by H. M. Ward
You just need more distance, Jos, a voice chimes softly in the back of my mind.
I’m starting to think that she’s wrong. I’m two-thousand miles from home in a place that makes no sense to me. The people here are super religious but only on Sunday mornings and Wednesday nights. It’s like they’re living a double life and it doesn’t concern them in the least. They don’t even see it. It’s Jesus this and Godly that, but they’d cut a mofo for taking their parking spot at the local WalMart after services. At least the plastic people in Manhattan know they’re fake. Maybe I don’t see it because faith eludes me, but if living like that is what it means to believe in God, I can’t do it. I lie enough for my parents. I don’t need another all-powerful, self-centered asshat telling me what to do. I have enough of that at home.
I head out of there as fast as I can and don’t think too hard about where I’m headed. Dark, noisy, alcohol. No one will recognize my voice with the banjo twanging or the boots sliding. And I sure as hell need a drink tonight. The thought of going home alone right now scares me. Maybe I should jump in my car and keep driving. Maybe that thought was a premonition. Either way, I didn’t listen and staying changed everything.
CHAPTER 5
W hen I get to the bar, I shun every guy who tries to pick me up. That email has me on edge and I practically bite the head off of every man brave enough to approach. I down another shot and slam it on the bar top.
The barkeep is a young guy with dark skin and thick arms. He’s got a shaved head with a tattoo across the back of his neck. The collar on his white shirt hides the details, but there’s a bit of ink peeking above the edge of the fabric. He glances at me but says nothing. He’s been keeping an eye on the guys who come up and get shot down. I gave him the last set of drinks two guys sent over—as if I’d jump into bed with two men.
I sigh deeply as I try to get the persistent cowboy on the stool next to me to go away. I’m scrolling through a news feed and not listening to him when he places a hand on my thigh and rolls his wrist so his fingertips brush the V at the top of my legs. I jump out of my chair and scream, “What the fuck!”
The guy is wearing a huge ass white felt cowboy hat with a plaid shirt and very tight ironed jeans. Coupled with the boots, he’s one of those pretty frat boy cowboys—not the actual working cowboy that comes in dusty from working hard on a farm all day. His face is impish with a nose that is two sizes too large. His eyes are small and beady like a rodent.
He remains seated and flicks his thumb to the back of his nose and laughs at me. “Calm down, honey. I’ll buy you a drink first if that’s the way you want it.” He chortles in a light, airy way that makes me irate.
“Go fuck yourself,” I growl. People are watching us now and my anger has sharpened my accent. It’s clear I’m not one of them, that I’m a Yankee city girl. I’ve seen how they treat other women when they realize she’s not from a small town. It’s awful, but I’m too angry to care at the moment. My body is tense, every muscle corded tight, as my left-hand balls into a fist at my side.
“Now, that’s not a very purdy thing to say, sweetheart. You city girls have filthy mouths. I know what I’d like to do with that sinful set of lips.” He stands up and is way too close to me. His belt buckle catches on my blouse as he rises. I step back but he moves toward me.
The bartender speaks behind me. “Simmer down, Tommy. She ain’t interested.”
Tommy glances past me at the guy and grins. “She don’t know that, not really. These fast women wander in from the city and bring their trashy ways with ‘em. Well, it’s our patriotic duty to show them what a real Texan woman would do. It gives her something to aspire to.”
When he redirects his attention toward me, he’s all slimy smiles, arrogance, and asshole. The guy never sees my fist coming until it connects with his cheek. I throw all my weight into it and slam straight into his jaw. It gives under my knuckles as the look of shock on his face suddenly turns to anger. The place has gone quiet, everyone watching, too afraid to blink because they’ll miss what happens next. I stand there shaking, staring at the man, ready to punch him again.
A table of college boys jeers the man, humiliating him. “That’s not how you pick up a woman, dude!” The table laughs, followed by a few other fellows sitting around the bar. The women don’t smile or move. They’re still watching us.
Tommy leans down and gets in my face, hissing, “You’ll pay for that, bitch.”
