Noose (Road Kill MC #1) (26 page)

That too.

~ 12 ~

The other dancers are in their rooms, and I've narrowly escaped Ronnie again through a lesser evil.

But not this dance.

Jay's as handsome as they come, and it should be no chore for me to ride him.

But it is. His good looks and willingness to pay don't make it easier.

I admit he’s better than the other laps—old, tired men leading grim lives and seeking youth through the thighs of a woman less than half their age.

I smoothly straddle him. The twinge of pain high and inside my thigh summarily ignored, I insert myself between his legs and the arms of the chair.

His eyes look at mine through the mask. My flesh is hot, and the sharp outline cuts into my skin, making for an angry silhouette when I remove it after my night of grinds.

I put my hands on his bare shoulders. I unconsciously command my bad hand to cup where his muscular shoulder curves into his arm, but my other hand grips with perfect dexterity. I bob up and down like a cork in a sea without a current.

Jay gets hard as I arc against his cock, and he moans.

His hand travels to the V in my dress and moves it aside. My naked breast pours cooperatively into his palm.

I tip my head back as his thumb works my nipple into a pebble of hardened flesh. I think of Mick. I can do this if I pretend it’s him.

I can do anything for him.

That realization swims through my mind like a pulled thread, unraveling my brain.

I stop thinking about what Mick's doing in memory of his dead sister.

I quit all thoughts of how much more I want from him than just taking the last shred of my innocence.

My mind hurries past my faceless death, my mother's existence that is worst than the true absence of death.

I concentrate on Jay's hands on my body, pretending they're Mick's.

*

My dress rides at my waist like a slim inner tube of glittering material. It itches me as I rock deeply against Jay's erection, both his hands hold my breasts.

“Sit up,” Jay commands, eyes at half-mast.

I rise, no longer rocking.

“Lean forward.” He kicks my legs apart, and my lip trembles.

Do it, just do it.

My g-string offers nothing more than a suggestion of material as air grabs along my folds, whispering its freedom.

I hang open and exposed above him. Jay wraps my wrists with his big hands and jerks me forward. I cry out in surprise.

I fall forward, and he has his prick sprung that fast. He centers it below my entrance, and I can think of nothing except that he'll be in me before I can react, before I can do anything to stop him.

“Don't,” I whisper through instant tears of violation. The word sounds like the plea it is. I never anticipated him taking advantage of me.

My wrists strain against his hold, but he's so much bigger, stronger.

I don't want my virginity taken this way. I had a plan, and it isn't Jay.

It's Mick.
It's always been him.

He presses one hand to the small of my back, his bare flesh against mine, and presses down. His penis splits my butt cheeks, and he slides against my back entrance without penetrating me.

I panic, my free wrist pressing against the back of the chair, and he clamps down harder, holding me captive.

He moves against my most intimate parts, and my fantasy about Mick from earlier aids him.

My slickness allows Jay's unbidden movement.

He does not enter me. He uses the tight recess of my ass to glide between my cheeks, a grueling friction ensuing.

I groan in disgust, clenching my eyes shut and struggling against him as he fucks me outside my body.

Jay releases my other wrist, and I lie against him like a corpse. His hands cup my ass, and the rhythm of his penis speeds up.

I feel as though I'm watching this happen to someone else. I’m on the outside looking in.

“Just a little more,” Jay grunts.

His hand's brutal hold tightens further, and I bite my lip in pain. His dick feels like a snake between the globes of my ass.

My gorge rises, but I hang onto the precipice of my will, my fingers white knuckling this final sin.

He gives a last vicious pump between my cheeks, and I cry instead of screaming as he releases against my back. Hot jets coat the beautiful dress, drying into a revolting gel as I lie in a listless pile against him.

“Fuck yeah,” Jay says, pressing into my body as his hips slow their rhythm.

We lie together for a few seconds as his breathing slows.

He pushes me away gently and studies my face.

I sway, fighting throwing up.

“Now the mask, Faren.”

Somehow, this is the worst extra of all.

I can pretend when I wear the mask.

I can't anymore. I tear it off and fling it aside. With unusual accuracy, it rims the trash can and drops inside.

Jay looks at my face, his eyes pouring over every detail as though he's memorizing it. He raises his hand to caress my jaw. “So beautiful.”

I flinch away, my eyes going anywhere but to him.

