Chapter 3
Chapter Three
Parker
Allowing the car to roll to a stop, I pull over to the side of the road and sigh.
It wasn’t supposed to be like this. The plan was to arrive all fresh and rosy, a smile on my face, a letter in my hand, and plenty of money to spare so I could set myself up and not look like a complete scrounger.
But no…said plan was fucked up the arse by an uppity cunt who stabbed me literally in the back for dancing with her man—bet she regrets that now, though, while she’s pushing up daisies in the dirt.
And the US healthcare system is no joke. I actually had to pay to not die. So now I’m poor as a motherfucker and I will have to walk the rest of the way.
It’s almost dark, the sky a dusky blue as the sun sets, and I grab my bag and suitcase from the back seat, leaving the keys in the car because, well, I have no more use for her.
The wind is blowing a soft breeze against my pale skin as I start walking, the heat from the day retreating and cooling me down.
I love this time of night, the transition in the colors of the sky and the smell of salt wafting up from the sea nearby.
It feels like this place could be home…as long as I find him and maybe don’t kill anyone else. That would be good.
The wheels of my bright-purple suitcase scrape across the asphalt behind me as I pass a gas station, the dull noise drowned out by the sound of cars continuing on their journeys around me.
Lucky fucks. I could steal a car. It’s not like I’m a novice, but I’m trying to avoid unwanted attention and start a new life, not live the same old shit from before.
Sounds of life from the large town make me pause and take a deep breath. This is the same point I faltered last time. Although, I had my car then and I parked in the parking lot beside the gas station.
Will he even want to see me? I have spent the last year of my life wanting nothing more than to see him.
If my mum hadn’t been American, it would have taken longer.
Thank you, dual citizenship and the occasional trip across the pond when Mum wasn’t too doped up, meaning the majority of my paperwork to be here permanently was already dealt with.
Then I applied for my new social security number before I flew over so that I can actually work here legally too. Only took two weeks…
Fuck it, I’m going in the bar again. I walk past the gas station and through the parking lot beside it toward the same bar I frequented when I came before.
A sensible person would avoid it or pass on by without a glance, but I am not she.
I need some Dutch courage and there’s a guy I need to thank, because I’m polite like that.
Also, if there happen to be more assholes inside too, then I wouldn’t be mad.
I just need to avoid getting stabbed again.
Waiting four months before returning felt like a whole other lifetime, but realistically, I needed the dust to settle because I don’t fancy getting arrested for murder in a foreign country.
I constantly checked the Internet for local news stories about the death of the woman, but nothing ever came of it so I’m pretty sure I’m in the clear.
Those asshole guys with her must have covered it up, but I hadn’t stuck around long enough to find out for sure.
“Ma’am, would you like us to put your suitcase in the coat check?”
I fucking love the American accent. It doesn’t matter what lilt they have to their words, it’s always considerably better than my bog-standard, boring London one.
“No, thanks, I’m just here to find someone.”
He nods, his bleach-blonde hair falling into his eyes. He looks like the stereotypical surfer dude who hangs around at the beach on his off days—if I can stay, surfing is on my to-do list.
“Should be easy, it’s Wednesday so we’re not busy tonight.” Grinning, he steps aside so I can enter, wheeling my case behind me. Amusement dances in his gaze as he eyes my luggage, a clearly held-back smile on his thin lips, but he doesn’t say anything else.
The sun has disappeared completely before I am fully inside the bar and it doesn’t take long to realize the surfer dude was right.
This place is dead. There are three men propping up the bar, disheveled suits and all, seemingly enjoying after-work drinks.
And there are only two tables occupied; one by a group of women excitedly taking selfies and filming each other drinking their fancy cocktails, the other by some loved up couple holding hands over the small round table between them.
None of the people in here are the man I hoped to find. Although, the chances of him being here mid-week, four months later, were slim.
