Wring: Road Kill MC #5 (11 page)

Heat rises; my neck's a torch holding my head
upright. I rub my nape, feeling how warm it is, then drop my
hand.

“Okay.” Viper holds up his hands. “We've
established that this girl—” He waits.

“Shannon,” I offer, and no one breathes a word.
Better fucking not.

“Shannon, needs protection, but we also need to
be fucking careful. This is Bloods here. And there's more of them
than us. Even if our charters in Oregon and Idaho—and hell—Montana
help, we're still fucked in the ass without lube, if this comes to
an all-out war.”

“I thought we were taking back turf?” Trainer
asks in a serious voice.

Still hard for me to think of him as a brother,
but god
damn
if he didn't do his time as a prospect.

“We are, but all our moves are like a waltz. We
know the dance steps, and we're trying to lead reluctant
partners.”

“Pretty poetic, Viper,” Snare says.

“Stick around. I can wax poetic if the mood
strikes.”

Chuckling all around.

I know what I've done has stressed the resources
of the club and put us in a vulnerable position.

“What about that cop that's working undercover
in Chaos?” Storm asks.

I frown.

“What about him?” Viper asks. “Can't do anything
with that. We're all under wraps about his identity. He's still
playing MC.”

Everyone laughs. No one's got anything against
the cops. Actually, we do, but we’re saving it in case they get in
the way of us dealing arms.

Otherwise, everyone's fucking hunky-dory.

“Just sayinʼ.” Storm shrugs. “Thinking he might
have some insight.”

Prez hikes a brow, clear surprise reigning
supreme on his face. “Um, that's a good point, Storm.” He clears
his throat, and it sounds like a grunt. “So, getting the cops
involved in gang territory is never good.” He strokes his chin.

“You throwing down for Blondie?” Prez asks.

I would hit anyone else for calling her that.
“No,” I answer in a short word. “I didn't come here for club
support.” I lean back in the chair, folding my arms. “I wanted
intel. I knew Noose could provide it.”

“You also knew that you were coming between
Blood and pussy.”

Fuck. “Yeah.”

“So if you didn't think she mattered, and you
knew what was at stake, it was poor judgement, at best?”

Viper gets to the heart of shit.

I crack my knuckles under the table. “Yes,” I
hiss.

“If she's your property…” Viper shrugs.

“I know what it is if she's my property. I don't
need property.” I direct the veiled insult at Snare and Noose but
can't quite work up to disdain.

“Then we can't help you. If you throw down for
Blondie…”

My flinty eyes capture his.

Viper chuckles. “You got it bad, you stubborn
fuck. It's like a damn broken record. First, Noose loses his prick,
then Snare—fuck, I'm getting too old for all the babysitting I have
to do with you swinging dicks.” He shakes his head.

“I haven't Lost. My. Dick,” I say through my
teeth.

“Yet,” Storm says with a smile.

I stand.

Noose does, too, wagging a finger at me. “I
already pushed him over in his chair for ya.”

“I beat him up last year,” Snare volunteers, and
I slowly sit down again.

“Stay away from Blondie,” Viper says. “Noose
will look into why she's so attractive to Vincent. Because his
interest doesn't seem to agree. Plenty of bitches love the
gangbangers. He doesn't need this one. She's work.” He chuckles.
“But it seems like all the brothers don't take after simple.”

I scowl.

“Yeah,” Trainer says, sucking on a lollipop,
making his tongue bright red, “it's like
Sesame Street
. What
doesn't belong.”

“You're fucked up,” Storm says.

“I bet there's some shit for you to clean up,”
Trainer says conversationally.

Storm groans, and we laugh.

“He's right,” Viper says.

All heads turn to him.

“Noose will find out why this Shannon is so
interesting to the Bloods.”

I know why. They want her home. Her. Noose isn't
going to be finding out about that. I want to know about Shannon.
The woman. Not the commodity.

That's why Noose is pissed.

If I would admit she’s important to me, he would
be looking already. But because I won't, he got pissed.

I can't admit that to him. If I do, then it's
real.

