Defy (Brothers of Ink and Steel Book 3)(27)
“Sometimes.”
“That’s too often for me.” He laughs, and I thank him and head out.
I jog across the road and back behind the motel. “It’s me.” I listen to the three locks being released and the sound of the chair scraping over the floor. Good girl, I think to myself.
The door opens, and Farrington is standing there with her arm dangling by her side, gun in hand, freshly showered and wrapped in a clean, dry towel. My jaw unhinges. Her hair is soaking wet, and beads of water trail and slide, dripping from her smooth, fresh shampoo-scented skin.
My * dick is not my friend as it rises to get a better look. Goddamnit, she’s breathtaking.
“I saved you some hot water,” she drawls and takes a bag from my arms. “What did you get? I’m starved.”
There really is no defense against a beautiful woman, Ryder. Might as well understand that now, son, the sooner the better, Chief had told me one night after an argument with Betty.
“Not knowing your personal tastes, I just grabbed a bunch of stuff—sandwiches, milk, soda, fruit, candy—eat what you want.”
I don’t have to tell her twice. She rips open the wrapper on the turkey and cheese and stuffs bite after ravenous bite into her mouth.
I watch her and my heart sinks. “Did they starve you?”
She winces as if I struck her. “No,” she explains with a mouth full of food. “I did. They got me in the first place by drugging my drink. When I woke up chained, Pedro came in daily with food, but when I got the gist of their plan to send me off, I realized it would be easier for them to get me there if they drugged me again—I mean, it worked so efficiently the first time. I stopped eating their food.” She shrugs. “They brought me unopened cans of nutritional drink—like SlimFast or Ensure or something—I drank those.”
“That was smart.”
She crams half a Twinkie between her lips.
Hot damn, how I want to be that Twinkie. Asshole dick!
“I told them I wouldn’t eat their food. It gave me something more than a warped sense of peace, it gave me a feeling of control. I had a say over myself. In the position I was in, it was a huge victory.”
“Yeah, it was. You were brave.”
She nods in agreement before guzzling down the chocolate milk.
“That was the only time someone touched me. One of my guards backhanded me because I wouldn’t eat the food. That’s when I found out about them selling me. The man who hit me got reprimanded. But that was days ago, so I’m famished.”
“I’m sorry this is all I got. We’ll get you a good hot meal tonight.” I’m disappointed in what I was able to find in the crappy gas station convenience store.
“This is just fine.” She catches a yellow Twinkie crumb tumbling out from the side of her lips. “Thank you for it.”
I smile and even laugh a little.
Yeah, no defense.
Rachel
I hear the shower start up as I cram the other half of the Twinkie in my mouth. I chew while checking out the remaining contents of the bags Ryder brought back with him.
“Thank God,” I breathe gratefully when a couple of his and her burnt orange Texas Longhorns t-shirts tumble from the bag.
Grabbing the medium sized one, I yank off the tag and pull it over my head. It’s warm, dry and clean. I look down at myself—no bra—I try and overlook that fact. In the second bag are poor quality, black mesh gym shorts. I fish for the smaller size and pull them over my hips.
No undies. I sigh.
His shower is done almost as soon as it started. He cracks open the door and hot steam rolls out.
Ryder walks in, waterfalls cascading down over his arms and torso. Oh, and what a delicious torso it is.
Suddenly I’m very aware that I’m not wearing any panties.
His muscles are long, lean and defined; his stomach is ripped with washboard abs—I’ve never seen anyone so . . . imposing and remarkable.
And he’s covered in tattoos. Collages of ink adorn most of his skin. His left arm is a canvas, with a Celtic pattern winding around his forearm; several sugar skulls climb up a ladder of black tribal lines leading up to a skull and crossbones, all guarded by a faceless grim reaper under a hood. They’re all in black and white and surrounded by roses and thorns. Ripped terrycloth from a motel towel covers the bite he received saving me, catching the blood.
His right arm is cloaked with mythological gods and goddesses. I recognize the Egyptian god Anubis, guardian of the dead, and Osiris, god of the underworld—the detailing, color and work is incredible. Freya, the goddess of warriors, has prime real estate on his upper bicep and shoulder—she’s exquisitely done; long flowing robes, battle helmet and hair like spun gold—she watches over the rest. More gods and goddesses wearing Greek, Roman or Native American dress are represented, including Athena, goddess of war, but I don’t know who the rest are. A river flows between and around them. A black tribal scorpion is etched into his right bicep—its tail dripping with venom—I’m going to take a wild stab in the dark and assume it represents death.
Ryder’s front and sides, spilling over to his back, have been reserved for words—written in everything from simple script to gilded cursive. I’d love to take a moment and read what they say. A dagger with a jeweled hilt lays across the lowest part of his abdomen and peeks out from beneath the tuck of the motel white towel.