Ride (Bayonet Scars) (16 page)

I look up at Ryan, and a smile overtakes my entire face. All of a sudden, I feel all warm and swishy inside. Maybe Nic isn’t the only one who’s a lightweight. He says nothing as he strides over and reaches out a hand to help me up. I take it graciously and, when I’m on two feet, I use the opportunity to slip my pinky around his. Once I’ve done it, there’s a brief moment where I think I’m the biggest idiot on the planet. But then he grips his pinky around mine, and those familiar bolts of heat shoot through me. Being this close to him, our pinkies wrapped around one another, it feels intimate in a way I’m unable to describe.

Leading us through the house, never losing contact, Ryan moves slowly. Behind us are Nic and Duke. She’s much more alert now than before, with her arms folded over her chest and her feet practically stomping into the carpet below. I check back on them to see Duke walks behind her, keeping his hands to himself. And despite the excitement coursing through my veins at being so close to Ryan, I can’t help but be annoyed by Duke’s presence. I still haven’t forgiven him for leaving me alone in that field, and I don’t know if I ever will.

Outside the house, and down the steps, we reach the sidewalk. The crowd is down by at least half now even though it’s not even all that late as far as parties go. Duke and Ryan’s Harleys are parked between two cars just off the sidewalk.

“We’re heading out, Brother,” Duke says, his giant hand now wrapped around Nic’s tiny one. Her eyes are narrowed as she passes me, hissing words of revenge. I try to bring myself to feel bad, but I don’t have it in me. Ryan’s here, and I don’t really give a shit. Duke backs his bike out and signals for Nic to climb on. She shakes her head twice before he points his finger at her, giving her a warning glare. She finally concedes, and in no time they’re off and down the road on their way to God-only-knows where.

Ryan gives a slight tug on my pinky, bringing me up against his side. Leaning down, his breath brushes against my temple.

“Where do you want to go?” he whispers. My face heats from his nearness, and my stomach flips with possibilities. Emboldened by the situation, I look up at him, and say just as softly, “Your place.” A wicked smile paints itself on his face, and a dark, mischievous glint dances in his gray eyes.

Chapter 18

Hearts will never be practical until they can be made unbreakable.

-
L. Frank Baum

RYAN CLIMBS ONTO
his bike, taking two helmets from the handlebars. He flashes me a smile and hands me a helmet. I strap it on and climb on behind him. Wrapping my arms around his midsection, I ask, “How did you know exactly where I was?”

He twists, looking at me over his shoulder, and says, “I didn’t.”

Starting the bike and pulling away from the curb, I’m left to ponder that comment. He was looking for me. I mean, Fort Bragg isn’t that big, but still. It’s the effort he’s putting forth that makes me think maybe this isn’t such an awful idea after all. The bike rumbles beneath me as we dart off down the road. All of my concerns over what we’re doing here—despite Jim’s demands—wash away, and it’s just me and him and the bike blowing through the wind.

We ride for a few minutes before I finally recognize some landmarks. We pass the high school and then the community center. The school is in poor shape, but the community center is much newer. During one of my and Ruby’s trips into town, she swung by here to show me some of the town’s highlights. I doubt I’d be able to find my way home from here, but it’s something. In the distance, the community hospital shines brightly. I remember this landmark because Ruby said after I’ve been around the club enough, I’ll know all the back roads to get to the emergency room.

Ryan pulls up to an old cottage that’s seen better days and into the narrow driveway on the right side of the property. Underneath the carport, he cuts off the bike and we climb off. My legs ache just slightly from the ride, though it’s nothing like the previous times I’ve been on his bike. Ryan leads me inside the house. He’s walks so fast, and I’m trying so hard to keep up with him that I barely notice how sparsely furnished the place is. We breeze through the kitchen and then a living room, both of which reek of stale beer and another odor I choose to ignore for the sake of my own sanity. At the end of the hall just off from the kitchen, he opens a door and stands aside, welcoming me in.

I find myself a mass of nerves and excitement as I peer into Ryan’s bedroom. It isn’t very big, only two-thirds the size of mine at Ruby’s and Jim’s, but he has even less furniture in here than I do in mine. Stepping inside, I find the room to be cooled by a rickety ceiling fan that’s already on. It’s one of those combination fans that has the small lights attached at the bottom. To my right is a tall and narrow window that’s covered with a thin black fitted sheet that does almost nothing for privacy. On the same wall as the window is a full-sized bed and, beside that, a wooden crate that’s being used as a nightstand. On top of it is an overflowing ashtray and a collection of open condom wrappers. On the floor beside the crate is a combination of empty beer bottles and even a whiskey bottle with the cap off.

