Grit (Dirty #6)

  I arch off the desk.

  He stands.

  The next few seconds catapult into a frantic haze of need and desire. I jerk and wrench at his pants, shoving my own off as I go. He hauls my shirt up and bra down. We’re teeth and tongues and panted breath, licking and kissing every inch of each other we can reach.

  And then he’s inside of me, making my heart pound harder.

  I watch the pleasure on his face as our bodies join, knowing I make him feel that way.

  “Link…” I almost say it. I almost tell him.

  If I were brave enough, or strong enough, or sure enough, then I’d say it. But I’m not any of those things. Not yet. And so I keep it to myself.

  Six

  Link

  I’m parked outside of Gillian’s, a local restaurant well known for their greasy burgers and other fried cuisine. It also happens to be where Rocky’s rapist works.

  I’ve been sitting in the car for sixty solid minutes, trying to talk myself out of going inside. From this vantage point, I have a pretty good view inside, but I’ve only seen a picture of Garrett once. It’s hard to tell which of the male staff is him from this position.

  I shouldn’t be here. If Rocky knew, she’d be upset. Pissed off and scared. Emotions I don’t want her to feel. Everything inside of me is telling me to start the car and go to her place. But I can’t make myself leave. The image of the gun is stuck in my head. She said she needed it because Bates hasn’t been sentenced and Garrett is walking around free.

  Bates goes to court soon. The fucker didn’t even have the decency to plead guilty like Anthony did. There’s not much I can do until it’s time to testify against him.

  But Garrett… He’s right fucking there.

  I could do it. I know I could. I’ve done it once before. The guilt of my actions eats at me every minute of every day, but I’d gladly carry more to lessen Rocky’s burden.

  If he’s gone, she can feel safe. And I will have given her that.

  My fists crush the steering wheel as I force myself to stay in my seat.

  This is fucked up. I’m fucked up.

  I was stuck. For years, I was rooted in place. My only thoughts—no, my only purpose—was finding retribution for Livie. Her death came as a shock. One minute, we’re together, walking hand-in-hand, happy and in love. My life was close to perfect. The only thing missing was a ring on her finger. The ring I never got a chance to give her because the very next minute, four men stepped in our path.

  I made the conscious decision to keep Bates alive. I gave vengeance up for Rocky.

  Now I have no purpose.

  What the hell do I do with myself?

  If I can’t even make her feel safe, what is my reason for being here? Why did God take Livie—someone who could have done so much good in the world had she only been given the chance—and instead, leave me? Why?

  Why?

  I thought I was here to help others. To keep others from making the mistakes I did. Make them stronger. Teach them how to protect themselves.

  I can’t even protect Rocky properly.

  But getting rid of Garrett is a start.

  I know if I kill him, I could very well lose her. If I don’t kill him, I could very well lose her.

  There was a time she wanted him dead. She was ready to do it herself, but I stopped her. I didn’t want her to feel what I felt—still feel. The responsibility and consuming remorse left behind after taking a life.

  It’s a life.

  He’s a life.

  He’s a shitty, worthless excuse for a life, but a life all the same.

  I hate feeling this way. I don’t want to be helpless.

  My phone vibrates in my pocket and I finally release my grip on the wheel. Rocky’s name flashes with a text, reminding me where I should be right now.

  Dinner’s ready.

  I feel my brows lift in surprise. Rocky hasn’t made a meal since I met her. Unless you count pouring milk on cereal—which I don’t.

  You cooked?

  Hell no. I ordered out.

  How domestic of you.

  I’m Suzie Fucking Homemaker. Hurry up before I eat it all.

  I’m on my way. Save room for dessert.

  By dessert, do you mean your penis?

  I laugh, the sound erupting in the silent car. It surprises me and I rein it in immediately. This is all so normal. The texting, the dinner plans, the flirting. Everything besides the fact I’m sitting in my car, outside of Garrett’s place of employment, trying to talk myself out of murdering him.

  I don’t know how to do normal anymore. She makes me want to try though. So I try.

