by Wylder Stone
Trista had excused herself to the ladies’ room, the booze adding a little confidence to her swagger by way of a sassy sway to her already all eyes on me hips. He thought the long leggings and T-shirt he picked out would make her less tantalizing and tempting, but he was wrong. That outfit made her fit body just that much more obvious, and he didn’t like the attention it was getting.
Trista hadn’t returned after a handful of minutes, and the men who were flocking her were now gone. He quickly made his way across the bar and down a back hallway, not hesitating to enter the ladies’ room. All he found was a real classy woman wearing more makeup than a clown on acid, dressed like a cheap corner hooker trying to pay rent. Apparently, that was her office because she asked him to wait his turn. Outside.
Backtracking a bit, Owen recalled seeing a third door at the end of the hallway he had come through and wondered if it had been an exit or someplace a few guys could find privacy with a girl who didn’t belong there. He rushed through the door and nearly ran right into the crowd he was seeking when he burst through the exit. Found her. Back alley. Alone with the kind of guys you didn’t want to be found alone with.
“Fuck off!” Trista spat in one of the men’s face. Not a help, someone save me, but fuck off. Liquid courage mixed with Trista’s temper meant things were about to get ugly. For her and for Owen.
He was impressed when Trista landed an elbow jab to one of the men’s noses, causing him to hunch over in pain. Now she was flanked by two others while the third cupped his bloody nose. This was the turning point. No going back for either of them. They’d get out alive – Owen would see to that – but they wouldn’t be unscathed, and by they, he meant himself.
“You bitch,” the man said, his knees buckling in pain when Trista’s revenge-seeking knee landed right between his legs. When he leaned forward in pain, she had a clear shot to his face and took it. Trista knocked him flat on his ass.
“Who’s the bitch now? You really need to learn some manners and how to treat a fucking lady!” She paused, stunned by her own words, then laughed, pleased with the delivery.
Trista stepped forward to hit him again, but there was something she hadn’t counted on. One, alcohol will make you stumble and distort your target. Two, this asshole had two friends. Her triumph quickly turned to fear when Trista was overpowered, and the man she attacked was looking at her like death was calling for her, and he was the Reaper.
“Oh shit!” she whispered.
When the men to her sides grabbed her and slammed her against the wall, all Owen saw was red. He ripped them off her, one at a time, but fought them simultaneously like it was no match at all. It was three to one, yet Owen fought like he outnumbered them and had the upper hand. Rage and fury would do that to you. It was adrenaline. It was obligation. It was what you did when men attacked a woman like a bunch of fucking cowards.
Trista was shoved to the ground by one of her would-be attackers. Reaching for a piece of a broken wooden pallet, she swung the plank, hitting him across the knees, then grabbed his ankle and pulled his footing out from under him. Owen paused, noticing the action, and gave her an impressed look before the three finally gave up. They panted in exhaustion with their excessive injuries, and their hands went up in surrender as they slowly backed away.
“That crazy bitch is all yours, man,” one hollered.
More of that liquid courage spoke out when Trista took offense to being called anything but a lady. “Bitch?! Who you callin’…”
“Trista, that’s enough,” Owen panted through gritted teeth, never taking his don’t fuck with me stare off the men down the alleyway.
Certain they weren’t coming for round two, he offered a hand up to Trista so they could get the hell out of there before word spread, and they had more company.
She stumbled on her feet and missed every bit of dirt she attempted to brush off herself. “I had it under control.”
With a side-eye glare, Owen said, “Sure. Looked like it. Let’s go.”
With her feet firmly planted and hands on her hips, it seemed he was now on her ass-kicking radar. “I did!”
He turned to her in a wide stance, crossing his arms, daring her to say more. And she did.
“I didn’t need your help.” She threw her arms up in a fit. “Stop rescuing me, Owen. I can take care of myself!”
Reasoning with a drunk was like reasoning with a belligerent child. He grabbed her elbow, leading her in the opposite direction as the men who still stood at the other end of the alley, plotting their round two. “Let’s go home, now.”
“No!” Trista said, yanking her arm from his grasp in a fit.
“Fine, we’ll do this the hard way!” Owen grabbed her by the waist and tossed her over his shoulder, then moved in the direction of the town square, where he’d left the car.
Screaming and yelling, she hit his ass, over and over, trying to wiggle out of his grip. “Let me down!”
An unfamiliar voice sounded, causing Owen to still. Leaning to her right, she was able to see around Owen and noted the police officer standing there, blocking their passage.
16
“Heard there was a scuffle of sorts goin’ on out back. Wouldn’t know nothin’ about that, would ya?” The deputy sheriff looked around Owen to find a now empty alleyway. He gave Trista a nod and tip of his hat while he did.
Owen didn’t like this. So much for being anonymous. “Nope, all’s good here, sir.”
It was pretty clear the officer was no longer concerned with what was going on down the alley as his view was fixed on Trista’s ass while still over Owen’s shoulder. The officer asked, “What’s this here all about?”
“Oh, my old lady had a few too many. She’s a tad drunk, sir.” Owen rolled his eyes to show disappointment. “Never seems to know her limits.”