Behind me, the door closes, shrouding the room in darkness. The already cool, dark walls look almost black. The faint sliding of metal against metal and the click of the lock send a shiver down my spine. He’s locked the door, and I can hardly see anything. I take the few steps needed to stand beneath the ceiling fan. Reaching up with my right hand, I wrap the tips of my fingers around the bottom of the lower chain, but a rough, calloused hand comes out of nowhere and wraps itself around mine. His touch is gentle as he closes his grip around my curled fingers and lowers our hands. My arm bends at the elbow, Ryan guiding it down to my collarbone, with his right arm creating a cage. Though tender, his movements are carefully thought out and painfully slow. I can’t escape the way we are now.

Stepping up behind me, his hips hit me at the bottom of my ribs, painting me a clear picture of what he has on his mind. Savoring the moment, I lean back against his chest and let my eyes flutter closed. My heart beats so frantically I worry it might jump right out of my chest, almost painful in its effort.

He moves so slowly, so intent on torturing me, as the cracked skin of the knuckles of his hand trace a line from the top of my head, down to my chin, swooping inward, and slipping down my neck. My breath hitches, my lungs straining to calm the nervous pant that Ryan’s creating in his wake. Somewhere in the back of my mind, I’m not focused on his touch. This entire situation just feels wrong.

He’s always so hot and cold with me, and I’m not supposed to even be here. It was only a few hours ago that Jim issued his warning, and yet here I am. Boredom and liquor have once again impaired my judgment enough that I’m making a poor decision. First, Duke in the field. Now, Ryan in this room that looks no better than what I assume could be compared to a motel that rents room by the hour. I try to pull away, but he tightens his grip on my hand, locking me in place, and brings his lips to my ear. “Relax, baby. I know you want this.”

I do want this. I want all of it. If only he could just tell me he wants me, that I should fight to have whatever this is with him, I will. But I need him to tell me he wants me.

“Tell me you want me,” I whisper. The words come out so quietly, I’m not certain he’ll even hear me. But he does. He places his lips on the shell of my ear, his warm breath coating my cheek. His left hand slides down my chest and over my breast, brushing my nipple beneath the fabric of both my shirt and bra in the process. I bite back a gasp that threatens to escape.

“I want to fuck you,” he says, pushing his pelvis into my back. Biting harder on my lip in surprise, I clamp my mouth shut to stop the yelp from escaping. His left hand slides down the front of my belly, over my tee-shirt, landing on the top of my jeans. His warm fingers slip under the thin fabric, rough skin against soft skin.

Flicking the button open on my jeans he whispers, “I want to fuck you.
Hard.
” It’s not lost on me that he wants to fuck me, but I still don’t know if he wants
me
. There’s a world of difference between the two.

He takes a gentle bite of my ear and drags the zipper of my pants down. His fingers slide up my cotton panties and then dip inside, just hovering there at the top. A furious pounding escalates between my legs. The little
thud, thud, thud
builds to a furious roar as my muscles lock and my lungs stall. It’s been so long since I’ve been touched like this—if I’ve ever been touched like this. He moves slowly as his fingers slide past my curls and press against me when they slide back up, one finger slipping between my lips. So pent up with frustration, my skin nearly breaks out in a sweat at the contact. Though brief, it’s powerful, the way he touches me. And he knows it, too. I’m so awkward and ill at ease that he has complete command of me right now. If I had a lick of sense or self-respect in this moment, I’d run.

But I want this.

Turning around despite his firm grip on me, I place my hands on his hips just below his vest, and rub small circles on his jeans with my right thumb. I look up into his bloodshot eyes and blanch. Though his eyes bore into mine, they’re unfocused. It’s like there’s nothing there beneath the surface. He licks his lips and brings his hand behind my head. Before I can stop him, he pulls me in and his lips are on mine. Plush, moist, and demanding, he takes ownership of my very soul.

All fear, and disgust with myself washes away at lust igniting in my body. Bringing my hands up around his neck, I try to pull him closer. As if I could consume him. As if he would let me. Our lips slide against one another, my nails clawing at his neck. Turning us and bringing my back up against the wall, he reaches out and places his hand over my beating heart. His eyes suddenly come alive, and his lips turn downward at the corners.

“Why did you do it?” he asks. Confused, I stare at him without an answer. “Why did you tell that cop where to go?” I blink back at his words. Though they’re formed as a question, they sound more like an accusation. And this is a topic I’ve steadily avoided for two months now. I can’t talk about this with him—or anyone, really—because the truth isn’t pretty.

“You must have had a reason,” he says in a pained voice. Tears pool in my eyes, and I slap away his hand on my chest. He pushes on my sternum in protest, keeping me against the wall. “Just tell me you had a reason.”

“You wouldn’t understand,” I bite out in anger. Unable to look him in the eyes while we’re talking about this, I focus on the patches on his vest. Nic said the patch owns them, and I guess it does. Like the oath Tony took to my father’s family owns him, the patches Ryan wears on his vest own him even after he takes it off for the night.

“Try me,” he says, shaking his head. I scrunch my eyes shut and let the tears fall down my cheeks. Not here. I can’t do this here. But he isn’t giving me much of a choice, so with trembling hands and lips, I try to explain. Beyond any sense of humility and reason, I want Ryan to want me. Not just to fuck me, but to want
me
. And I don’t know if he ever will.

