Used (Unlovable, #1) (Unlovable Series)

by Halat, Lynetta

  “What? No!” I admit, caught off-guard. I can’t believe I just told him that, but I didn’t expect him to have the nerve to ask.

  “You know what happens to little girls who put out for their little boyfriends, don’t you?”

  I just nod. I have no idea what he’s talking about. I just want him to leave.

  “Umm, hmm,” he murmurs as his dark eyes roam over me. I fight the urge to shiver from the cold that sweeps over me. “Well, I’m going back to the house. You need to get yourself up there too. It’s not safe for little girls to be out in the middle of the night. Boogey man and all,” he warns with a stilted laugh. When he closes the door behind him, I collapse against the wall.

  That was close. Too close. I told my mother he was making comments like that toward me, and she said she’d “talk to him.” Well, obviously, he needed more than a talking to. Maybe I need to start sleeping with my 20-gauge. I imagine the look he’d give me if I pulled that on him, and it makes me grin. He really doesn’t want to mess with me.

  I wait a few more minutes so I don’t have to see him as I head back into the house. As I turn to latch the door, I’m pushed into it, and a hand is over my mouth before I can scream.

  I throw my hands behind me to swat at him, but he just pins one of them, and the other swings blindly, missing its target. “Shh,” he breathes in my ear, “this can be fun or not. Depends on you. I’m gonna let your mouth go, and you’re not gonna scream. Got it?” I nod frantically.

  The second his hand slips away, I start screaming bloody murder and kicking at him. My boot connects with his shin a few times, and he cries out in pain.

  “You’re gonna fight me? Even better,” he mumbles against me. A wave of nausea washes over me. Pulling my hands behind my back, he clasps them both in one of his strong hands and forces me to the ground face up, effectively pinning my hands behind me. I am trapped under him. There’s no fucking way this is happening. With one hand, he starts undoing my jeans, but it’s hard for him because I’m squirming so much. Pain shoots through my arms as I pull against him.

  “Get. Off. Of. Me. I will kill you, you sick fucking bastard,” I stress every single word.

  I hear the crack before I see his hand move, and I whimper as my cheek explodes with pain from the backhanded blow. The sting radiates out from my cheekbone, and for a second, my brain focuses on that instead of how to get away. “You’re not gonna do shit. You see, you’ve been wiggling this sweet ass in front of me for months now, and I’m done with that.”

  “I have not. I hate you. You’re si—”

  Crack.

  Pain.

  Warmth.

  Blood.

  “Oh, that’s gonna leave a mark. Now, how are you gonna explain that to your momma?” he taunts.

  I suck air between my teeth, willing myself not to cry, but I can’t not cry. God, it hurts, and for the first time in my life, I feel completely helpless. Panicked whimpers erupt from my mouth as I glance around wildly, trying to figure a way out of this. The fight leaves my body like a retreating army, and he feels it too. He’s finally gotten my jeans down to my knees, and all that’s protecting me is the slight fabric of my panties. I hear him unzip, and my whimpers turn into pathetic sobs.

  “Oh, yes. This will go much better for you that way, Denver. Much better,” he murmurs as he moves his body over me. He looks down, focusing on freeing himself, and I realize I have an opportunity because he’s somewhat moved off of my legs. I go slack in an effort to get him to relax even more, and it works. The second I feel some room between us, I bring my knee up hard, making contact with his groin. I don’t stop, though, when he stills and cries out. I force my knee into his crotch again, and once more, until he crumples and falls off of me. I roll over to the side, crawling away from him. I push myself up on my knees and run the back of my arm over my face to clear the snot and the tears and the blood from my face.

  “You little bitch,” he breathes through clenched teeth.

  “And don’t you forget it!” I scream. “I’ll kill you. I’ll fucking kill you,” I cry.

  “Denver?” My head flies up when I hear the familiar voice. Oh, no. Oh my God.

  “Greer,” I choke out.

  He looks confused and frozen. “What’s going on?”

  “He was going to …”

  Greer whips around and stalks to the corner, grabbing a pitchfork.

  “No, Greer,” I cry, as he runs at a cowering Blake. He’s standing over him before I can move.