An exhale shudders out of me, expelling my disgust, guilt, and disgrace.

Noise disturbs the silence of the room where only our breaths had been.

Voices crash against the door. Jay's eyebrows tick up, pulling together and he gives me a sharp look.

There’s the sound of someone being struck.

Jay sits up.

“Don't fucking go in there, Mick!” Thorn says.

Mick.

My breath stalls. I’ve never felt adrenaline like I do in this moment.

I try to scramble off Jay's lap, but our clothes and limbs are too fused for a rapid untangle.

The door crashes open and hits the wall with a thundering crack.

I twist at the torso and take in a wild Mick, my bare ass facing the door.

His eyes widen. My half-naked body wears a dress he undoubtedly chose with himself in mind and is now defiled with another man's release.

Gone is his expensive suit and smooth demeanor.

In its place is a rage that borders on insanity. He launches himself at us.

“Faren!”

I don't move, the proverbial deer caught in the headlights.

Jay is the one who thinks, dumping me on the floor as the bull that is Mick rushes him.

I fall on my naked, sticky ass, limbs flung in an ungraceful mess.

Mick plows into Jay and the chair goes ass over tea kettle onto the floor. Mick hammers Jay's face and I meet Thorn's eyes.

His black eye is blacker than his skin, and he shrugs helplessly.

“Help him!”

Thorn shakes his head as if Jay deserves it.

Jay disgusts me, but Mick will kill him.

I see that now.

I jerk up like an awoken sleepwalker and lurch to Mick. My dress bunches in all the wrong places, and I grab his arm.

“Stop! Please, Mick,” I scream as Jay's bleeding face turns into tenderized meat.

Mick flings off my arm, shoves away from Jay, and comes at me.

I back up, pinwheeling my arms as he stalks toward me. His knuckles are bloody, the skin torn from pounding the flesh off Jay's face.

My ass hits the wall, and he slams against me, his hands caging me.

“Why?” he roars in my face.

His hot breath bathes me in his anger, and I feel stark terror. I pushed this man so badly that he doesn't sound like him anymore.

“I was going to tell you,” I whisper against his heaving chest.

His hand slams against the wall, and my head leaps from the force of it.

“No, you weren't,” he says in a quiet voice, so full of menace I taste it on my tongue.

My eyes unclench and look into his.

“Mick,” Thorn says.

“Shut the fuck up, Ty.” Mick spares him a venomous glance then swivels that poisonous gaze back to me.

“Why?” He sounds much softer now but no less livid.

I clam up. I can't speak to the anguish in his gaze. Caused by me.

He takes an escaped lock of my hair between his fingers.

Then his fingers plow through my hair, fisting it tightly. His mouth finds mine and punishes me with his kiss. His tongue spears me like it had in my core.

Deep and unyielding.

Final.

He tears away, untangling from me, and I follow each movement, burning it into my memory.

Mick looks at Thorn in disgust, and I watch Thorn swallow.

Mick’s dark eyes come back to me. Outraged accusation swims where tender passion had last night.

I hear Jay groan. Mick and I ignore it as if we're the only two people in the world.

“I think I loved you, Faren.”

Oh god.

I swear my heart stops beating.
I take a shaky step toward him, reaching out with my good hand.

He puts a palm up, his gaze going to the beaten Jay just paces away.

No, Mick, no, no, no. You're so wrong.

He turns to me with hard eyes. “But I think you love other things more.”

His eyes sweep the room of sex paraphernalia, touch on Thorn briefly, and settle on me. “Good-bye.”

Mick wipes his mouth, as though erasing our last kiss, and walks out. 

I sink to the ground, wishing it would swallow me.

I don't love other things,
I realize too late.

Only him.

THE END

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SHIFTER

An Alpha Claim Brief-Bites® Novelette

Episode 1

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MARATA EROS

TAMARA ROSE BLODGETT

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Call me old-fashioned
. But I'm probably the last counselor in the world who uses a pad and pen.

Everything is Brain Impulse Technology now—thought-to-device driven.

Any other counselor would have their pulsepad out, ready to record their thoughts and insights directly.

But that method feels so detached to me. So my pen sits poised in my left hand above recycled ecru-colored notepaper.

I'm fighting a lot of urges today. The urge to swing my foot as I listen to the hundredth same line out of a different mouth.

I can't take my life
.

