Claimed by the Bad Boy Page 5

  What the hell?

  If the two dudes weren’t pressed up against her, Molly looked as though she’d be on her butt and not on her feet. Grumbling obscenities under his breath, Ryker made his way over to the trio and tugged the dark-haired guy back by the shoulder.

  He thought she said, “Hey,” in a slur, but he was too busy shoving the other guy away and then catching her. She was going down—falling timber. “There you are.” She reached up and patted his cheek with limp fingers.

  “Fucking shit, dude!” one of the duo yelled.

  Ryker scooped Molly up in his arms, her shoulder against his chest—the back of her knees going over one of his forearms.

  She giggled and arched, throwing her arms back over her head. “I’m flying.”

  It took him a second to gain control of her wiggle and regain his own center of balance.

  “What’s wrong with you?” he asked, clutching her tighter as he carried her out of the warehouse.

  “Whee….” she uttered as though a kid taking a ride on a merry-go-round.

  “What in the heck was that?”

  She fell into a bout of the giggles.

  Once they were outside, and the noise died from blaring to semi-loud, he took a breath, heading in the direction of where he’d parked his Jeep. The breeze kicked up, lifting the too-short skirt she had on, showing off her pale, supple thighs.

  At last, Ryker arrived at his Jeep—parked in the north forty in the warehouse lot—and asked, “Are you drunk?”

  “Nooo….”

  She swung the legs hanging over his forearm. His brow furrowed.

  “Can you stand if I put you down?”

  She did a tinkling laugh. “Of course, silly willy.”

  He placed her on her feet and watched Molly sway, so he boxed her in—her back resting against the passenger door of his vehicle, his big body in front of hers, hands resting on either side of her shoulders.

  The why of it escaped him, but she hiked up her tiny plaid skirt.

  “I can see your panties,” he said from between his teeth.

  “Oh….” Instead of smoothing down the skirt, she tugged the material higher. Something sparkled and hot pink winked up at him from the vicinity of her crotch. “Do you like them?”

  He honed in. The sparkles were words.

  All You Can Eat.

  Hell yes, he did.

  “No,” he lied. “Pull your skirt down, Molls.”

  Her brow crinkled, although she complied.

  Ryker stared into her sweat-glistening face, then leaned in and sniffed. She didn’t smell as though she’d been drinking; she smelled of clean sweat and her perfume, vanilla-sweet, though her pupils were large and dilated.

  “Did you take something tonight, Molls?”

  “Huh?”

  The muscle in his jaw worked. “Did you take something, like pills? You’re not acting right.”

  She swiped damp hair from her face with a wobble. Ryker latched onto her arm. “No pills.”

  “Did you eat something or drink something while you were inside the warehouse?”

  “A cola.”

  Fuck.

  “Who gave you the drink?”

  “Hm?”

  “Did one of those guys you were with give you the drink?”

  She nodded and swayed forward, placing her forehead to his chest. “You smell good. Can I lick you?”

  Damn it. The thought of her tongue on him made his dick stir.

  “Molly,” he snapped.

  She giggled as she fondled his stomach with her fingertips, working his shirt up until she touched his navel—flesh on flesh.

  Ryker sucked in a breath when she trailed her nails up toward his chest. She swiped her thumb over his left nipple. Splayed her fingers over his pectoral. God. Why was something as simple as her touching his pec driving him into a lust frenzy?

  “There he is. That’s the asshole.”

  He closed his eyes. Trouble had come a-knocking.

  Ryker tugged her hand from beneath his shirt, lifted Molly’s chin, and pressed her back against his Jeep with his other hand. “Don’t you dare move from this spot. Understand?”

  “Yep,” she said, far too unconcerned and cheery, then saluted him.

  Ryker turned around to see not only the dark-haired shithead who’d been grinding his crotch into Molly’s stomach, but the blond dickwad who’d been trying to back-door her with their clothes on. Then there were two other dudes who appeared as though they were itching for a fight if their shifting from foot-to-foot dance was to be any indication.

  So, it was like that was it? Four on one. Well, fuck it.