  “She’s not going to kill you. I am,” he says quietly. His quiet is deceiving because I can feel a cold, calm vehemence steeling his every word.

  I shove to my feet, and pulling up my jeans, I stumble to him and throw my arms around him. “No, Greer, come on. Don’t do anything you’ll regret.”

  “Oh, I won’t regret it.”

  “Please, Greer, he didn’t hurt me. I’m OK. Let’s go tell my momma.” I cling to him and squeeze him tighter.

  “I want to hurt him,” Greer says. “I want to hurt him like he hurt you.” He slices the air with the pitchfork, and both Blake and I cry out. He stops an inch from Blake’s face. “Do you see this, you bastard?” Blake whimpers and nods. “This is the least of your worries. You ever come near her again, you’ll never see me coming. Do you understand?”

  “I’m sorry,” Blake cries out. “I thought … I thought she wanted it.”

  “You thought no such thing. I heard her screaming. Did that sound like want to you?” he screams the question.

  “No, no. I’m sorry, Denver.”

  “Don’t speak to her, you scum. Come on, Denver. Let’s go tell your momma.”

  Blake’s sobs grow louder, and he whines, “No, Denver. I can’t lose her.”

  “Don’t you mean you can’t lose her money? You should have thought of that before.”

  I unwrap my arms from around Greer and pull him backwards until he begins to walk with me out of the barn. He drops the pitchfork and sweeps me in his arms, hugging me tight. A shiver courses through him, and my body shivers in response. Pulling back, he places his hands on the side of my head. “Denver, I’m sorry. I’m sorry I wasn’t here sooner.”

  “Oh, Greer, don’t be sorry. I got away. It wasn’t going to happen. I’d rather die.”

  “That’s just not acceptable, chicken.” He turns my face toward the light and lets out a muffled curse. Running his hands down my arms, he rubs up and down, and I realize it’s because I’m trembling. “You’re OK,” he soothes. His eyes do a once-over. “Here, baby,” he murmurs, as he zips and buttons my jeans. He’s so gentle and treats me as though I’m shattered but not yet broken. I close my eyes tight, my mind whirling with “what if’s.” Number one on my list of worries—is my golden boy going to hold this against me like I asked for this or something? Isn’t that what guys do? Take it out on the girl because he had no control over what’s happened.

  “Come on. Let’s go see your mom.” I just nod and follow him to the house.

  It’s quite the scene. My mom screams and cries and throws Blake out of the house. She hugs me and thanks Greer for coming back to the barn. He assures her that I’d gotten him off of me. He tells her I may not be so lucky next time, and that it’s up to her to protect me and keep Blake away from me. She agrees and heads off to bed because she’s “overwrought.” And she should be exhausted. She put on an award-winning performance.

  As I sit at the bar with an icepack on my tender cheek, Greer leans against the kitchen counter with his arms crossed, looking deceptively relaxed with one boot kicked out over the other. We just stare at each other for I don’t know how long. My eyes get heavy as the weight of what has happened catches up with me. Pushing himself off the bar and unfolding his arms, he strides around to me and scoops me off my barstool.

  “Greer,” I protest.

  “Hush now,” he whispers. “I’m gonna tuck you in.” He takes me to the bathroom and deposits me at the door. “Go in and clean up. I’ll get you so
mething to sleep in.”

  As I ease into the shower, it hits me again how close I actually came to being viciously brutalized, and I wonder for the millionth time why men, my mother’s men, honed in on me like that. What made me such a target? I’m strong. Is that it? They want to break me, break my spirit? Is it that I’m a challenge to them? I’m pretty, but I’m not exceptional. I do have a great body though. Maybe that’s it? If I understood why they came after me, I would do everything in my power to prevent it.

  Everything about me should scream hands-off, yet I’ve always been a target. I am a champion barrel racer who’s responsible for getting a one ton pickup from competition to competition while carrying two amazingly athletic horses that I’ve trained using my own capabilities and intuition, yet I’ve had to endure my mother’s lover watching me and getting his rocks off. Fucking peeping Tom.

  I’ve won bigger purses than some folks make in a month working a full-time job. I was offered almost a quarter million dollars for my horse based on everything she and I had accomplished together. When that didn’t faze me, I was offered a ton of money to train other people’s barrel racing horses. All that—on my own, yet I wasn’t strong enough to repel the men that kept coming at me and after me.