  Or any other body part you want. Just name it.

  Hm. All of them sound pretty good.

  Then they’re all yours.

  As soon as I send it, I ponder the truth of it. How much of myself belongs to Rocky?

  It feels wrong to let go of my anger for Livie’s death or to replace the pain with joy. Letting Livie go seems like betrayal. Keeping her feels like deceiving Rocky.

  Seven

  Rocky

  Joe switches off the ignition and turns to look at me. “You ready to pop some caps?” He grins, all gums and teeth.

  I blink slowly, staring back at him. “Do people say that?”

  “I just did,” he points out as he grabs the bag between my feet and slides out of the car. I follow, trying to maintain the resigned façade I’ve perfected, but it’s difficult when I’m secretly ecstatic to pop some caps.

  I roll the hairband off my wrist and fashion a sloppy bun while I trail behind my brother. The weather is biting today, stinging my cheeks and instantly freezing my nose. I huddle into my coat hiding my face in the warmth. Link’s scent is on my shirt and I inhale deeply, filling my lungs. I feel my lips curve into a smile beneath my wool refuge. There’s something so…gratifying about smelling like the man who is responsible for my orgasms.

  Joe pulls the door open, holding it for me. Always the gentleman, my brother.

  “Is that a smile on your face?” he asks, his voice displaying his astonishment. He says smile like it’s a dirty word.

  I didn’t smile much before Link came into my life. Before Link, I only bared my teeth to get my way—which mostly consisted of influencing men to give me head in bar bathrooms.

  My brother likes Link, and he’s always approved of the quiet, undisclosed relationship we share. Mostly, I think, because I’m not one to make friends. I’m the girl alienating everyone to keep them at a safe distance. Including my brother.

  This is new to him.

  I flick my eyes skyward, erasing any signs of pleasure from my face. I don’t even know how he could tell what I was doing behind my coat. “Maybe. Why?”

  He pauses, shaking his head from side to side. “It’s just nice to see.” He gestures toward his own eyes. “You look happy. It’s been a long time.”

  “Too long,” I admit.

  “You know I have questions, right?” His dark gaze meets mine and I can see more than just inquiries there.

  “You know I’m not going to answer them, right?” I stop by the counter, bending to examine the guns in the glass case.

  Joe squats beside me, his gaze gliding over the shelves. “You know I’m still going to ask them, right?”

  I nod without looking at him. “I know,” I say on a sigh. “You’re annoying like that.”

  “It runs in the family.” He nudges me with his shoulder and for some unknown reason this makes my heart hurt. I can’t remember the last time we talked like this. Just easy and casual.

  That’s not true. I do remember. It was when I was in high school. Before Garrett. Before all of Joe’s conversations became about his concern for his traumatized sister.

  It’s strange, the things you don’t realize you miss until you have them back.

  Joe checks us in and hands me a pair of safety glasses and heavy-duty earmuffs. I follow him through the double set of doors leading to the range. This is my firs
t time, so I try to take everything in.

  We pass a few older guys firing off revolvers so large my hand probably couldn’t even fit around the handle. It’s loud. I cringe at the noise and quickly slip the earmuffs into place. Joe keeps going, pushing through another door. I realize the range is split into sections separated by thick concrete walls. This area is empty and quiet.

  We stop at lane five and Joe sets his bag on the countertop. He motions for me to remove the earmuffs.

  “I want to go over basic safety again before we begin.”

  I’ve heard his spiel before—several times—but I nod, letting him know he has my full attention.

  “Always treat a gun like it’s loaded. Keep your index finger straight and stiff when you pick it up. Never pick it up with your finger on the trigger. In here, never point it anywhere but down range.” He throws a thumb over his shoulder, indicating the lane behind him.

  He pulls my gun out of the bag, but he doesn’t hand it to me. Instead, he places the fleshy part of his palm against one side and wraps his fingers over the other. He does this with the barrel facing down range the entire time.