Before he can say another word, Tommy is yanked away and staggers backward. A strong hand is holding the collar of his shirt. I follow the grip and see it’s connected to the man that threw the sheet music in the concert hall. There’s nothing soft about him now, no indication that he held a baton less than an hour ago.
He roughly handles Tommy, pulling him close enough to whisper to the man. Tommy’s rage drains, leaving his face pale and his eyes wide. His jaw hangs open, apparently intimidated by the quiet threats of the concert hall guy. Tommy rips away from him and staggers back a step. He glares at me before turning on his heel and rushing out.
The college guys burst out laughing. A few pound the table and hurl insults after Tommy. I’m still standing by my stool, heart racing, with clenched fists still ready to fight. The concert hall guy paces toward me, dark boots scuffing the peanut shells as he nears me. I don’t want to talk, but I suppose I need to thank him. My lips part, waiting for him to ask if I’m all right, an answer already on my tongue when he sweeps past me and says nothing. He doesn’t even look at me. He heads to the end of the bar and takes a seat. A moment later, an amber liquid is placed in front of him by the barkeeper who obviously knows this moody mystery maestro. The man keeps his dark head down, eyes on his drink, and ignores everything else.
Part of me is glad he didn’t hit on me, but the rest of me is offended that he didn’t ask if I was all right. I sit down on my stool and swallow my thanks. Cowboys are assholes. Or maybe all men are assholes. I can’t tell at the moment because this guy is so intense that it’s hard to look away. I find myself staring at him.
When he lifts his head, he looks straight past me. It pisses me off so badly, that I down my drink, and saunter over to the end of the bar.
“What’s wrong with you?” I demand. I stand next to the stool at his side and glare at his chiseled cheek, dusted with stubble.
He doesn’t turn to look at me. He doesn’t make any indication that he’s aware of me.
“What the hell? Why bother helping me if you’re going to be as big a dick as the other guy?”
He laughs. It’s a deep sound, surprised almost. He keeps his focus locked on the other end of the bar and remains silent after that brief chortle.
I walk back to my spot, grab my next shot, and then head to the opposite end of the bar. I sit down in the place where the beautiful silent man had been staring. I expect him to look away, but he doesn’t. I lift my shot and down the liquid before slamming the glass on the bar. His eyes are ice blue, nearly silver, they’re so light. I expected them to be dark. The contrast with his tanned skin and inky hair is striking. He holds my gaze and it feels like a challenge to see who will look away first.
I have no idea what his damage is, but I’m too tired to deal with crazy guys tonight. I tip up my chin at him and say the one word that I feel I must convey. “Thanks.”
When I slide off the stool, I pay my tab, and head for the door. As I shove out into the cool night air, I take a deep breath. That’s when the hairs on my arms rise up and connect at the back of my neck. I glance around, seeing no one, but I sense him.
CHAPTER 6
T hat Tommy guy is out here. It has to be him. Or maybe it’s the email person.
I step off the wooden deck that surrounds the door to the bar and into the gravel parking lot. The crunch of caliche under my feet sounds like airhorns. The night wind kisses my skin as it blows past. The air is never still here.
I head to my car, glancing around, but not seeing him. When I get to my vehicle, I touc
h the handle and the door unlocks. I got an Elantra that’s a few years old. I was driving a Bentley in New York and I feel weird saying it, but I like this car better. Maybe it’s because I bought it and it’s mine, or maybe it’s because I actually like it. I don’t know, but I slip into my seat and try to pull the door shut.
Tommy catches it and swings it open. He stands there between the door and me, glaring down. “You made a mistake making an enemy of me tonight.”
I have a Taser in my glovebox, but I’m afraid to move. If I lean over, he might climb on top of me and if the man pins me, it won’t go well.
I tense and shoot back, “You grabbed my snatch in the middle of a bar. What did you think was going to happen? It’s not a pickup line, asswipe. Go away before I press the panic button and the police show up.”