“Drunk?” Trista shrieked, resuming tantrum mode with two fists to Owen’s ass. “I am not drunk…”
Before she could say more than she could take back and make life harder than it already was, Owen interrupted her with a loud overpowering voice, “She’s plastered pretty good. You know the type, I’m sure, given your line of work?”
“The type?! I’m right here, you know!”
The small-town deputy gave Owen an understanding nod and relaxed in his stance. “A real handful, huh?”
Playing the scene like it was straight out of Hollywood, Owen snapped his free finger and pointed it at the lawman. “See, you do know the type – a lot of trouble. Classic can’t live with them and can’t live without them.”
A huffy near growl of frustration roared through Trista. “What? He is not with me! I barely know him and don’t like him at the moment.”
The deputy straightened at her comment as if her plea came across as something sinister. Staring Owen down, the officer placed one hand on his weapon and the other on his holstered nightstick.
“She’s just mad. I wouldn’t let her eat my burger.” Owen turned his head as if tossing his emphasized words over his shoulder to send her a message only she would understand. “She’s a vegan, but apparently booze makes her a carnivorous meat fiend.”
Owen tossed a half shrug and eye roll in with his shaking head, hoping to make it even more ridiculous than it sounded.
“Vegan…right…” The deputy sheriff had a bewildered look about him. He probably didn’t know what vegan even meant.
“Anyway, I better get this one home before the booze wears off and the room starts spinning. I don’t want to clean that out of the car again.” Owen finished with a disgusted shudder.
“Put me down, Owen!” Trista shouted.
He froze, as did she, at the use of his real name.
In a quick recovery attempt, Owen laughed and tossed a thumb over his shoulder in her direction, and shook his head once again. He was getting whiplash. “See? My name’s Dalton. She’s drunker than I thought.”
Owen finally put her down when she began to kick again and create a scene he might not be able to bullsh
it his way out of.
Combing her hands over her hair first, Trista took a deep breath and straightened out her bunched-up top before her hands landed on her half-cocked hips. She stumbled, and Owen caught her, glad the alcohol was helping him out and making her look foolish.
“See, he’s kidnapped me, and he’s trying to make me do what he says in his little prison.” With her nose in the air, she turned and nodded to Owen before giving her attention back to the deputy sheriff.
Owen thought, this ought to be good, and crossed his arms and plastered on a cocky grin Trista had yet to see before. He shook his head in amusement, all part of the role he was playing.
“Uh, what’s that little lady? Prison?” the officer asked.
Owen let out a long sinking whistle and topped it with yet another eye roll, suggesting Trista was crazy. “And here we go. Sorry, deputy.”
Offended, she let out a sharp gasp while her face took on a deep crimson Owen hadn’t seen on her before.
Whipping out her ID and handing it to the officer, she went on to tell him exactly who she was, albeit in a drunken manner. “My name is Trista, Cesar’s wife. He’s a murderer. Watched him do it, and now he’s chasing me. Although he thinks I’m dead from a car accident. So who knows what he’s really doing. My sister has my son because he isn’t safe with his criminal father or me. I’d like you to arrest this guy because he’s hiding out too, and he’s really pissing me off.”
There was a long pause. Owen shrugged it off like she was selling fairy tales. “Sounds an awful lot like that crime series she’s been watching the past few days. Something about a cartel or something. I guess her imagination is running wild on booze.”
Trista gasped. “I’m sick of this shit. I need another beer!”
“Uhhh,” the deputy started while flicking her ID between his fingers, “says here your name is Molly Jensen.”
Slack-jawed and wide-eyed, Trista realized what she had just done, and it wasn’t helping her any more than it was blowing her cover. Who would believe that story? Time to clarify.
With a charming smile and sweet voice, she tried her hand at sweet-talking the guy into believing her. “That’s exactly what I meant, Molly Jensen, but that’s my undercover name.”
And with that, Trista sealed the deal, and Owen clearly won this battle. He couldn’t have done a better job throwing someone off their trail with a bullshit story than Trista did with the truth.
“See what I mean? I better get her home before the bad man comes to get her. I’m sorry to have wasted your time, sir.” Owen tossed Trista back over his shoulder and walked away toward the town square like he had attempted just before her fit. “Sorry we’ve wasted your time. As for the scuffle in the alley, I saw about three guys, and one had a bloodied nose. I think they’re inside. Maybe that’s what you received the call about?”
“Wait, but that’s not me. It says I’m Molly, but I’m not.”
Owen turned to the deputy sheriff and added one final thought to get off his radar. “Thank you for your service, sir. Appreciate what you do around here.”
Since she couldn’t shut up, Trista continued her tirade. “Oh please…in a town like this? He’s basically a security guard.”
Playing along and taking every opportunity she gave him, Owen’s tone suggested he was offended on behalf of the officer, “How incredibly rude, Molly. You should be more grateful.”
The sheriff waited and watched them make their way to their car. When they got there, and Owen opened the passenger door for her, the deputy seemed satisfied and went inside the bar.
He set her on the ground and held her steady while she got her footing. “Get in, now.”
