with all the anger I can't suffocate.
“What?” she asks, so out of breath that her one-word question is a whisper.
“Who did this?” I jerk my head toward her neck.
No response.
So I drag her away from her car, and she screams, dropping to the ground.
Okay.
I haul her easily into my arms, and she thrashes, beating me with her fists.
“Fuck!” I bellow. “Trying to help here!”
Rose stops whacking me.
Big tears spill out of her eyes, and she clutches my shirt. “You're not going to hurt me?” she asks in that same harsh whisper.
I push hair out of her eyes, which are leaking everywhere.
All my carefully rehearsed words fly out the window. “Fuck no. I wouldn't ever hurt you.”
“What are you doing here?”
Good fucking question. I've been asking myself that all day.
“You gonna freak out again if I set you down?”
She shakes her head.
I don't know, looks like it could go either way. I set her down carefully, and we assess each other.
“You're tall,” she says.
“You're beautiful,” I blurt, and instantly want to kick my own ass.
But she smiles. Not a fake thing that gets pasted on, but a genuine, makes-my-heart-pound smile.
She looks down at her feet. “Why are you here?”
Yeah, that. “I wanted to talk to you.”
Her head whips up. Half her hair is falling out of some bun thing in the back. I want to run my fingers through it, but I manage to restrain myself.
“You don't know me,” she says.
I touch the red marks on her neck and ask more gently, “Who did this?”
She seems to remember something and whirls around, facing the path she came shooting out of like a loose cannon.
I study the gloom but don't see anything.
Rose turns back and mumbles, “Nobody.”
Right. I smile then. I know it's not a nice smile. “So you choked yourself.” I mime wrapping my own fingers around my throat, making choking noises.
When she blushes, I drop my hands. “Don't cover for some prick. Who did this?” My eyes rake her body. Her exercise pants are rolled down from her waist on one side as if they were screwed on the wrong way.
A large bruise sits at her hip.
I touch it, fingertips feathering across the mark.
Rose gasps, clutching my hand.
We groan at the same time.
“God,” I say through my teeth, my dick beginning to stand at attention.
“What is it?” she asks, her eyes searching mine for answers.
“I don't know, but I'm gonna find out.”
Rose moves away, and I don't press. “You have marks on you. And I don't like it. Explain.”
She glances down then laughs. “That's me being a klutz. I ran into a countertop at work.”
Thank Christ. That still doesn't explain the throat. I stare at her skin.
“You—I don't know who you are, not really.”
I adjust my crotch with a shift of my weight. “Yeah, ya do. I met you at the bank three days ago.”
Her laugh is shaky. “True, but obviously you're an important client, an d… well, I don't associate wit h… bikers,” she says softly.
No disrespecting the club. I hate that Rose does. I take a step closer, and she flinches.
Her fear pisses me off. “I don't hurt women. And I would never hurt you.”
She nods. “I believe you. But this thing”—she indicates her throat—“isn't any of your business, and I'm okay now.” Her eyes dance away from mine.
It isn't fucking okay, and we both know it.
“Take a ride with me,” I say suddenly.
She shakes her head, nervous eyes roaming my ride.
Fuck. I work it up from the bottom of somewhere and finally ask, “Please.” I offer my hand, palm up.
Rose studies my face for a long time.
Women don't reject me. I never gave a shit before.
I feel a wave of heat climbing my face as she stands there silently.
Then Rose surprises the hell out of me when her much smaller hand slides inside mine. It feels right.
And dangerous.
7
Rose
Wind.
Noise.
Smells.
The temperature drops as we move through a swale in the winding country road. The heat of his body seeps