Wring: Road Kill MC #5 (7 page)

There's a slight upward grade to the concrete
driveway, and we roll up there. I park then turn off the ride.

Shannon taps my shoulder then dismounts. With a
little smile and wave, she begins to walk away. The small gesture
of both thanks and temporary goodbye makes something deep inside me
shift.

Fuck.

I don't know if I can let her go, this girl who
lives in a shitty little house crammed between these buildings.

My eyes follow her, taking in the legs sticking
out of the skirt, the low-heeled shoes, and the blouse.

She would look so hot in the stuff I have in
mind.

I watch her until she's safely inside, then
light a smoke. I inhale deeply and shoot the smoke into the air,
thinking that stress and smoking go together. The two
S
s.

I chuckle, folding my arms. Looking way up at
the buildings, I remember something. I swing my leg over the seat
and take in the colorful graffiti running along the concrete
bulkhead that borders both buildings, ending abruptly at Shannon's
property line.

At first glance, it looks exactly like what it
should. Art. Graffiti isn't unlawful everywhere anymore. Good old
Kent decided to embrace it here. But hidden in the colorful swaths
of bubble letters and rainbow artifice are the skillful tags of the
Bloods.

See our territory?
those symbols hidden
in plain sight ask.

Road Kill's seen them. Read them. Knows what
they mean for the club.

My gaze travels again to Shannon's battered
little house. The front windows sparkle like good-humored eyes. I
peer closer. There aren't any weeds in the flowerbed. The front
door has a fresh coat of paint, and the gutters are clean.

I chuckle again, not that there's any debris to
clog. The damn buildings flanking her place don't allow much from
nature.

I suddenly sit up ramrod straight, flicking
my cig on the ground and tramping it down with the toe of my boot.
That's why that Blood is after her.

Shannon's house stands between two Blood
buildings. Sure, they look legit. That's why they're here—trying to
get some place that makes their shit seem aboveboard. Actually,
they would like to make a new place as seedy as the old one.

Fuckers.

What I can't figure out is why she wouldn't get
the hell out of here when the worst gang in the four-state area is
nipping at her heels.

Shannon that stubborn?
A smile spreads on
my face.
I like ʼem feisty.

She opens the door, exiting the front. Her face
is relieved. I can see it even though she stands in profile.

Shannon uses four locks on the door.

O
h yeah, she knows how dangerous
continuing to live here is.

As she walks over to me, I notice she took the
time to change.

Tight jeans hug her small body, and her
long-sleeved T-shirt, a deep-green color, is just as tight. Black
short boots are on her feet. Gone are the librarian clothes. Thank
fuck. They were not sexy. Not that Shannon has to be sexy.

Yeah, she does.
My chin sinks, and I hide
my smile. She grabs the leather jacket she borrowed from Rose and
shrugs it on. It just about works. Except across the chest.

Rose has got the biggest tits. Shannon's still
look pretty fucking perfect to me.

“What?” she asks defensively, then her face
tightens as she struggles to get the other sleeve of the leather
on.

“Let me do it,” I say and walk to her.

“No.” She stumbles back. “I got it.”

“Not gonna hurt you, Shannon.”

Her eyes flick to mine then away. “I know.” The
empty sleeve dangles off her shoulder, and she cradles her hurt
wrist against her chest.

“I'm not that Vincent prick. If you recall, I'm
the one that gave him the little knuckle face dance, and I fed you.
Technically, Rose fed you—had you meet some of my people.”

Her lips quirk, and she looks at me, nodding
quickly. “I know.”

Awkward silence stands between us. I exhale in
an irritated rush. “Then what's the fucking problem?”

She twists her hands then cries out.

A crack starts inside me from that sound, and I
take her good hand, pulling her against me.

Shannon resists, putting her good arm between
us. The sleeve flops around.

I wrap her against me, tucking her head
underneath my chin. She's just barely short enough to do it, but I
mash her against me.

“Stop fighting whatever this is.”

“What is it?” she asks softly. Fragile.

“Fuck if I know. I'm just a guy that saw another
dude rough you up. Didn't like it.” I lift my shoulder, arms still
securing her against me.

