Defy (Brothers of Ink and Steel Book 3) (10 page)

“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.

And oh, how I would love to graze my fingers over those fine lines and broad strokes of ink.

The centerpiece, the tour-de-force, is an amazingly ornate set of wings—Egyptian in style—that span his thick chest, cradling two hearts in an hourglass.

By the time my eyes start to travel back to his, I’m hot and wet in all the right places . . . and he knows it.

He smiles wide with sexy, playful mischief.

Way to handle the heat, Rachel!
I turn away but the damage is
so
done.

“Oh,” he says, “you found the clothes.” Could be my imagination, but he sounds disappointed.

“Yeah, great fit. How’s the arm?”

“Want to see?”

Oh, what I’d like to see!
“Yes.”

He sits his shapely, hard ass on the table and situates himself so he has a clear view of his arm in the wall mirror.

“Pass over the Everclear and the floss.”

I don’t know what those muscles are that are right above the ass, but they kind of dimple on the very lowest part of the back—yeah, those on him are like artwork on a statue at a museum—like Michelangelo’s David.

On his back, he has an enormous tattoo of a sword—the hilt spans across both shoulders, while the blade glides to the last vertebrae of his spine and is surrounded by tribal lines.

His nudity is making me . . .
not
think straight in this very sobering situation.

I snag the bottle and plastic square of unflavored dental floss off the counter and bring them over to him.

He picks up the bottle and unscrews it with his teeth, spits out the top, and takes a swig. The action makes him grimace. “God, that’s awful shit!”

So fast, as if he doesn’t want to actually think about doing it, he spills the alcohol over the wounds in his arm.

“MOTHERFUCKER!” he shouts.

His whole arm flexes violently, his jaw clenches and his muscles strain as he physically struggles to handle that kind of ugly pain.

Sympathetically, I blow gentle, cool air over his arm. A moment later his body visibly relaxes. I pick up the cloth and blot at the excess mix of blood and Everclear that rained down his arm.

My eyes meet his, and he groans. “They’re even more amazing in full light.”

“Excuse me?” I don’t know if I heard him right.

“Your eyes were beautiful last night in the moonlight. But now . . . hmmm.”

I’m speechless.

He sets the bottle back on the table, pops open the floss with his thumb and strings it through a needle. “I may not be very talkative for the next twenty minutes or so.”

“I understand,” I respond. “If there’s anything I can do . . .”

“Just hang around. You’ll make me braver.”

“You’re the bravest person I’ve ever seen.”

At that, he smiles and stabs the needle through his flesh.

We don’t speak.

After the first tooth hole is closed, he moves right on to the next, with no break or pause to rest. Beads of sweat spill over his forehead. Quickly, I soak a towel in cold water, come back and wipe him down.

My thoughts—along with my eyes—travel to the decorative script tats. I feel like this might be my only chance to read them undetected.

Our dead are never dead to us, until we have forgotten them.

Pale death beats equally at the poor man’s gate and the palaces of kings.

I’m prepared to meet my Maker. Whether my Maker is prepared for the great ordeal of meeting me is another matter.

That one makes me laugh out loud.

“Getting some reading done, Farrington?”

How does he do that?
Know everything going on around him?

“Yeah,” I confess, embarrassed. “Well . . . they’re right in front of me.”

“Read to me, then.”

My head bounces in an automatic nod. I can do that. “The fear of death follows from the fear of life. A man who lives fully is prepared to die at any time.”

“That’s Mark Twain. Another.”

I swab his head and face as he continues to mend himself. I can’t imagine the violent pain and sheer willpower stitching his own wounds without anesthetic must take.

“If a man has not discovered something he will die for, he isn’t fit to live.” I read the beautiful circle of words that are engraved in his lower shoulder, underneath the sword’s hilt.

“That was Martin Luther King, Jr.,” he barely breathes.

“Yes, it was,” I agree before continuing. “Cowards die many times before their deaths; the valiant never taste of death but once.”

He groans as he threads through the end of the third hole, which is close to the inside of his elbow. “Sensitive spot. Hurt like fuck with the tat needle too.”

The artwork on his body, the quotes—life, death—the gods and goddesses of death or the next life . . .
he is a memorial
.

I thought reading the quotes might satiate my curiosity, but instead it’s only fueled the growing flame.

“By the way, that last quote was Shakespeare,” I tell him.

I want to know about his obsession with death. What led him to create this memorial over his body? I sigh deeply, understanding more now why he threw himself between me and the jaws of death.

“Come on, Farrington, distract me,” he growls against the pain.

“Sorry.” I wince, then spot the five words that are given a prominent place on his upper left rib. “I am my brother’s keeper.”
Yeah, I can believe that.

“Tell me about you,” he says, interrupting the reading.

“Um . . . there really isn’t much to tell.” He’s so much more interesting. I want to ask,
Can’t we just talk about you? “
My family comes from Charleston. You already know I’m a Tulane student.”

“What are you studying?” His voice is gruff with pain.

“Speech pathology, psychology and theatre.”

“That’s an intriguing combination.”

“Intriguing, huh?”

“How many years left?”

“Now you’re just being nosey.”

He throws a frustrated look in my direction.

“Fine. I’m working my way through the master’s program. This is my final year before going on to my doctorate.”

“And then what, Farrington?” he grits through pressed teeth.

“Then I’ll work with special needs children and adults, incorporating therapy and theatre to help them build confidence and skill.”

“I like you,” he states decidedly, before squaring off the floss stitch knot and sliding off the table. “We’ve got to go.”

He likes me? Who talks like that?

Ryder swipes down the mirror and the table before asking, “Where’s the dress you had on?”

“I threw it in the trash.” I nod my head in the receptacle’s direction.

He paces over and dumps some of the Everclear over it before carrying the plastic pail outside and dropping a lit match into it. The cloth erupts in flames.

“What did you do that for?”

“Did you want it back?”

“No.”

He shakes his head. “People grossly underestimate search dogs.”

We climb into the stolen vehicle, and Ryder drives us north on Route 96.

“Here.” He passes me a burner phone. “Call your parents and let them know you’re safe, but that’s all you can say. Tell them you’ll call them again in a few hours and that you’re en route to a government safe house.”