  “Always know what you’re holding. Always remove the magazine first. Then check the chamber by wracking the slide.” He pops the magazine out and places it next to the bag, and then he pushes back on the slide and presses the lock into place, holding the chamber open. He peers in, verifying that it’s unloaded though he did this before he packed it.

  “Even if you think it’s empty, double and triple check it. You can never be too safe.” He sets it down and picks up the magazine. This is my favorite part. Knowing this, though I’ve never actually said it to him, my brother hands it to me with a small box of rounds.

  “Go for it. Down and back until it’s full.”

  I go to work, pressing cartridge after cartridge into the clip. I made the mistake of calling them bullets my first time and that got me a lecture on how the bullet is just the tip. There is gunpowder and a primer as well, and all of this together makes up a single round. When there is a round in the chamber, pulling the trigger causes the striker to hit the primer. The gunpowder then explodes, launching the bullet.

  When it’s reduced to science like that, it makes it less scary. I guess, for me, the more I understand something, the less it frightens me.

  I wish people were this easy to comprehend.

  Once it’s full, I hand the clip back to Joe and he loads the gun.

  “Safety glasses on,” he instructs. “You want to take a boxer’s stance. Feet apart, solid center, shoulders relaxed.” He mimics what he describes, holding the gun straight out in front of him. “The web of your thumb should press into the back. Fingers on the handle. A two-handed grip is best. Your thumbs should overlap.” He makes sure I understand before continuing. “There is going to be some kickback. It’s a small weapon, so there won’t be a lot, but it can throw you off balance. Keep your arms firm, but don’t strangle it. Pull slightly back with your left hand to reduce muzzle flip.”

  He touches the top of the slide, running his finger over the raised metal. “These are your sights. Line up your target just above these. Breathe out, and squeeze the trigger slowly.”

  He moves out of the way, holding it out. I slide my earmuffs back on and take the gun.

  “Don’t aim at anything or anyone you aren’t willing to shoot,” he yells as he presses the button on the wall, making the target glide backward.

  I step into the boxer’s pose as taught and lift my hands lining up the heart on my board. I suck in a breath and blow it out. My pulse quickens, hammering in my chest and my hands suddenly begin to shake. I take another deep breath, tightening my grip. I release it slowly. And then I pull the trigger.

  The rush of adrenaline is instantaneous. It buzzes under my skin like electricity. Swims through my veins, warming me. I feel the smile form on my face and I don’t try to conceal it.

  I pull the trigger again, and again, and again, slicing through the target.

  Eight

  Link

  “I’m tired,” Rocky pants, wiping sweat from her forehead with the back of her wrist. Wisps of stray hair cling to her neck. “We’ve been at this for over an hour. My back hurts. I smell bad. I’m done.”

  I drop my arms to my sides and blink through the perspiration dripping from my brow. I know I’ve had her here longer than normal. I know I’m asking a lot of her. But it’s important.

  “Not yet. You haven’t mastered the move.” I flick my fingers at her, motioning her to move her ass. “Again.”

  Defiant, Rocky plants her sneakered feet, placing her hands on her hips. Her head tips to the side and forward in the universal sign of go-fuck-yourself. “You’re not my dad, Link, and even if you were, I still wouldn’t do this. I’m done for today.”

  “No,” I agree, “I’m not your dad. I’m your boss and your self-defense instructor. And you will do this because I’m also your—”

  I pause, cutting myself off because I almost say boyfriend. My pulse vibrates in my neck uncomfortably. We pretty much live together. I’m in her bed every night. I know every inch of her body—biblically. We spend any and all free time we have with each other. But we have never labeled this thing between us.

  The word boyfriend has my stomach knotting. I haven’t been anyone’s anything since Livie died. Part of me wants to be Rocky’s everything. The other part can’t fathom it.

  “I fucking care about you,” I correct, “and I want to know you’re capable of protecting yourself.” I motion again. “Let’s go.”

  I’m not backing down. Not on this.