With one arm crossed and the other upright, inspecting her nails, she firmly stated, “No.”
He gritted his teeth. “Trista, I am not playing around.”
She laughed and tossed her head back, enjoying his torture. “Trista? Don’t you mean Molly? What’s your name again? Oh, right…Dalton?”
“For Christ’s sake, Molly, Trista, whoever the hell you are…get in!”
“You’re not the boss of me!” That even sounded childish to her, but what was said was said.
The roaring timbre of Owen’s voice quaked through her, getting Trista’s attention. “Quit acting like a spoiled brat and get in the fucking car, or I’ll put your ass in the trunk until you sober up.”
“You’re such a bully,” she said, getting in the final word before climbing into her seat.
“And you’re a pampered princess. There, we’re even!” Owen walked to the driver’s side of the car and got in, speeding out of town before they drew any more negative attention to themselves. At that hour, when it was dark, and few people were around, they were sitting ducks. He’d kindly remind her of that when she was sober.
The ride home was long and quiet even though it only lasted five or so minutes.
Angry with Owen for humiliating her as he did, Trista found herself more embarrassed by her own behavior. When they got back to the cottage, she went straight to her room and slammed her door for dramatic effect while he grabbed a beer and went to the back deck to cool off and unwind.
17
The soothing sounds of nature’s nighttime hosts always calmed him. It didn’t matter where he was because there wasn’t a place that didn’t have its own unique nightlife of creatures. Staring off into the clear night’s sky, he was getting ready to go back inside and call it a night when Trista joined him on the deck, just an hour or so later.
She plopped down on the bench swing next to him, avoiding eye contact. With her hands in her lap, she stared straight ahead, fidgeting as she stared off for a spell before finally looking down at her hands. She looked defeated.
He noticed she had showered and changed, seemed a bit more sober than she was a short time ago.
With glassy eyes, she looked at him and asked, “Do you like me?”
Baffled, Owen tilted his head and gave her a confused look, not sure how to approach that question. Honesty would mean breaking all of his own rules because his truth was that he liked her. He’d considered her a friend long before he revealed his identity.
If he answered as a professional to avoid blurred lines, Owen could hurt her, and she had been hurt plenty. He liked her a lot more than he should. How the hell was he supposed to say all of that without crossing boundaries but to be clear?
“I mean, in general. I know tonight, I was…I was an ass. I’m sorry.”
Trista was staring off again after a long pause. For the first time, he noticed just how insecure she was and how incredibly vulnerable that made her. Her red-rimmed glassy eyes threatened to spill over. Trista had been crying. That was nothing new, but the sincerity in her apology was. She wasn’t fond of how she’d behaved, and it mattered to her that he knew that.
He went with a safe response and decided to find out what she really wanted to know so he didn’t reveal too much of his own truth. “Where is all of this coming from?”
“Up to this point, my life hasn’t meant anything. I died, and my husband, our friends, and all of the other people who should have been at my funeral weren’t. My own parents’ appearance was just for show.” Trista’s confession was pained and all true. The tears finally fell over.
“It’s a weird situation, Tris. You can’t measure your worth or your legacy by people who care about money, power, and their own image above all else,” Owen stated. “They may be at the top of the Forbes list, but they live like bottom-feeders.”
“Weird or not, I didn’t mean anything to many people. The nanny cared more than my own husband,” Trista said. “What have I done with my life, Owen? Look at me. I have no direction, no purpose.”
Shaking his head, Owen was almost angry that Trista said such things about herself. It couldn’t be further from the truth. “You couldn’t be more wrong, Tris. You brought a little boy into the world, and you’re a great mom – that’s part of your purpose right there. Getting through this
so you can figure out who you want to be – that’s purpose. Putting away a bad man and saving lives by doing so – that’s purpose, and it’s selfless.”
There was comfort in his words and truth that made her shake with emotion because there was more. “My marriage was over a long time ago. I see that now. Honestly, I don’t know what I was hanging on to. Why I was trying so hard or what I was hoping for. I married a man who didn’t want to be married. It was like a really long fling.”
This was getting to a topic that made Owen uncomfortable, causing him to shift in his seat. Being glad that Trista realized this left him feeling guilty because she deserved better, but also because it made his job easier. “You’re loyal, honest, and wanted to do right by the man you thought was good and worthy of you. He wasn’t, Trista, not by a long shot.”
“I don’t think so. I don’t miss Cesar. Not at all. I miss my sister, and missing my son is a pain I can’t describe. It feels like I really did lose them. But Cesar? Nothing. What does that mean? What kind of person feels like that?”
After wiping her tears, Trista stood to head inside for the night, but before she did, she turned and said with a weak smile, “Thank you for helping me tonight. I’m sorry I was so difficult and that I left in the first place.”
Before the door closed behind her, he called out, “Trista.”
Stopping just inside the back door, Trista just stood there for a handful of seconds before looking over her shoulder at him. “Yeah?”
With his back still to her, he said, “I do like you.”
With a relieved smile, Trista continued inside, closing the door behind her.
Under his breath, when he was sure she couldn’t hear, he whispered, “More than I should.”