Joker by Andi Rhodes
Chapter Six
When did I become this man?
Joker
“Don’t be a fucking dick.”
I glare at Greaser, who’s standing next to the club’s new Ford Raptor with me. Why he’s here, I have no idea, but something tells me it’s not just to chat. As I lean against the tailgate waiting for Riley to get her ass outside, arms crossed over my chest and feet braced apart, I consider his words.
“Joker, you know Fender wouldn’t have agreed to her tagging along if he didn’t trust her.”
I snort. “G, you know as well as I do Fender was thinking with his little head, like he always does when Charlie’s within a hundred yards of him.”
“I’m gonna pretend I didn’t hear you say that,” Greaser mutters.
“Whatever helps you sleep at night.”
My annoyance rising, I push off the truck and stalk toward the clubhouse. I told Riley to be outside and ready to go at five, and it’s now five minutes after. I don’t have time for this shit.
Greaser falls into step beside me and I ignore him. When my boot lands on the first step, the front door flies open and Widow steps out.
“Sorry, she’s coming. I was helping her get ready.”
“What the fuck does she need to get ready for? We’re going to pick up parts, not to a damn party.”
“Oh, shut it, Joker. She doesn’t have anything of her own, so I was making sure she had essentials for the night.”
“Sure, on her own fucking ti—”
My mouth slams shut when Riley steps through the door and around Widow. Well, shit. How the hell am I supposed to do my damn job when she looks like that?
Her dark hair is loosely braided, much like it was earlier, but she’s no longer wearing the same bulky hoodie. Instead, she has on a black tank with the Soulless Kings’ crowned skull on the front in bright orange and the shapeless sweatshirt is casually thrown over her arm. Her biceps are defined, making it clear she works out. Her jeans aren’t form-fitting, but they don’t swallow her up either and her white tennis shoes are dusty from whatever trouble Widow and Charlie roped her into earlier on the golf cart.
She’s no poster child for Playboy, but she’s damn sure not as unappealing as I need her to be.
“You shouldn’t be wearing that shirt,” I snarl in an effort to mask the fact that the sight of her makes my cock jump and beg.
“He’s all bark and no bite, hon. Don’t let him get to ya,” Widow says to Riley as she shoots daggers at me.
“Widow, you’re crossing a line and you know it,” Greaser says from beside me. “Get back in the house before you make things worse.”
“Jesus,” Widow mumbles under her breath as she turns and walks back inside.
“You,” I snap, pointing at Riley. “Truck. Now.”
I whirl around and stomp to the vehicle, barely able to keep my tightly coiled anger on a leash. Greaser’s chuckle reaches my ears, as do the light footsteps of the woman I’m trying not to lose my shit with. I yank open the driver’s side door and hop up into the cab of the truck, not bothering to worry about how Riley’s going to climb in.
When the passenger door opens, I make a point not to look, but it’s impossible to ignore the fact that she gets in with ease. A frown pulls the corners of my mouth down and I start the engine to cover up the growl that’s close to escaping the confines of my throat.
The door slams, and I throw the truck in gear. I try hard not to glance in her direction but finally give into the urge when we clear Soulless Kings’ property. Riley’s arms are crossed over her chest and unfortunately, it pushes her tits up so her cleavage is on glorious display.
“What crawled up your ass?” I can’t help but antagonize her.
“Seriously?” When I don’t respond, she continues. “You are without a doubt the worst kind of asshole.”
“Oh yeah?” I quirk a brow at her. “Please, enlighten me.”
Riley twists in her seat, resting her hands on her thighs. I let my eyes travel to the frayed holes in the denim, just beneath her fingertips, and her tan, smooth skin seems to taunt me. I avert my gaze and refocus on the road.
“You think you’re God’s gift,” she finally says after an annoyingly long silence. “You’re an ass to everyone around you and you know it. You’re judgmental, egotistical, cocky, and… and…”
“Don’t stop now, Black Bird. You’re on a roll.”
“What did you just call me?”
I look at Riley and find more questions than answers. It’s hard to miss the way all color seems to drain from her face, or the way the vein in her neck pulses from her increased heart rate.
“Black Bird,” I respond and relish the way she sucks in a breath while simultaneously wondering why that bothers her. Something else for me to figure out.