Counseling is unfortunately only rewarding when a client comes along who really
wants
to be happy. Who's willing to be dragged through the muck of their dysfunction sufficiently long enough to find themselves coming up for air on the other side—and discovering it to be fresh.

Of course, it's a case of
physician, heal thyself
. Talyn Phisher isn't happy.

I'm content
.

And that's a big-ass difference.

“Dr. Phisher?”

Oops
. I jerk my head up, caught. “Yes, Beatrice?”

“Bea,” she replies sullenly.

God, where is my head
?
Clearly—up my ass
, is my mind's immediate response.

“Yes, Bea,” I duck my head in shame, take a deep calming breath then meet her eyes.

They're large and dark, one of the unusual people where the black dot almost blends with the brown iris swimming around the island of their pupil.

“I was discussing my argument with my foster dad.”

I nod, dredging sympathy when what I really want to say is, pull up your big-girl panties and
deal
, for fuck's sake.

But that's entirely un-counselor-like of me.

I shut my mouth and purse my lips for a moment, desperately wishing for some lip gloss. Instead I say, “Well, let's address things in order of priority.”

“Okay.” Bea crosses her skinny arms below fifteen-year-old breasts. Gaged ears wink at me like two additional mouths. A tattoo climbs the delicate column of her neck, the tail of a snake appearing to strangle her.

I'm unmarked.

Tattoos are the height of popularity. They lost their stigma in the beginning of the 21
st
century. It's actually more rare that someone doesn't have ink than those who do.

I tamp down on my sudden compulsion to crack my knuckles.

“This is what we have, Bea.”

Her eyes dart around my office as though looking to escape another dry lecture.

But I'm never dry. That's part of my problem. Sometimes, my unorthodox methods get results. “You have to make marked progress, or the courts will toss your ass straight back to juvie.”

Her head whips back to me, shocked by my frankness—my use of language, I'm sure.

Her black lipsticked mouth pulls into a smile. “You're cursing, doctor.”

I smile back at her, old enough to be her mother, though God knows that'll never happen.

“And you're listening,” I point out.

She flops back against the couch. “Okay, lay it on me.” Bea's slim arms rest on the back of the sofa, her face carefully schooled into neutrality.

Also a defense mechanism.

“This is your tenth session, and you spew the same crap every time. Child Protective Enforcement suspects there's something wrong, and they have ordered counseling. I will get to the bottom of it, no matter how many layers you erect.”

Bea doesn't look especially surprised at the gauntlet I've thrown down between us.

My teeth begin their normal, midday throb and I apply pressure by clamping down. They don't hurt so bad that I'm ready to go in and get them checked, but the muted pain is a distraction I don't need.

“You're asking me to get along with a guy who's not my dad.”

I lean back, forcing a casual disinterest that is the opposite of what I feel. My limbs begin to tingle.

I get that special feeling.

Breakthrough, baby.

Jesus, I thought it'd never happen.

“Tell me a reason you
can't
get along. Besides him making you eat food from a certain shelf. Or a curfew of eleven at night.”

Many foster families have assigned food shelves for non-biological children. It's a form of silent prejudice. But that's not enough to nail this guy. I need more. I suspect there
is
more. But ten sessions is a long damn time to hold out on my gut instinct. I do listen to my gut more than most.

My instincts never let me down.

The ticks from my archaic clock swallow our mutual silence.

Bea leans forward, jagged short hair dyed an inky black sweeps forward to cover an eye.

She rests her forearms on her thighs.

I wait.

A minute goes by. Two.

“Tell me what he does to you, Bea.” I feel the compulsion in my voice, and let it thread its way to Bea with soft and deliberate insistence.

My teeth ache a tiny bit less, and I release an almost silent but grateful sigh.

Her face lifts, the pierced bottom lip trembling with the effort to keep that stoic expression glued in place.

I sit up straight, pen and paper forgotten—breath held.

Then she carefully unbuttons the cuffs of her unseasonably warm long-sleeved shirt.

Healing lines of varying depths litter her skin.

Cutter.

Her sad eyes find mine. My heart is in my gaze, there for the taking. She reaches for it with such hesitation. Then crushes the pulsating mess of my feelings with, “What he does to me at night, or during the day?”

At night.

I don't plant my face in my hands but it's close. I know what happens at night.

I've heard it before.