  “What did you give her?” he asked, voice hard.

  The blond answered with a sideways smirk. “Something to make her real happy, man.”

  “If I were you,” said the prick with dark hair, “I’d be less concerned with the bitch, and more concerned about what we’re going to do to you, fucker.”

  Ryker set his sights on Darkie. He’d be the first one of the four to bite the dirt tonight.

  “Do you want to do this?” he asked the little turd, knowing the answer.

  “Oh, yeah. We do.”

  “All right.” Ryker took three steps forward then stopped, keeping his stance deceptively casual. “Bring it, then.”

  No sooner had the words been spoken, than it was on. The prick came at him, fist flying. Ryker blocked and punched him in the midsection, hearing his expulsion of air before giving the guy an uppercut that took him down. Molly screamed. He didn’t have time to see why because the other three rushed him. Ryker shoved one, causing the dude to stumble and hit the pavement, then punched the blond in the face, filleting open his eyelid, seeing the blood fly before the third ass-wipe hit him with a rib shot that caused him to grimace.

  Prick one was out for the count. Prick two was getting up. The bleeding blond was backing away. The fourth one was a fighter, so he and Ryker were at war, exchanging blows.

  Molly screeched, jumping into the fray—a wild cat scratching, trying to smack at the guy he was fighting with upside the head—and took an elbow. She hunched over and tossed her cookies before wilting.

  “Molly!” Ryker yelled, but the momentary distraction cost him. He took a punch to the jaw and a knee to the midsection. Then prick two yanked Molly up. She flailed, but he flung her against the Jeep like a rag doll. Breathing hard, Ryker straightened, rage and adrenaline overtaking him. “I’m going to kill you for touching her!”

  “You’ve got to get through me first,” said the one who could punch.

  He went blow for blow with the guy, did a leg sweep, and took the dude down, kicking his ribs until they cracked, leaving him sprawled on the pavement to clutch at himself and moan, then went for the bastard who had Molly’s shirt torn open.

  Seeing her manhandled, the tears streaming down her face, her lacy bra exposed, sent him over the edge.

  He tore the shithead off her and flung him. Hard. And that’s when Declan came swooping in from nowhere, knocking the butt-munch out with one blow.

  “What in the hell?” Deck glanced at the guys scattered about on the ground and the blond bastard who was running off, before he looked at Molly. “Jesus.”

  “I’ve got her,” Ryker said, taking the few steps required to reach her and pulling Molly into his arms, absorbing her shakes. “Are you okay?”

  She didn’t answer him, only sobbed. Ryker was pissed, hurting, concerned, and, hell, scared for her. What if he hadn’t come tonight? The thought of her being drugged and gang-raped by those douchebags ratcheted up his anger once more.

  He took a breath and grimaced at the protest of his own ribs.

  “Molls?” He worked at calming his voice. “Answer me.”

  “I–I…”

  “Get in the Jeep,” Declan said. “We’ll take her to the ER.”

  “No,” Molly managed. “No hospital.”

  “Do you want to go to our place, then?” Deck asked. “I don’t thi
nk you should go back to your dorm in your condition.”

  She sniffed. “Okay.”

  “What about Randy and Zach?” Ryker asked.

  “I’ll come back for them.” Deck paused and eyed him. “Are you okay, bro?”

  “I may have a cracked rib.” He rubbed Molly’s back in a circle with his palm. “But I’ll live.”

  Chapter Seven

  Present.

  After putting their dirty cereal bowls into Mary’s state-of-the-art dishwasher, which resembled something from NASA, Molly fiddled until she figured out how to turn the thing on. Persistence and button pushing paid off, and she was able to get the washer going.

  Listening to the quiet hum of the machine, she snagged a dishcloth and wiped down the kitchen table, then went into the living room, where her sister had retreated.

  “Moll, can you help me with this pillow?” Mary asked, holding the bolster out.

  “Sure.” Molly took the pillow and tucked it behind her sister’s lower back. Mary let out a contented-sounding sigh. “Lean back now and put your feet up, too. Having them elevated should help with the swelling.”