  I’m strong. I’m brave. I’m independent. But despite it all, I always attract scumbag men like a shit fly to manure. The why of that finally hits me and fucks with my equilibrium, and I have to throw my arms out to the walls of the shower to catch myself from falling. Another wave of nausea rushes over me.

  You can try to disguise manure.

  You can dress it up pretty.

  You can put a son-of-a-bitching leash on it and parade it downtown on Memorial Day.

  It. Is. Still. Stinking. Ass. Shit.

  And, despite all my defense mechanisms—I am still my mother’s daughter.

  I don’t cry anymore. I had to have shed all the tears my body was capable of making. And crying won’t do me any good anyway. I’ve had a plan formulating since Blake showed his true colors. I am going to have to rely on my mother mostly for my plan to work, but if I can convince her not to move anymore men in before I could get graduated and move out, then maybe I stand a chance.

  Maybe I can leave this house and come back grown-up so her men can’t prey on me anymore. Maybe I can even break the whore trajectory that my mother has so lovingly set me on.

  Convincing her to be alone is going to be a problem. She’s never been alone. Usually she has a main man and a couple of spares. I don’t see why she can’t go off and get her fix and just not bring them around, though.

  After I scrub myself clean, I step out of the shower and wrap myself in a towel. I look around for some clothes but don’t see any. Opening the door, I glance down the hallway and think about making a dash for it, but notice a t-shirt and pajama bottoms folded nicely on the floor in front of the bathroom door. I step back in and get dressed quickly. After I towel dry my hair, I throw it up in a ponytail and head to my room.

  There’s still no sign of Greer. I guess he left. My heart sinks. I’d give anything to have him hold me tight and tell me everything is going to be all right. That I’m not destined to be the whore my mother is. That I don’t invite this kind of attention.

  I open the door to my room, slip in quickly, and close and lock it behind me. I turn and gasp when I make eye contact with my golden boy sitting at my desk. He’s kicked off his boots and is sitting there with one leg crossed over the over. Arms crossed again.

  “I want to stay. Will you let me?” he asks, a tremor in his voice.

  I nod. We’ve slept together before, but that was usually by accident, having stayed up too late watching rodeo or talking or whatever while we were on the road.

  “I can’t imagine leaving you tonight. I just … I need to know you’re OK.”

  I walk to him, push him to sit back in the chair, and climb into his lap. I hold his face in my hands. “I’m gonna be fine, Greer. But I’m glad you showed when you did.” My brow draws together. “Why did you come back?”

  He grins at me. That I’ve got a secret grin that I adore. “What?” I ask. Despite the fucked-up morning, I can’t help but mirror his grin.

  “Nothing. You’re tired. Come on,” he says as he lifts me from his lap and helps me stand. Climbing into the bed, I turn the covers down on his side. He shakes his head at me and grabs my quilt from its folded place at the end of the bed. Pulling the covers back up, he unfolds the quilt and drapes it over his side.

  I can’t help the small grimace that pulls at my mouth. My fears of being tainted hit me full force. “Don’t want to be that close to me?” I whisper.

  Greer blows out a deep breath and scratches his head. “I wish I could say I trust myself completely in this bed with you, but, uh, I don’t.”

  Oh, thank goodness. I relax and admit, “I trust you, Greer. You’re the only man I do trust.”

  “That means more to me than you’ll ever know, Denver.”

  He pulls his t-shirt over his head and tosses it aside. I smile again, but my breath leaves in a whoosh as he pushes his jeans over his hips. I don’t get to marvel at him for long. When he’s down to his boxers, he climbs in bed. “You are so beautiful,” I whisper.

  “Isn’t that supposed to be my line?” he asks with a light laugh.

  “Guys can be beautiful,” I tease.

  “Oh yeah?”

  “Yeah, and what that means to me is that you’re gorgeous here.” I pause and run my fingertips over his blond curls. “And here,” I say, running them around his eyes. “And here,” I breathe as I run them over his chest and down his stomach. Keeping my eyes glued to his, I lean in and whisper, “But most importantly,” I place a light kiss over his heart, “here. What’s in here makes you so beautiful.” Looking up at him through my lashes, I watch his eyes close tight as if he’s in pain.