  Lush pink lips pucker in annoyance as two delicate dark brows rise. Even pissed off, she’s sexy as hell. My dick twitches beneath my basketball shorts, taking notice. I try to ignore it, determined to stay on course. We’ve been going at it like rabbits. You’d think my cock would want a break. It doesn’t. Not even a little.

  Sex can wait. Her safety cannot.

  “I’m not getting this tonight,” she says on a sigh, the frustration clear in her voice. “The more you force it, the more I don’t want to even try.”

  She pivots on her heel, reaching for the ropes. A flicker of last night’s dream flashes through my mind, and without thinking, I lunge, grabbing her.

  One hand locks into her ponytail, my other hand closing around her throat. An attack from behind—Rocky’s weakness. I’m pushing her farther than I ever have. Part of me knows I might be going too far. The other part wants to push harder.

  Her reaction is immediate, as it should be. She lowers her chin onto my hand at the same time her fingers lock around my pinky. She yanks, hard, causing me to lose my grip. She performs it perfectly.

  Before I register what’s happening, her other hand swings backward. A rock-hard fist connects with my testicles, setting off an explosion of pain.

  I release her hair automatically, but she isn’t finished with me yet. She steps diagonally and shifts, delivering an additional hit to my groin. This one knocks the breath out of me. I stumble back, but Rocky stays on me, advancing forward with each of my steps back.

  Good girl.

  The side of her hand chops into my jugular, causing my ears to ring and my vision to blur. I groan in discomfort. And then she dispenses the final blow. An unbridled kick between my legs.

  I fall.

  My body curls as I clutch my battered balls. Despite the agony, I’m so damn proud of her. She kicked my ass, which is not an easy feat. I should leave it at that, but I didn’t have my ass handed to me for nothing. This is a training exercise.

  I swipe my leg between her feet, knocking her to the mat. She falls on top of me and I twist quickly so I’m the one above her, pressing her back to the floor.

  “I don’t remember teaching you that move,” I rasp.

  Her chest rises and falls quickly below me, her breasts grazing my bare skin with each gulp of air. Being with her like this, it’s impossible to ignore the attraction—even with the burni
ng ache in my lower regions and my cramping stomach.

  “I’m pretty sure I just taught you a few things,” she puffs. “I hope I didn’t hurt you too badly.” The slow smirk that curves her lips makes me smile—something I’m slowly growing accustomed to.

  “You did a number on the boys.”

  Utilizing another defense move I showed her a while back, she lifts her arm, sweeping one of mine out, in return, causing me to lose my balance. She rolls us, claiming my spot on top. She grins triumphantly and I mentally call it. She wins.

  Rocky’s lips graze mine slowly. “Do you need me to kiss them and make them better?”

  My cock jerks violently. Unable to miss it, she pushes her warmth closer, gliding back and forth against me in an agonizing rhythm.

  A moan, low and tortured, reverberates in my chest.

  “I’ll take that as a yes,” she murmurs, sliding down my body. Openmouthed kisses are placed along my heated flesh, trailing down my stomach. Her tongue swirls through the patch of hair low on my naval and my breath leaves me in a burst.

  “Fuck,” I choke. “Rocky, stop. I’m sweaty.”

  Hooded brown eyes peer at me as her fingers work into the waistband of my shorts. “I like you sweaty.”

  My balls pull tight, now aching for an entirely different reason. Sometimes she says something so simple, but it affects my whole damn body—inside and out.

  Any thought is shut down the moment Rocky’s hand circles my shaft. Her tongue slides up the length before taking me inside her mouth. My head falls back to the mat. Because of her past—being attacked by two different men—I hold back as much as possible. I don’t thread my fingers through her hair and take over like I crave. Instead, I stay stock still, nails digging into my palms. This is how I’ll stay until she gives the go ahead. The muscles in my abdomen tighten. A breath hisses through my teeth. But I don’t touch her. I give her all the power.

  One by one, Rocky loosens my fists, placing my hands on her face, silently giving me permission to let go. But I don’t. Not yet. I stroke her smooth skin gently; my only other movement is the gradual lifting of my hips. I maintain the measured pace she started, refusing to take all of the control from her.