A sneer tugs at the side of his mouth as he leans on the door frame. “They’ll get here right after I’m done with you. Go ahead and press it.” He lunges for me, and I go for the glove box, diving across the front seats.
He grabs me and pins me across the seat, shoving my back into the gearshift. I try to get a knee up, but can’t move. I scream as I claw at him. Panic has made me stupid. My head is by the glove compartment. As the asshole unzips, I push the button and the Taser topples out. Blindly, I turn it on and slam it into his neck when he looks up to see what I’ve done. His body tenses and then goes still before he’s torn off me and dragged backward out of the little car.
That’s when another man reaches for me with a strong hand on a thick arm. I don’t think. I can’t. I just act and press the Taser to his skin. The guy goes down like a bag of bricks. Silence fills the parking lot. I scamper out of the car to see who the second man. Tommy must have planned a gangbang with me as the prize. This had to be an asshole friend that thought he could take advantage of a girl that was clearly out of her element and off-kilter tonight. Well, fuck them.
As I stand, I look down to the second man lying at my feet and swear. It’s the concert hall guy. I can’t leave him on the parking lot ground with the lunatic cowboy. For all I know, Tommy will wake up first and castrate the man. He doesn’t deserve that.
I walk around the pile of limbs and pull out the concert hall guy and lug his heavy body into the back of the car. After wrestling his toned, tall frame into the back seat, I stare at my handiwork. He’s not in there too comfortably. Okay, it’s bad. He’s sort of sitting on his face, but I can’t flip him around. He’s way too heavy. I was lucky I got him in the damn car. Screw it. I slam the door and leave him sitting on his face.
After starting the engine, I maneuver around the prone cowboy and get the hell out of there. When I stop at a traffic light, I turn to see how the guy in my backseat is doing and come face to face with him. A scream rips from my throat and before I know it, my hand that’s still clutching the Taser connects with his neck.
He sees it coming this time and utters, “Don’t—”
But I already connected the electrodes to his skin and he slumps to the side.
“Shit!” I repeat the word too many times as a car horn behind me blares. I’ve been sitting at a green light. I hit the gas and decide to head toward home. I have no idea what I’m going to do with this guy when I get there. He helped me and I Tasered him.
Twice.
Shit.
CHAPTER 7
I ’m so frazzled that I don’t know what to do. I’m creeping toward my house, following the dark winding farm roads outside of town. The moon sits like a dinner plate against an inky sky. Stars scatter in a thick path like diamonds that fell out of a rich man’s pocket. They glitter brightly in the darkness.
Indecision has me paralyzed. The last place I should be taking him is toward my home, but my brain seems to have flipped to autopilot. When I’m freaked out, I run home and hide. Let’s just say I’m past the freak-out point. My heart already crawled up my throat and ran down the street. It’s in the next town by now, and now I’m a heartless bitch debating whether or not to help a guy I maimed.
I pull into my driveway and crunch up the path that leads to the house, weaving through the property until the street is completely hidden. I throw the car in park and look over my shoulder. Concert Hall Guy’s still out, big body sprawled across the back of my car, eyes closed as if dreaming. When he wakes up this guy is going to think I kidnapped him. I debate bringing him inside or leaving him in the car. Stupidity would tell me to bring him in, or maybe that’s compassion. I don’t know. The two traits are tangled together at this point. If I invite him inside, the guy might recognize me. Or hell, maybe he’s the one who sent the email. Either way, bringing a strange, albeit beautiful man, into my little house would be foolish. The night could still get worse. Opting for a Taser instead of a gun may have been stupid. But, I didn’t think I needed one. I never imagined a scenario where I’d want the comfort of holding a strange man at gunpoint while sorting out my night. But Tasing this guy a third time would be cruel. It would suck if the helpful bystander was made impotent by being electrocuted too many times. That would deter any man from helping a woman ever again.
