleeve tat. It’s been hidden all this time underneath custom tailored shirts, tethered by precious metal. Now he has rolled up his sleeves, folding them halfway up a bulging muscled forearm and I'm struck anew by his physique. He has the body of someone who's known physical labor. A man honed by honest work.

Not the privilege of the wealthy. The honest part is up for discussion.

That can't be. Rich guys like Jared McKenna have
people
who do all the work. They just delegate. Like the old story about Henry Ford pushing a button from his desk. An expert would come in and answer whatever question Ford couldn't answer.

Mick leans forward, his legs spread while his knotted hands dangle between his knees. He sighs, looking at me. “I've misunderstood you.”

He has no idea.

Mick stares at me, and I make my face blank. Easy to do when he's not touching me. I stay on my side of the coffee table, and he stays on his.

Miles separate us, and nothing does. Thinking about it makes my head ache. I feel the heat and magnetism between us like a living vapor twining and seeking entry into me.

“You asked me why I want to date you. Can it just be that I find you attractive?” he asks and I answer a question that might be rhetorical.

“No.” I hold his gaze. “You're mega-rich. You can have any girl you want. I'm not flattered.”
Yet.

“True.”

I laugh and fold my arms.
The arrogance
.

“You told me you wanted honesty,” Mick defends simply when he sees my expressions morph in a myriad of emotions.

I nod. “Yes.”

“When I hit you with my Harley...” Mick dips his head, and his hand massages the back of his neck in a frustrated swipe. He lifts his eyes to mine, and his hand falls.

Mick's gaze seeks the bruise on my thigh, on perfect display against the backdrop of my gray shorts and peaches and cream perfection. It's ugly.

A battle scar.

He moves forward. “I had to make it right. Here's a young woman, so distraught she doesn't look where she's going, and I barely stop in time to...”

I finish for him in my head.
Not kill her.

“It's an
Alice in Wonderland
rabbit hole, Faren.” His molten whiskey eyes never leave mine, and the intensity of that gaze pins me helplessly against my chair. His eyes caress me as he speaks. “I never meant to fall down that hole, but once I made sure I’d taken care of your needs and you would live without permanent damage...” He lifts those broad shoulders and claps. “I found out what I needed to. His eyes don't waver as he pierces me with the heat of his confession. “I know you take care of others. Then, I wondered why you chose to be a physical therapist. So, I googled you.”

I feel a slow tumble of muscled limbs as Mick rotates down that unknown tunnel that is my life.

Oh my God, he googled me
. Goosebumps rise, fleeing over my skin and I shiver, thinking of
what
he knows.

His expression frightens me, it darkens like the promise of a storm bent on staying awhile, cleaning the corners of everything it touches and scattering it to the wind.

“And that bastard who called himself your father.”

I watch those large hands of his separate, clenching and flexing. They remind me of my own bad hand. My eyes stray to my isometric device, and Mick follows my glance.

He nods. “I know how difficult your recovery was. I know what he did.”

“You don't know everything.” My stomach burns even though he does not mention Ronnie by name. My mother's beating and subsequent hospitalization was sensational enough to be easy pickings on the internet.

Mick shakes his head. “I know enough.”

I can handle him knowing, I can compartmentalize his hotness, his wealth. It doesn't have to affect me. It's something for me to experience as my punchcard for this life fills as I sit here with him.

What I cannot stand is his pity. I can't bear the compassion in his eyes. I won't be some kind of mercy case.

I want to know, just once, what real sex is before what I do makes me indifferent to what sex can be.

And my heart has made up my mind for me. My intellect screams that I should just find out about sex with an anonymous Joe. Hell, there're a million laps that would take what I offer.

I don't want those. I want Mick. He knows it. I know it.

For the first time in my life, I'll have what I want on my terms.

I stand, and he does too. His fists are still clenched, ready to pound someone. Those few seconds of introspection I force on myself were mine alone. Mick still wants to avenge me from the phantom mugger.

I scare myself with how badly I want him to hurt Bunce. Feeling that way doesn't help me with my most pressing goals. I need to keep my shit together. I can't allow things to get all jumbled.

Ronnie will turn up. My mom needs me. I need the job that's under Jared McKenna.

And I want to be underneath him as well, losing something precious