“So I could have been any female, and you would
have pulled over and taken care of it.”

I think about her words. I'm an honest guy. Gets
me into trouble. Some might call me “brutally honest,” but it’s
just who I am.

“Most,” I admit.

She struggles from underneath my chin, and my
stubble captures loose strands of platinum hair the quick braid she
did before coming back out.

“So I'm nothing special?”

Not yet.
I cup the back of her head for
one second then step away. “No.”

Shannon smiles, looking relieved.

Pisses me off.

I turn away from her and speak as I walk toward
my ride. “Let's ride. Get ya to the club and then you can go
home.”

“Okay.”

She slips in behind me, and her body feels
right. Like she's always been at the back of my ride, against me.
Like she's a piece of me I've been missing.

I know it's bullshit.

Shannon is just another sweet butt in prissy
clothes. I'm never going to have what Noose and Snare have. That's
fairytale shit.

And—I never believed.

I feel a tap on my shoulder and scowl.
What
now?

I crane my head around and look at her. Already
pissed. She sort of rejected me. Crushed my autopilot mode I was
just fine on.

“Wring?”

“Yeah,” I reply, suddenly dying for a smoke. Or
ten.

She touches my face briefly. “Thanks for helping
me.”

“Yeah,” I turn around fast, chest tight.
Chicks.

I roll out of there fast, not asking any more
questions. Not giving a fuck.

Giving too many.

Shannon

I cling to Wring's muscled back, trying to keep
my mind on what's important. Figuring out my wrist. Then getting
back to fix mom's supper.

When my thoughts turn to Vincent, I squeeze my
eyes shut, and envision a future where he's skulking around every
corner.

Not much of one.

I try not to think about how despondent it made
me to hear Wring admit I was just a random woman in need of
rescuing. But what did I expect? He's in some rival gang to the
Bloods or whatever they are.

That still doesn't explain why Wring, by his own
admission, took such a huge chance by stepping in where he clearly
didn't belong.

Forget it, Shannon
.
He doesn't
matter.

Figure out your priorities:
Mom. Wrist.
Job. God,
my job.

I forget it all, trying to look around me and
put my thoughts on a little-used shelf inside my tired brain. I
don't dust the things I put there; I just push them to the back
where they don't taunt me with their presence.

Wring takes me up West James Street, and we
climb the roughly five hundred feet out of Kent Valley, the bike a
warm rumbling presence between my thighs.

We cross Benson Street, now 515, and catch a
rare green light just when we need it. He flies through, tempting
the forty-five miles an hour speed limit.

When we get to 132nd and take a left, I lose
track. After two more rights and a left, we roll down a long
driveway and up to a huge old concrete building with windows really
close to the roof.

Speaking of the roof.

I look up—way up. It has glass panels, similar
to a greenhouse. I feel my brows come together.
Huh?

When Wring turns off the bike, I wait. He pats
my leg, and I have a pang of regret.

I've never ridden on a bike before Wring.

I've never had a man sacrifice for me. I'm no
saint. I've dated—a lot. But once a man realizes I come as a
package deal, they're out of here.

So I kind of gave up. On myself. On life.

Not that Wring would have been in the category
of guys who would put up with Invalid Mom. It's almost enough to
make me laugh.

Wring gets off after me, and I hand him the
helmet he lent me. I give a little shiver. The bike is warm, the
man is hot—but I'm not wearing a bike-riding outfit.

He gives me a lopsided grin, lifting his chin.
“Helmet fits like shit.”

I smile back. It was a little loose.

He puts his hands on his hips, seeming to think
about something, glancing at the structure behind us. “It's Sunday,
but there's some guys already here.” Wring stops, and so do I.
“This is our new digs. Nobody knows where we're at just yet, and we
want to keep it like that.” His serious eyes hold mine.

I lift a shoulder. “Of course.”

“Stay by me, or the guys will hassle you.”

I stop walking toward the door again. “Why? I'm
not doing anything wrong.”

He throws his head back, full belly
laughing.

Not
funny.

“You're gorgeous. And nobody's property, so
yeah, sweet thing—they're gonna tag team you, Shannon.”