  I move my lips over his thundering heart, and my hand roams over his chest before he stills and kisses it. “I can’t take anymore of that. I know my limits, baby.”

  An embarrassed heat sweeps across my cheeks. I didn’t mean to get so carried away. I just wanted him to know how much he means to me and how wonderful I know he is. “I’m sorry.”

  “Don’t be sorry.” He rests his hand on my hip and pulls me to him, his warmth enveloping me even though there are barriers between us. I finally close my eyes, feeling the weight of today’s events dragging me under.

  “I came back to tell you that I love you.” My eyes spring open, wide and staring. They meet his, and I see his love for me shining there, like always, but this time, it ignites a bright spark that sets fire to my soul. “I love you, Denver. And I couldn’t wait another minute to tell you.”

  I open my mouth to speak, but instead of words, sobs erupt. What is wrong with me? He’s just opened up his heart to me, and I’m crying. He pulls my head to his chest and runs a hand over my hair.

  “Shh … baby. You’ve had a traumatic night. Probably wasn’t the best time to tell you that. I just wanted you to know that I loved you before all that, and I’ll keep on loving you. What happened—it has no bearing on how I feel about you. Do you understand?”

  I nod my head … focus on breathing and on how strong Greer feels against me. Sleep finally pulls me under.

  Chapter Five

  Now

  THE WIND THROUGH the open window whips around my low ponytail as I head toward the stables where my horses are boarded on the outskirts of town. My giddiness over not having seen Liberty and Indy causes my foot to press heavier on the pedal, and I’m there in record time. I can’t believe I’ve gone four days without seeing them. There was just so much to get situated with school though. Grabbing my shades from the dash, I shove them on as those first bright rays of morning cut across the mountain. My arm falls back to the windowsill, and my hand taps out an impatient beat on the side of my truck that’s completely discordant from the Miranda Lambert tune blasting from the speakers.

  Pulling into the lo
ng, gravel driveway that leads back to the stables, I worry for the second time that I’d upset Maggie by telling her I preferred to drive out on my own today. I didn’t want to be on anyone else’s schedule when it came to spending time with my horses. She promised her feelings weren’t hurt and that she’d catch a ride with Stephanie, another barrel racer who is just as sweet as she is. I found myself hoping again that she wasn’t one of those passive-aggressive girls who told you what you wanted to hear and then held a grudge like nobody’s business.

  I see another truck by the barn when I pull in, and I’m surprised. It’s barely even light out. My jaw drops right before I let out a squeal when I see what kind of truck it is. I admit it’s a little ridiculous that I love my truck to an extreme that when I see one like her I squeal like a girl, but they’re pretty rare nowadays, and the people who drive them are kind of kindred spirits.

  Rolling up my window quickly, I climb out of my truck to get a better look. This one is black with some chrome, whereas mine is cherry red and white two-tone with a white roof, and she’s definitely not out-done on her chrome. I look over his truck as I make my way toward the front, noticing that it needs some work, but overall, she’s in good shape.

  I take a peek at the interior. Yep, needs work. Quite a few rips and catches in the tweed bench seat, but it’s clean. I start to move away, but my eyes catch on the coolest thing. Oh my gosh, is that an eight-track player? Intrigued, I cup my hand around my eyes and plaster my face against the glass as I try to see what kind of music he’s got in the deck. Jethro Tull. No freakin’ way. My dad would flip. Well, the dad of my childhood would anyway. Today’s dad? Not so much. It was one of the things he passed on to me. My love for Classic Rock with an emphasis in Southern Rock was unparalleled. Until now, apparently. My eyes bulge from their sockets as I scan the artists in the holder resembling a small filing cabinet—Led Zeppelin, Marshall Tucker Band, Allman Brothers. I just—

  “Am I about to be the victim of grand theft auto?” I close my eyes behind the mirrored shades of my aviators as that voice washes over me. I only spoke to him for a few awkward moments last night, but I’d never forget it. It was deep and rich and a little smoky … and the strangest image of charcoal just popped into my head. I knew this truck belonged to a guy—I just never would’ve guessed it was that guy.