The clink of glasses and the pouring of shots has me inching closer toward the bar. If I’m being honest with myself, I’m stalling. This whole bar detour is me stalling. I did exactly the same thing last time.
“Whiskey, please.”
The bartender smiles politely and pours my drink as I sit on one of the tall, backless stools. I place my backpack beside my case, at my feet, and slide the money on the bar.
More people begin to fill the place up as the minutes—okay, hours—pass by, but it’s still relatively empty for a thriving bar. Not that I would know with my limited knowledge of one visit on a Saturday night.
I’m three whiskeys and four tequilas in before the first man approaches me, a cocky grin telling me he thinks he actually stands a chance. Now, I’m no prude, far from it, but I do have some standards, and a beefy prick with greasy hair tied atop his head into a shitty bun is not the one.
“Can I get you a drink?” He sidles up beside me, briefly glancing down to my case but opting to ignore it.
I could say no, but who am I to refuse a drink?
“Sure. Tequila.” I grin politely. It feels more like a grimace, but I’m trying.
“Oh, you have an accent! Are you Australian?” His eyes widen as he sits on the next stool and clicks his fingers for the bartender like a complete wanker.
Already, I want to punch this dude in his smug and greasy face.
“No. I’m English.” Why do they always think I’m Australian?
“That’s cool. I love the Brits. Allo Guvna.” He laughs as though he’s the funniest man in the world. He is far from it.
I down the tequila shot placed in front of me and stand, resisting the strong urge to smash this guy’s face into my empty glass.
“Thanks for the drink.” I’m still trying the polite thing where I avoid the trouble I heavily attract. Grabbing my backpack and the handle of my suitcase, I start to walk away, until I’m stopped abruptly.
Slowly, I turn my head to look behind me, finding the grinning wanker holding on to my case. I glare at him, silently promising a painful death if he doesn’t remove his hand.
“Aren’t you going to repay me?” The utter gall of this freak.
I tilt my head to the side, eyeing him up and down, measuring his worth. He was found wanting the moment he approached. Without offering him a response, I turn away again, yanking at my case to loosen his grip.
It works. Thankfully.
Nobody is dying today.
I start to walk toward the entrance, ready to pull up the maps on my phone to see how far I have to go before I arrive at my final destination. However, the greasy wankstain apparently didn’t get the hint.
“Hey, there’s no need to be rude, Red. Come on, I’ll let you sit on my lap if you say sorry.”
Red. Red.
I fucking hate when lazy nutsacks use my hair color to nickname me. I am not on my way to Grandma’s house with a basket of muffins about to get my wolf on.
Still, I ignore him and continue on.
Next comes a sharp slap to my arse, followed by a very unwanted squeeze.
My blood is boiling, heat traversing my body and powering my rage, but, again, I exercise all the restraint I have ever possessed, determined not to have a déjà vu moment, and ignore him.
“You’re not even that good looking. Stuck up bitch.” Seemingly, this man has a death wish, because he shoves past me, makes me stop in my tracks, and he has the audacity to look at me like shit on his shoe. “In America, it’s not polite to accept a drink from a man without putting out.”
Fine. Inhaling a deep breath, I allow a real smile to spread across my lips.
“How about you take me to the alley behind the gas station?” I flutter my lashes, casually pushing my breasts together with my arms, my ample cleavage impossible to miss.
The man’s weasley eyes zero in on my exposed flesh, the v-cut top beneath my waist-length jacket giving him a great view.
Got him.
“I knew you were a dirty little whore.” His gaze heats and he licks his lips, his aim clearly to turn me on, and I let him think it’s working with a light giggle.
Without waiting for me to say another word, he grabs my free arm and begins leading me outside. Eager beaver.
The chill has picked up a little more, but when I’m finished with this twatwaffle I can slide on a thick sweater from my case. We walk in silence, him in anticipation of the orgasm he thinks he’s going to get, and me in anticipation of seeing him with a broken nose.