  “I sure hope this baby decides to come soon.” Mary patted her rounded belly.

  “The little sprout can’t stay inside there forever.”

  Molly placed her hand over her sister’s.

  “Feel that?” Mary asked, moving her hand aside. “Junior’s kicking.”

  A thump tapped against Molly’s palm. Followed by another. “Yeah. Wow.”

  “Settle down, little one,” Mary said to her stomach. “You’re being too hard on your mommy.”

  Pulling her palm back from the soccer match going on inside her sister, Molly asked, “Are you settled and comfortable?”

  “I’m as settled and as comfortable as I’m going to get.”

  “Okay then. I’m going to head out. Can I get you anything before I go?”

  “Just the remote to the TV, please.”

  Molly grinned, bent, grabbed the device from the coffee table, and handed it over.

  “Thanks.”

  “Welcome.”

  “Oh,” her sister said. “Mom wants to make a family trip to the cemetery to leave flowers. I told her I’m not going, so you’ll be getting a call about it, I’m sure.” Mary’s brow creased. “She still loves him and misses him. Despite everything.”

  Past.

  The rain came down in buckets as Ryker pulled into the assigned parking space at the condo he and his brother resided in off campus. After turning off the ignition, he grabbed the garment bag containing his cap and gown from the passenger seat and saw a distorted image through sheets of rain and the multiple weaving lines of water running along the window.

  Scowling, he leaned over, eyes narrowing on the sight. “What the?”

  Leaving the bag, he twisted around, hit the door handle, and stepped out into the springtime storm. The rumble of thunder rolled across the sky as he slammed his door.

  Jogging around his vehicle and up the sidewalk, Ryker came to a soaked Molly sitting on the front stoop of his place—hands on her bent knees, her long hair plastered to her cheeks and neck. And the T-shirt she had on clung to her breasts, crinkled from wetness.

  “What are you doing sitting out here in the rain, Molls?”

  She glanced up—an almost tortured sadness in those gray-green eyes met him.

  With the rainwater trickling off her lashes, nose, and lips, she said in a soft whisper, “He died.”

  “What? Who died?”

  “My dad.”

  He reached out for her. Molly took his hand. Ryker tugged her up and into his hold, tucking his chin on the top of her head. She wrapped her arms around his waist and pressed her balled fists into the small of his back.

  “What happened?”

  “Heart attack,” she said in a whisper.

  “I’m sorry, Molly.” He didn’t know what else to say.

  “I hated him, and I loved him, Ryker.”

  The forlorn sound to her voice gut punched him.

  “I know, sweetheart.”

  “When I was a kid, I imagined him dying. As bad as this sounds, I wanted him to die. If he died, he’d go away and all of it—his anger and lashing out at us—would stop.” She went quiet for a long moment. “And then, when he was arrested and sent to jail, I was happy about it. He was gone. We were free.” She was killing him. He wished he had the words to help. Yet, he didn’t, so he said nothing, doing the only thing he could—holding onto her tightly. “After he served his time, and Mom took him back, I was old enough to stay away. I couldn’t stand to look at him. God, Ryker.” She sobbed. “I left my mother alone to deal with him. I’m a horrible person. A horrible daughter.”

  Damn it. She was the best person he knew.

  “No, Molls. You’re not. The man hurt you.”

  “He used to lock me in a closet,” she confessed.

  “What?” He pulled her back so he could look at her. See her face. “A closet?”

  She nodded.

  “Christ, Molls. Why didn’t you ever tell me?”

  “I never knew how to tell you how bad things were.” She sniffled. “The first time you saw the bruises on my face, sitting up on the roof of my house, I’d been locked in the dark for an entire night and most of the next day.”

  Ryker’s stomach twisted into a sick ball. “Jesus.”

  “The only reason I got out was because Mary came home and found me. To this day, I hate dark, enclosed spaces.”

  “Molly….” He clenched his teeth. “I’m so sorry.”