“Why would you call me that?”
She’s facing forward now, and her right hand is clutching the door handle. This is a perfect example of why there should be child safety locks on the front doors of trucks. Although, I don’t think keeping pissed off, unsuspecting females in is what Ford had in mind when the vehicles were designed, so what do I know?
I nod toward her right wrist. “Your ink.”
Riley glances at her own tiny tat and her body seems to deflate. “Oh.”
Unable to shake the feeling that I’m missing something, that there’s more to this chick than what she’s choosing to show, I decide to start getting answers. I take the next exit and find a parking lot so I can focus.
“Where are you from?” I ask after putting the truck in park.
“Does it matter?”
“Yeah, it does. Everything matters.”
“Cali.”
That’s the truth. Only people who are actually from California call it Cali.
“What’s your real name?”
“I already told you. Riley Damian.”
When the pulse point in her throat jumps, I know she’s lying. Well, well, well… Miss Riley-whoever-the-fuck has a tell.
“What’s the guy’s name?”
“What guy?” Her eyes meet mine.
“The prick that has you running?”
“Oh, right.” Her pulse point jumps and she looks out the window. “Uh, his name is Brian.”
“You’ve got to be shitting me?”
Her head swivels toward me. “No, why?”
“Nothing.” How in the hell does she know my name? Because I don’t for one fucking second believe that she just pulled that lie out of her ass on the fly. “Any kids?”
She shakes her head, and finally, I get a true answer.
“What do you do for a living?” Riley shrugs. “So, nothing. Got it.”
“What the fuck is your problem?” she demands.
“Don’t know what makes you think I’ve got a problem.” I flash her a smile, knowing it’ll piss her off. “Just doing my job.”
“And what’s your job? Interrogator extraordinaire?”
“Something like that.”
I start the truck and head back toward the interstate. I’m not going to get the truth out of her like this, and we’ve got hours left to go before we reach our destination. Fuck, do I wish I had the Nightmare Room handy… that’d get her talking. That gets everybody talking. When I hit seventy miles an hour, I press the gas a bit more and set the cruise control when she reaches eighty.
The next hour passes in a blur. Riley’s sleeping, slumped against the passenger door. I can’t stand the silence any longer so I grab my cell off the console, connect the Bluetooth and hit play on my favorite true crime podcast.
Five and a half hours later and with images of serial killers in my head, I see the sign for Wenatchee. I’m scheduled to pick up the carburetor in the morning, so I locate a cheap motel for the night. When I pull into the parking lot and kill the engine, Riley stirs but doesn’t wake up. Apparently, lying is exhausting.
After I secure a room, I return to the truck and make a point of slamming the door after grabbing my bag. Riley is startled awake and she comes to with her fists clenched in front of her.
“Rise and shine, Black Bird,” I say after opening her door. “Let’s go.”
Riley relaxes when she sees me and rubs the sleep from her eyes. “Where are we?”
“A motel.”
I reach up to help her out of the cab, and she hesitates for only a moment. When she places her hand in mine, a jolt of electricity ricochets through me. Instinct tells me to pull away from her, but I don’t. I can’t. The connection mesmerizes me just as much as it pisses me the fuck off.
Riley gently pulls her hand from mine when we reach the building, and that’s when I realize that I’d held on to her long after I needed to. She follows me down the cement sidewalk and up the steps to the third floor. No elevators for this classy joint.
We reach room three twenty-six, and I fit the key in the lock and let us in. I toss our bags on the floor and turn around to face her. Riley’s nose is wrinkled against the stink of stale cigarettes and whatever the hell else has been smoked in here.
I’ve got news for her. The smell is only gonna get worse because I need a fucking joint almost as bad as I need my next breath. My nerves are shot, and I can’t even pinpoint why.
Liar. She’s why.
“Shut the damn door,” I bark.
Riley does as she’s told and engages the rusty looking chain lock before turning back around. When she sees the joint in my hand, the one that’d been burning a hole in my pocket, her eyes widen.
“You can’t smoke that!”
“Like hell I can’t.”
With the blunt between my lips, I light the tip and puff to get it to catch. It does and I inhale deeply, holding my breath to give the bud a chance to work. The entire time, Riley stares at me, wide-eyed and with judgment. I stretch my hand out to offer her some and she quickly shakes her head.