“This would be easier if you were wearing a skirt, but I can make do if you just pull your pants down and bend over.” Another slap to my arse before he grips my chin, squeezes my cheeks, and fucking licks the tip of my nose.
It takes everything inside me not to rip his nuts off, here and now.
Shoving me against the wall once we reach the alley, he begins working on his belt and zipper, and I waste no time punching him in the weaselly face.
“You fucking bitch!” I dodge the wide swing of his arm as he punches the wall instead, his other hand holding his face where—oh yes—blood is pouring from his nose. “Ah!”
“Why do men like you think that calling a woman a bitch is an insult? All it does is show me how small your vocabulary range—and probably dick—really are.” I shrug, the years of training at a boxing gym near my mum’s old house helping me to avoid each of this prick’s weak swings.
I punch him again, straight and true, into his stomach, fist-pumping when he doubles over, winded. I’m ready to walk away, satisfied, but the roar of motorcycle engines catches my attention. Maybe they…ooof.
Shit. I took my eyes off of my opponent and now I’m on my arse after having my feet swept from beneath me.
My elbows sting from the rough asphalt and I’m sure I’ve torn a hole in my jacket, but that’s the least of my worries as the long-haired grease machine practically dives on me and his meaty fist lands against my cheek.
“That fucking hurt!” I punch him back, then push my arm into his mouth when he yells, scrabbling around the area beside me for something to stab him with.
I’ll probably have to get a rabies shot because his teeth rip open the skin on my arm, but my left hand finally finds something that feels sharp. Stabby.
He wraps a palm around my neck and starts to apply pressure.
“Harder, baby.” I grin, tasting the sweet tang of copper in my mouth, no doubt coloring my teeth with red stains.
“Crazy fucking bitch.” His other hand joins the first one and I laugh as my airway is restricted.
I don’t have long before I’m out for the count at this rate and I want to live, so I’m breaking my own rule for the night. I was just going to fuck him up a little, teach him a lesson in how to talk to women, but he’s gone too far and the dumpsters here are the perfect place to put a dead body.
Blood pools from his nose as I keep punching at it, quickly lifting my other arm to stab him in the neck. Once. Twice. And I have to stop myself from busting into song with Three Times A Lady…
I uncurl my fist from his face when I notice three of my new nails are broken. It only makes my anger rise because they were fucking expensive. A treat to myself two days ago.
Dropping the sharp stone, or whatever was on the ground beside us, I opt for punching him as his hold on my neck loosens significantly.
“I.” I slam my fist into his side while trying to push his dying body off me. “Wanted.” Another punch. “To.” Again. “Look.” Punch. “Nice.” Punch.
“You’re a f-fucking bitch…” Then there’s some mumbling, and his body goes lax, heavy…
“Get off me!”
Seconds later, the weight is gone and I’m free, the rapey wanker being held up with ease and a knife to his throat by an underwear model in leathers.
“Oh my God, he almost suffocated me. Thanks, dude.” I stand, dusting myself off as best I can, but the only thing getting the blood out of my clothes at this point is an incinerator. Fuck.
The underwear model—because no real human is this devastatingly sexy—slowly realizes that the dead weight is…well…dead, and he raises his brows as he drops the man to the asphalt.
Fighting and sex go hand in hand and my pussy is throbbing for attention, and the way this model is looking at me is sending my clit into overdrive. It feels like it’s in complete control as my nipples pebble beneath my top and my hands rise to my mouth, my fingers pressed against my lips.
“Oops?”
He stares for a moment longer before bursting into laughter and the sound…oh, the sound…it’s like electricity is buzzing through my veins and setting me alight.
Then I actually take a moment and register what it says on his leather cut. Sons of Khaos. Road Captain.
He’s one of them.
Oh, God. What if it’s him?
I’ve just imagined how many ways his dick can penetrate all of my holes and now…
I think I’m going to vomit.