  Yet, saying he was sorry didn’t seem to be enough. An overwhelming sense of being helpless struck Ryker—an emotion he wasn’t used to.

  She pressed her cheek into his wet shirt and nuzzled. “I have to go home. The funeral is Monday.”

  “I’ll take you.”

  She let him loose, took a step back, and glanced up at him. “You don’t have to. I can drive myself.”

  He palmed her wet cheek with his slick hand, locking his gaze with hers, the two of them standing in the rain. “I want to, Molls.”

  Chapter Eight

  Present.

  After the whole sleepless night, subsequent morning of tears, and her visit to Mary to talk about Ryker coming home, Molly had made up her mind. Regardless of Ryker’s reemergence in Denver, she couldn’t afford to think about him and mull over all the things better left alone. So, when she left her sister’s place, she went shopping. A little retail therapy was always the way to put her in a good mood. She’d bought a cute sundress, a killer, strappy pair of sandals, and took a break at the food court in the Park Meadows Mall to sip on a cold drink and eat a pretzel before she made the trek to Nordstrom’s to buy some of her favorite body fragrance.

  “Shit,” she grumbled, dropping the pretzel onto the Styrofoam plate. She’d lost her appetite. It had been a while since she’d last seen the curly topped, kinky housewarming gift-bearing floozy she’d unwittingly met, but, sure enough, the woman who just sat her too-short, skirt-sporting backside down across the way, she’d never forget.

  Past.

  Molly was curled up on Ryker’s couch in the new house he and his brother had bought in Highlands Ranch, trying not to cry, but the romantic drama they finished watching on the big screen tore her up.

  “Are you crying?” He flung a piece of popcorn at her.

  “No,” she lied, swiping a tear from her cheek before brushing her fingers through her hair, dislodging the kernel, and tossing the nugget back at him.

  “You are too, Molls.” He placed the almost empty bowl of popped corn down on the coffee table. “You’re too old to cry over movies.”

  “Don’t you think it’s sad?”

  “It’s a movie,” he said in that not-quite-disgusted tone of his. “It’s not real.”

  “So what? It’s still sad. The guy loved her so much, and she loved him too, only to be separated by the tragedy of war, and then both of them died without ever reconcili
ng.” She wiped another tear. “It’s just all so horrible.”

  “You get into the romantic, mushy stuff, don’t you?”

  One of her shoulders lifted and fell. “Most women do. We want the romance, the flowers, the big diamond ring given to us in some spectacular way, and the happily ever after.”

  “God,” he groaned, and tossed the blanket she’d been snuggled up in earlier at her. “Break is over. You promised to help me finish up painting.”

  Molly’s head hit the back of the sofa cushion. “Ugh. Can’t we call it good? I’ve already painted too much. My arms are sore.” She paused and eyed him. “Tell me again. How did Declan get out of this chore?”

  “Ever since he started his construction company, he’s been putting in the hours.”

  “Right,” she said. “I think he’s bullshitting you.” She grinned. “I know I would to get out of painting.”

  Ryker chortled, and the sound was like coming home. “Come on. We only have two more walls to do in my room, and then I’ll buy you a burger.”

  “No way,” she said, smiling. “You’ll be buying me a steak.”

  “Is that right?”

  Ryker got up off the couch and held out his hand. She took hold, and he tugged her up.

  “Yep.”

  “You sure aren’t cheap labor.”

  When Molly’s cell phone started ringing, she grabbed it from the table and glanced at the screen. “Dang.”

  “What?”

  She shook her head and answered, “This is Molly.”

  “Hi,” Jack Jamison said. “I’m sorry to bother you on the weekend, but we have an emergency call. I’m not in town and I can’t get hold of Denise.”

  “No problem,” she said. “Give me the details.”

  After Jack rattled off what she needed to know, she slipped her phone into the front pocket of her jeans and glanced up at Ryker’s serious face. “I’ve got to go.”

  “Who was that?”

  “My boss.” Molly snagged her sweater from the chair she’d flopped it on when she arrived that morning. “I’ve got to go handle an emergency at one of our group homes.”