“Suit yourself.”
I continue to puff away and stretch out on the bed. Riley’s eyes dart around the room, as if looking for something. Oh, right, she’s probably looking for the other bed, the one that doesn’t exist.
“Maybe I should get my own room.”
Riley turns on her heel, and just when her fingertips touch the chain, I stop her.
“If you step one foot outside of this fucking room, there’ll be hell to pay.” I don’t like being a fucking babysitter, but I’ll be damned if I return to the clubhouse without her after Fender unofficially put her in my care. Riley spins around and stalks to my side of the bed. “You better go to the bathroom and do whatever you gotta do to get ready for bed. I’m tired and I wanna be at the garage when it opens at eight.”
“How dare—”
I lunge from the bed, wrap my fingers around her neck and lean in so my nose almost touches hers.
“Don’t, Black Bird. This is a fight you won’t win.”
Riley struggles against my hold and tries to suck in air. When I don’t release her, she pulls her arm back. Remembering that the girl can punch, I let go and shove her toward the bathroom. She stumbles back a few steps before turning and slamming the door behind her.
I stand outside the door listening, and when the toilet flushes and the shower starts, I relax and return to the bed. I shoot off a text to Greaser, letting him know we’ve stopped for the night. It’s protocol anytime we go anywhere. Just in case there’s trouble, someone should know where we are.
I’m scrolling through Facebook when I hear the water shut off. The door opens and I glance in that direction to see Riley’s head peeking around the corner.
“I, uh, forgot my clothes,” she mumbles. “Can you hand me my bag?”
Yeah, I don’t think so, Black Bird.
I return my attention back to my phone and ignore her frustrated sigh as she scurries from her spot in the doorway to grab her bag.
When she reaches the other side of the bed and bends down to snatch her bag off the floor, I can’t help but let my gaze wander over her flesh as the towel rides up slightly to expose toned thighs.
My dick hardens, and it’s painful behind my zipper. When she straightens and catches me staring, I don’t bother hiding the fact that I have to adjust myself to get comfortable. When my hand hits my crotch, her eyes widen and her lips part, and I decide to take it a step further.
I unsnap the button and tug the zipper down, releasing my cock. When she sees that I’m free-ballin’ it, her mouth slams shut and her chocolate brown eyes narrow. I wrap my hand around the base and squeeze.
When her eyes dart toward the door, I growl, “Don’t even fucking think about it, Black Bird.” Her gaze swings back to me, and she remains rooted in place.
As I stroke myself, I’m careful of my piercing. No sense in hurting myself while I tease her. Riley watches with what appears to be disgust, but it’s not enough to stop me. Second thoughts, maybe, but no fucking way am I letting up because I know the release will ease the tension that the weed couldn’t.
“Aw, Black Bird, I bet your pussy would feel so much better.”
Riley’s mouth opens and closes like she wants to lash out at me, but nothing comes out. Three more strokes and my balls draw tight. I toss my head back, clenching my eyes shut through my release.
The high lasts for all of two seconds, but I definitely don’t feel the calm like I’d hoped. Instead, all I feel is a storm raging through my veins and a violent need to pummel something.
I can’t believe I let myself do that. My disgust with myself now matches hers. I roll away from her and go to the bathroom to clean up, not giving a damn if that means she’s left alone and can get away. She’s not my hostage, although that does have some interesting possibilities.
Anyway, let her run. Fuck it. At least she’d no longer be my problem… unofficially or otherwise.
I look at my reflection in the mirror and hate what I see. When did I become this man? When did I become so fucking cynical and evil that I’d jack off in front of a battered women without a second thought?
When your mother walked out on you at five and then came back to kidnap you. Or how about when your prez’s ol’ lady betrayed your family. Take your pick motherfucker.
The mirror shatters when my fist connects with it, and I look down to see blood dripping from my knuckles into the sink. I lean on the edge of the counter and watch as the cheap white porcelain is stained crimson.
I glance back at my disjointed reflection in the shattered glass, and what I see terrifies me. Because for the first time, I see the image of myself, my true self: broken pieces of a man that can’t be put back together.