Shannon

The Realtor is a smarmy guy with slicked-back
hair and perpetually pursed lips. His mouth is an angry line
underneath a beaky nose.

But he came highly qualified. His real estate
company is rated number one in the state. I heave a mental
sigh.

“Maybe two hundred thousand,” he sniffs, closing
the drape over the window that faces the busy street.

Herman Humphries has already trudged with his
expensive tie-up loafers across our diminutive backyard. An old
cyclone fence from the fifties still guards the perimeter of the
loosely rectangular parcel, and the clothesline runs from one side
of the yard to the other like a sad piece of punctuation.

A tiny strip of cracked and weathered concrete
circles from the back of the house and meets the front walk.

Humphries turns, giving my mom a condescending
smile, and my heart drops. Vincent had offered to buy the place for
fifty thousand more.

Plus my body. Might as well sell my soul to the
devil.

I swallow, shoring up bravery. “I thought it was
worth a bit more.”

Mom is silent.

“Yes, well, during the bubble in 2005 to 2007,
we could have got mid-threes for this piece. But now”—he shrugs
dismissively—“it's only worth what the comps show.” He slaps a pile
of paperwork on our small kitchen table and gives a grim chin flick
toward them. “These are the comparable properties sold in the last
three months.”

I glance at the papers. My vision blurs as I see
figures lower than two hundred thousand.
Damn.

I look up into his face. He wears a vague and
slightly amused smile. I study my Converse shoes, thinking of what
to say.

“I could try to put your property on the market
for one ninety-nine,” he says like he's doing us a favor.

I meet his eyes again. “Thank you for coming,
Mr. Humphries,” I manage to choke out. “I think my mom and I will
need a day to think it over.”

“Suit yourself.” He reaches out to shake Mom's
hand, but she doesn't move.

Shaking hands is painful for her, and he's too
stupid to notice her issues.

His lips lift in distaste, and he turns to me.
His smile brightens. “I'll leave you with the card of another
client of mine who might be willing to pay more before
listing.”

My heart begins to race.
More
?
Fantastic.

He shakes my hand, slipping a business card into
my palm. I try not to peek as the pompous prick makes the short way
to the door.

I let him out and close the door, carefully
engaging the million locks.

Mom's face is sour. “That man is the president
of his own fan club.”

“Uh-huh,” I murmur, opening my hand to check out
the card.

Vincent sends his regards
, it reads.
Bastard.

I close my hand in a fist, squeezing my eyes
shut. I just gave this loser free reign of my property.

He’s obviously the one who set this wheel in
motion with the purchase of the commercial buildings that flank our
house to the bitter end.

God.

I try not to cry, but the effort makes me want
to hyperventilate. Heat suffuses my head, and I sway.

“Shannon, what is it?”

Mom's voice. Worried.

I pry my eyelids open, my arm rigid with holding
the damning little note from Vincent the Gangbanger.

“He's not self-important.”

“Who?” Mom asks sharply.

“Humphries.” I hang my head, and my long hair
falls forward. “He's working for Vincent.”

I walk to where she sits and hand over the card.
Mom carefully unfolds it. “We'll contact another real estate
company.”

“No,” I say. “They're all going to be paid off
with this guy's gang money. I bet this entire area of real estate
has been tagged for their perusal first.”

Mom's face tells me my guess is right.

“I'm going to talk to Vincent.”

“Shannon, no—it's not worth your life.” With
swollen hands Mom tries to grip the edge of her favorite chair,
powerless to make me see reason, powerless to make this situation
better.

“He's not going to kill me, Mom,” I say with a
lot more bravado than I feel.

Vincent will just rape me and take my soul. I'll
live.

Sort of.

*

I know where he hangs out.

Smoothing my damp palms over my jeans, I knock
on the door of the commercial building that stands to the south of
our house. While I wait, my mind wanders to Wring and what he did
for me.

Two hoodlums, as Mom would call them, rake their
dark eyes up and down my body.

“Hey baby, I got something you need—right here.”
One grabs his crotch in a gruesome try at a come on.

Why does any man think grabbing his penis is
going to be an effective seduction?