“I was property, not a person,” I whisper. The truth of the
why
burns at my heart. Sniffling and calming myself down, I force myself to meet his eyes. Gaining my emotional strength back, I let the tears staining my cheeks dry where they are, and I bring my hands up to his wrist. With one swift motion, I yank his hand away from my chest. He’s done protesting. Now he’s just some fucked up mix of sad and angry, but the fight has gone out of him. For now. I don’t know what to do with sad and defeated. It’s not something I’ve seen often.

“No reason to be a rat,” he spits, some of the fire returning. I like his fire, as much as it hurts. It’s familiar, and even when it’s painful, I appreciate a little familiarity. But that word… rat. It hurts in a way I don’t want to admit. In both my father’s and Ryan’s worlds, the worst thing you can be is a rat. There are a few offenses that will automatically get you a bullet to your throat. Killing a Made Man, raping a kid, and being a rat. I can’t be a rat.

“Don’t say that.”

“It’s the truth, isn’t it? You’ve got a big fucking mouth, don’t you?”

“No,” I say more forcefully now. “I thought I was helping my brother. I just trusted the wrong person.”

“Don’t you see now?
That’s
why
this
can’t happen,” he says. His shoulders vibrate with irritation as he seethes the words. And there it is—it doesn’t matter if he wants me or not. The patch owns him. “I don’t like being told what to do, baby. So here’s what’s going to happen—I’m going to fuck you out of my system.”

He moves in, his lips back on mine, and every sense of reason flies out the window once again. He’s a bastard, but maybe if I let this happen, he’ll be out of my system, too. We can’t keep going on like this.

Pulling at clothes, discarding shoes, and yanking off socks, we’re a hurried mess of limbs as we strip one another down to our underwear. His hands wander over every inch of my skin he can touch. Pulling me away from the wall, he walks me backward to his bed. His left side is free of tattoos, but his right shoulder and chest, down nearly to his elbow on both his chest and his back, is a large piece of artwork. It looks like a mass of chains and painted steel—some sort of armor. Beneath the beautifully intricate piece is a falcon with its wings spread along his right side, spanning from beneath his pec down to his hip bone.

The back of my legs hit on the sharp edge of the frame, propelling me onto the mattress.
He crawls on top of me, covering my body with his own. This could be good—us, together, despite it all. I bring his face down to mine, kissing him gently. But he won’t have any of that, turning the kiss rough and forceful despite my silent pleas.

We’re still in our underwear, but I’m so ready for him to take his off. Reaching down, I feel that they’re boxers. I didn’t catch sight of them in the hurried undressing. I slide my thumb in between the waistband and his skin and draw them downward, but a strong, masculine hand reaches up, stopping me.

Pulling his torso up, creating a gulf between us, he says, “Turn over, baby.” So caught up in the moment, I don’t ask any questions. I turn over and push my torso off the mattress and pull my hair over the front of my shoulder to give him access to my bra. Instead of unclasping my brand new black bra—that I bought especially for an occasion such as this—he places his hand on my back and pushes me down onto all fours. The linen sheets are rough on my skin and thinned out from age and abuse. They smell of cigarettes, weed, and body odor—none of which are especially pleasant—but it’s the lingering smell of a fruity perfume that makes my stomach roll. From behind me, I can hear something rip and then a quiet rustling. Two calloused knuckles graze along the side of my butt cheek, bringing the fabric of my matching black boy shorts away from my body. They pull the fabric to the side.

Realization dawns on me what he’s about to do, and I squeeze my eyes shut in anticipation. I’ve never had sex like this before. Not that I’ve had much sex, but it’s never been like this. The nerves return, and my muscles tense. He places his knees between my legs, slowly spreading me farther apart. His left hand sneaks between my legs, dipping inside of my boy shorts and along my slit. I bite my lip, barely controlling the moan. His touches are so soft, and so few, that every little contact is like a compact little fire spreading across my skin. A strong hand comes down on my back, pushing my face sideways into the mattress—forcing me to breathe in the stale perfume from the last slut he’s taken in here—as he guides himself to my entrance.

There’s no gentle stroking, no loving preparation. Once he finds my center, he pushes himself inside, unbothered by how very unprepared I am for him. A loud groan escapes from his lips as his nails dig into the skin of my back. He brings himself back out and then slams inside. My muscles tense, my eyes fill with tears, and a tightening sensation claws at my chest. I feel raw and battered by the time he slows his pace. His fingers never find their way to my core again, instead, he holds onto my hip with one hand and my back with the other. He wasn’t being coy when he said he wanted to fuck me hard. In and out, one razor sharp pounding after another, and I’m so tense, so frustrated, so not enjoying this, I’m close to crying again. If I didn’t feel like a whore in that field with Duke, I certainly feel like one now.