Beyond Control(65)

"Not bad." Metal clanged against metal as Bren straightened. "Finally got the carburetor rebuilt."

The words meant little to her. She'd never seen a working car up close before Bren had shoved her into one. "How long before you can drive it?"

"A while. It runs, but not well, not yet." His grease-smeared forearms flexed as he wiped his hands on a rag. "How was your shift?"

"Busy." Habit drove her fingers into her pocket to check the tightly rolled wad of bills, tips she'd managed to score from the perverse bastards who got off on being scowled at. "Rachel did her thing again."

"I know."

If she tried to talk about the panic that had sent her running, he'd listen. He'd watch her with those eyes that saw everything and probably understand parts of her she couldn't. It was too much exposure for one night, so she side-stepped the moment by hoisting herself onto the workbench. "Is it hard to learn how to drive?"

He tossed aside the rag and pulled two beers from a bucket next to the bench. "Depends on how good you are at turning off your brain and letting your body do the work."

From anyone else, the words would have sounded like a lewd, clumsy come-on. From Bren, it was a straightforward answer, one made all the more ironic by how her body reacted to him any time she was foolish enough to turn off her brain. She was painfully aware of his graceful movements, of the appealing, subtle shift of muscle under skin as he held out a bottle.

"You should know," she retorted, taking care not to let her fingers brush his as she accepted the beer. Maybe her tart tone would cover her confusion. "If I could stop thinking, maybe I'd actually beat you in a fight one of these days."

A rare smile curved his lips. "I've had years of training when it comes to fighting, and decades of practice on the not thinking."

Those smiles were dangerous, and not because they made her skin tingle. They were dangerous because she couldn't not smile in return, her lips tilting up to ruin her scowl. "That just makes you old. I will put you on your ass next time."

"That's what I like to hear."

"Sure, grandpa. Tell me that after I beat you."

That made him laugh as he leaned against the bench beside her. "Cruz and Trix have their ink, but they've still got to drink in, make it official."

Rachel had explained the process in vague terms, something about making a new member do shots of all the O'Kane liquors before welcoming them into the gang. It had taken Six a month to realize Rachel hadn't been keeping gang secrets--that really was all that happened. No beatdowns for the men, no spreading your legs for the women. Just...booze and celebration.

A few dozen city blocks separated the O'Kane compound from Sector Three, but she might as well be on the moon. "It's an O'Kane thing, I guess," she said carefully, unable to keep her gaze from his wrists. Dark ink swirled around his muscled forearms, stopping just above his broad hands. The O'Kane wrist cuffs, proof that he belonged.

"An O'Kane thing," he echoed in agreement. "Do you want to go?"

She touched her own wrist, rubbing her thumb over skin that felt naked. "Am I allowed?"

Bren shrugged. "You'll go with me, like Jasper and Noelle's party."

Maybe it was that simple. Dallas O'Kane was the most powerful man in the Sector--one of the most powerful men in their world--and Bren was part of his inner circle. Rules didn't seem to apply to him, or to her when she was with him.

Which didn't answer his question--did she want to go? "How much like Jas and Noelle's party is it going to be?" she asked, and her cheeks heating at the memory of how quickly that celebration had turned into a shameless f*ckfest.

"More like fight night," he hastily explained. "People might be getting it on in the corners or grinding on the dance floor, but it's not--I mean, it's different."

Six covered her embarrassment by nudging his leg with her boot. "So no wall-to-wall f*cking."

"No, just people drinking and having a good time."

"Okay. It sounds fun." She nudged him again, more for the excuse of contact than anything else. He'd encouraged her to ask for physical affection when she wanted it, but she liked sneaking in teasing touches. Liked knowing she could, and that he wouldn't hurt her for taking liberties. "Thanks for including me."

"You're not a guest." He watched her intently. "This is your home."

Home. Longing hollowed out her chest, a craving for a concept she could barely fathom, because it always started with safety. "I don't know if I've ever had a home before."

Bren nodded. "A lot of people here haven't. You're not alone."

She knew what he meant--that she wasn't alone in being overwhelmed--but the words resonated more deeply. Maybe because her panic from earlier had faded under the quiet warmth of his undemanding presence.

Or maybe because she really was getting soft.

Some part of her trusted Bren, for better or worse, and that made his words true on every level. Closing her eyes, she leaned in until her shoulder touched his. She wouldn't be able to ignore her body's shiver of reaction forever, but tonight she focused on the satisfaction of friendship. "No. I'm not alone."

"So, how 'bout it?" He hesitated. "I can't skip the party, but you could, if you wanted."

She considered it for a moment, balanced the loneliness of being the only person on the compound not celebrating against the awkwardness of being the only outsider at the party.

Except no one treated her like an outsider, not with Bren around. "I'll come. I want to."

"Good. Trix'll want you to be there."

Something he'd been careful not to mention until after she agreed, just as he'd kept any hint of encouragement from his own voice. Smiling, she clinked her beer against his. "Then it's a deal. As long as I can scowl at Ace if he tries to make me dance."

Bren downed half his beer in several long swallows. "Scowl at Ace for whatever you want. He probably deserves it."

"Yeah, but he probably likes it, too." At least he'd stopped tossing her those flirtatious smiles, the ones that were all charm and dirty promise--and all the more alarming because she didn't think he did it on purpose. "But he's not so bad anymore. Did you tell him to stop hitting on me?"

"Might as well tell the sun not to shine, sweetness."

She laughed. The sound was so foreign it still startled her sometimes, another way her body turned traitor around Bren. The warmth and the tingles and the smiling and now laughter, and even if it was low and a little rusty, it was real. "Are you almost done working?"

"Yeah." He pulled down the metal rod propping up the hood and let it slam shut. "Want me to walk you to your place?"

"Sure." She slid off the workbench and tried not to let her gaze linger on his shoulders. This was always the most dangerous time, when she was loose and relaxed enough to remember a time when sex had been more good than bad, when she'd appreciated a man with a hard body and beautiful shoulders.

White looked good on him, especially with all the engine grease. His T-shirt clung, the sleeves stretching wide over flexing biceps. Aside from his O'Kane cuffs, his arms were free of ink, but a black swirl curled up his neck from beneath the white fabric, hinting at the tattoo that covered his entire back.

She loved watching him fight in the cage, watching all those muscles move together so perfectly she thought the prissy bastards in Eden must be at least partly right. Only a higher power could have created something as graceful and beautiful and deadly as Brendan Donnelly.

He turned and caught her staring--he must have--but he didn't call her on it. Instead, he finished off his beer and held out his hand. "Come on."

Exhaling, she slipped her fingers into his. His hands still bore smudges, the kind that would rub off on her skin as tangible proof of contact. She knew she'd stare at it later, at the dark grease on the back of her hand that marked the spot he'd rubbed his thumb over, and she'd remember the way it felt. This jolt, the way his touch shivered along her nerves as if her instincts couldn't decide if he was blissful safety or delicious danger.

Her gut already knew. Her body was safe with Bren, but her mind, her heart, her soul... Hell, Wilson Trent had shattered her into a thousand razor-edged pieces, and he hadn't felt this dangerous. Bren could grind those shards into dust.

If she had half a brain left, she'd run.





About the Author



Kit Rocha is actually two people--Bree & Donna, best friends who are living the dream. They get paid to work in their pajamas, talk on the phone, and write down all the stories they used to make up in their heads.

Beyond Control is the sequel to Beyond Shame, and their second dystopian erotic romance. They also write paranormal romance as Moira Rogers. You can learn more about their work at www.kitrocha.com & www.moirarogers.com.