I turn away and tense when one of them comes up
behind me.

“Hernando was talking to you, crack.”

Okay, maybe I was stupid to try to face Vincent
head on. I pivot on the top step of the front entrance to the
building, and Lead Thug grabs my shoulders, making blowfish kissing
noises close to my face.

“Just a taste,
chica
.”

“Get your fucking hands off her.”

I'm released so fast I stumble, and a hand
steadies me.

I twist at my torso and find that hard grip
belongs to Vincent.

“Hey, bitch,” he says to me in greeting.

“Ah!” the gangbanger behind me says.
“
You're
calling her a bitch.”

“She's not free game, Hernando. She's
my
bitch.”

I clench my teeth. I'll let his dumb comment
ride until I can find out what I can get.

Or what I can't.

Standing next to him again, I realize how big he
is. I gulp my fear like a bitter pill. His nose is taped, and heavy
bruising in half-moon swaths run from the bridge of his nose to
nearly his temples, crossing below is evil beady brown eyes.

Wring did this to his face.

A flutter of pure anxiety starts inside my
breastbone just thinking about Wring and what his reaction to me
being here would be.

It would be bad.

But he's not responsible for me. I'm responsible
for myself. And Mom.

I take a deep breath. Resolution kicks my ass,
and sheer stupidity propels me forward. “We need to talk.”

His hands run down my arms, and I shiver in
revulsion, but Vincent smiles. “I knew you'd see things my way,
baby.”

I'll never see things his way.

He pulls me by my hand inside the building, and
a bunch of gang members look up from their various pursuits.

A man is between a woman's legs and she's
groaning, shoving her hips into his face. I quickly look away, only
to be visually assaulted by a man's naked hips piston humping
another woman from behind.

My stomach rolls, and I try looking straight
ahead.

But I'm not blind to my periphery, where another
guy snorts drugs through his nose, using a dirty glass table top as
a platform.

Someone who is even bigger than Vincent walks
toward us with purpose in his stride.

Oh God.

“This the bitch that you've got a boner for?”
His lips twist.

“Yeah,” Vincent replies.

Eyes bright with anger, the guy nods.

Then he backhands me.

I spin, landing on my knees, using my good hand
to avoid falling flat on my face. Blood drops splatter across the
rough cement floor, and I cry out, my cheek instantly aflame.

Not sure what I expected, but getting beat up
wasn't really it.

“Don't,
jefe
. I'll keep the bitch in
line.”

Surprise, surprise, Vincent wants to beat me,
but nobody else can.

“Nope,” he snarls, “she brought those fucking
Road Kill bastards in to protect her.”

I didn't. But that doesn't matter, because this
guy believes I did.

He yanks me up by the back of my pants, and I
don't even think about how strong a man would have to be to do that
to a full-grown woman.

Rolling nausea churns in my stomach. “Please!” I
throw up my arm in front of my face, and he tears it away, eyes
blazing into mine.

We look each other over.

A smile starts to break over his face, and I'm
surprised to notice how handsome he would be if he weren't
Vincent's leader. If his hair weren’t so greasy.

If he hadn't belted me.

“I like her, Vincent.” He thrashes me. Hard. My
head leaps back and forward. “You that fucker's property?”

What?

I shake my head, saying no without words seems
safest.

“No MC fuck is going to come between a Blood and
pussy unless he's got a stake in shit.”

More shaking. My teeth click together, and I
reactively grab his leather coat to stop the horrible jarring.

He smirks.

“I don't know what you mean about property,” I
say quietly, licking blood off my lip and trying to sound calm.
Reasonable.

He turns to Vincent, who seems to do everything
but tuck his tail between his legs. “Is she fucking retarded?”

Vincent shakes his head. “No, hoss. She's pure.
Innocent.”

His face whips to mine. “You got a cherry,
bitch?”

The crowd of gang members around us grows.

Oh God. Oh God.
Oh God.

Hymen?

I don't know how to respond. If I say yes—will
they
not
do the unthinkable? If I say no, will they gang
rape me? My expression must be all dumb.