I can feel my lips purse. “Tag team?”

He sighs, passing his palm back and forth over
his hair in frustrated swipes. Wring walks slowly toward me, and I
fight not to back up. He's all menace. And even though Wring
doesn't direct it at me, it's clearly a part of who and what he
is.

He must see something on my face. “I'm not gonna
hurt ya.” He sounds insulted.

I nod, meeting his bright azure eyes. “I know.
But I-I had a scare today, and my wrist hurts and…” I study my
scuffed old boots. “Maybe I don't have a job anymore,” I end
quietly.

I bite my lip and duck my head against my chest,
trying to gather whatever remaining fortitude I have, forcing
myself not to lose it in front of this man. “And I don't want to be
ʻhassled,ʼ” I whisper.

Strong hands grip my shoulders. “Shannon, look
at me.”

Slowly, I lift my face and look into a gazer
that rivals the blue of the Caribbean seas. Staring into his face,
I know it would be so easy to forget the package of violence Wring
represents.

His fingers clasp my chin loosely. “I know this
isn't your world, and I'm sorry, but it's mine. I love the club,
and I'm taking you here to get fixed up, and then you can go back
to whatever citizen's existence you live.” His astute eyes search
my face, missing nothing. “But it wouldn't be right to just throw
you to the wolves in there. These guys won't hurt women, but they
sure like fucking, and you're just fresh meat to them.”

I blink, and the first traitorous tear crawls
down my face like a bloated, hot slug.

His face goes hard. “Don't fucking cry.”

I shake my head, and more fly off my face.
“Can't seem to help it.” I suck in a breath, feel like I'll
hyperventilate, and hold my breath.

My vision swims.

“Whoa—shit!” Wring hugs me. “Don't worry,
Shannon, nobody's going to touch you in violence here.”

“I can't stand it anymore, Wring. I'm sorry.
You've just caught me at a bad time.” That strikes me as funny, and
I start laughing. Can't stop.

Wring holds me through my crying, snotting,
laughing meltdown.

When I'm through, he steps away. “You gonna be
okay?”

I look at him for a full minute. Finally, I nod.
“I think so.”

He takes my hand, and I let him, remembering his
words that I wasn't anything special.

Good to know.

*

Wring wasn't kidding about the reception I would
receive.

Speculative eyes roam my form as Wring and I
walk through a crowd of bikers and scantily clad women. Ice clinks
in glasses filled with booze before noon, and loud music blasts
from four corners where Bose speakers are attached up high on the
wall.

It appears as though construction just wrapped
for the interior. A staircase leading up to the second floor has
only particle board treads, naked of carpet or wood. Maybe the
first floor is finished and the second isn't?

A large man moves toward us like a locomotive,
and instinctively, I move behind Wring.

“Yo, Wring, my man!” His eyes are a striking
blue, deeper than Wring's, and his hair is jet black. A cruel scar
bisects his face.

He and Wring tap knuckles, then the other guy
grabs him, hugging him and clapping him hard on the back. His eyes
take me in over Wring's shoulder and narrow contemplatively. “Who's
the sweet butt?”

I'm
really
beginning to hate that
term.

Wring smirks. “Nah, man, it's not like
that.”

He peers around Wring and gives me steady eyes.
He's huge, like the rest of them, but his eyes are kind.

“Ah-huh. So what's her story?”

“Later, Snare.” Wring's voice tells the guy not
to push.

Snare grabs his chest like he's having a heart
attack. “Are you
dismissing
my ass?”

Wring smiles crookedly. “Yup.” He pulls me after
him.

Snare plucks at my sleeve, catching my bad
wrist, and I hiss.

Wring whirls, grabbing Snare by the collar, and
I stumble backward.

“Don't touch her.”

Snare's eyes widen. “Hey, ya dicklick, I got
Sara, you fucking ʼtard.”

I hold my injured hand against my chest. The
room's sudden silence is deafening.

“What. The. Fuck?” Snare says. “Get your hands
off me.”

Wring tosses his hands away Snare, looking
embarrassed, pissed, and unsure. It’s a look I'm sure he doesn't
wear too often.