Sighing, I twist in my seat and peer down at the man. Dark lashes rest against tanned skin. Sharp cheekbones flow into a strong jaw. And those lips, they’re pink and full and surrounded with the perfect amount of stubble. There are no scars, nothing that says total psycho, but I suppose there is a way to pass the crazy test. After a brief inner debate, I lean over the seatback and reach for him. My hips rest on the center console as I strain my hand and reach into his pocket. Come on, wallet. Where are you? I need to Google this guy before he comes to and thinks I’m molesting him.
Heart racing, I feel a hard bit of leather against the edge of my fingers. I lean closer, wrap my fingers around it, and pull. I remain perched on the console and have his license out before flicking my phone to life. I pull up Google and enter his name. Two seconds later, results appear.
CHASE DESPARAUX. Facebook, Twitter, Tumbler, and a few other social media sites pop up. No newspaper articles that say, WANTED KILLER. Nothing horrible. No devastatingly attractive girlfriend either. A few pictures of him conducting. That’s it. It doesn’t mean he’s kosher, but at least he’s not a known murderer.
I pocket my phone and close his wallet. I need to put it back in his pants pocket before he wakes up. I lean forward carefully and inch toward his body. His chest rises and falls slowly, still out. There’s a peaceful expression on that hardened face, almost pleasant as I reach for his back pocket again. I try to shove the wallet back in, but he’s heavy. The guy is laying on his side, and the weight on his back pocket prevents me from getting the wallet to slip into his pants. One side will slide in freely, but the part closest to the seat won’t budge.
Chanting, “Don’t wake up, don’t wake up,” I shove harder and slip my hand under his rump the tiniest bit. My finger tips are on his ass and stuck between this man and the seat.
I glance at him. Even breathing, so he’s still out. In the dark, I can’t see a damned thing. It’s all silhouettes and faint sounds. I don’t want this guy to think I Tased him to steal his money. This isn’t working. I need to change position, which requires getting out of the car.
I cut the engine and quietly open my door and leave it open. The dome light turns on and brightens things. My pulse pounds in my ears, thinking the light will rouse the man, but no. He’s still out. Apparently, it’s not as easy to shake off the effects this time.
I slink around to the back door and pull it open before ducking my head inside to try and look behind him. I need to get a better angle on replacing his wallet in his back pants pocket. I can’t reach over him. Crawling on him would wake him. I can’t really reach from here, not without something to lean on a little. I see a way to reach around him if I place myself on my tippy toes and hold onto the oh-shit strap. It gives me enough room that I should be able to put it back without touching him. I can’t believe I’m doing this. Attempt number two. After this I’m going to throw it on the
floor and say it fell out.
I’m leaning halfway into the automobile with my feet on the gravel driveway and one hand holding me an inch over the beautiful man while the other arm is extended toward his ass clutching his wallet. I barely breathe as I reach over him, my face close to his back, and try to shift him enough to get the hand holding his wallet up under his ass.
That’s when a deep voice says, “If you wanted me that badly, you should have said so at the bar.”
I screech and fall. On top of him. My pulse spikes to stroke territory as gravity pulls me down. I flail, possibly punching him in the face as I claw backward and fall out of the car. I yelp with a THUD and drop his wallet somewhere along the way.
Icy Eyes sits up and leans on the car door before he looks down at me. “So, do you always pick up guys like this? Have them break up a fake fight, shove them in the backseat of your car, and then drive out of town and grope their asses?”
“No! I swear to God, this wasn’t staged.” My hands are on the ground on either side of my hips. Horrified, I frantically shake my head trying to think of something to explain myself that doesn’t make his suspicions sound founded. Jaw dangling, I gape and can’t find words.
He shrugs. “I mean, it’s different. You take the cake in the unique category. I’ve had girls try and take my shit before, but none ever kidnapped me.” He’s smirking the entire time he talks, but his tone is serious. He thinks I’m insane. The half-smile fades and he says somberly, “Can I ask you something?”
I nod, still sitting on the ground, looking up at his beautiful face. “What?”
“Is your house made out of gingerbread?” I blink at him. “Do I need to run like hell in that direction?” He jabs his thumb away from my house and toward the field. He glances at the acreage and then back at me, running a hand through his hair and down the back of his neck.