Can't Let Go--A Bad Boy Romance

by Gena Showalter

  “You can take her to a shelter in Oklahoma City,” he added. “It’s only a two-hour drive.”

  Force the cat to have her babies in a cage? “No way.”

  “There’s nothing either of us can do to help her, anyway,” Brett replied. “Nature will take over, the cat will have her babies and no human intervention will be necessary. You’ll see.”

  So she should just twiddle her thumbs? “Tonto del culo,” she spat, and hung up.

  “Fluent in Spanish,” Jude muttered. “Good to know.”

  “Do you know what I said?” Translated literally, the words meant an idiot of the ass. It was her mother’s favorite curse.

  “Don’t care. Tell me about the vet.”

  Through clenched teeth, she relayed Brett’s cruel shelter idea, then set Jude’s stuff on the couch. Nervousness set in, and she chewed on her bottom lip. What next?

  Ugh. She knew how to take care of herself. Broken down car? No problem. Leaky pipes? She’d grab a wrench. She’d always rolled with the punches life delivered. But this? Caring for a pregnant cat? Shudder.

  “Make a pallet on the floor,” Jude said. “Use blankets or towels, whatever you have available and don’t mind ruining.”

  A bed. Duh! She hurried to obey, selecting blankets—they were softer. When she finished, he settled the cat in the center.

  “I grew up on a farm.” Jude rubbed his temples, lines of tension branching from his eyes and mouth. “I can ensure this beautiful little girl has a safe delivery here in your apartment.”

  Oh, thank the good Lord! And oh, wow, it was difficult to imagine rough, tough city-boy Jude as a farmer. “Thank you.”

  “She’s got a few days to go. Maybe even a week.” Jude gave the living room a single visual sweep.

  She suspected he’d taken in everything at once, noting any changes since his last visit, when he’d helped her take care of a drunken Brock. What did Jude think of her furnishings and embellishments? She’d picked pieces to represent different cultures throughout the world. A throw from India draped a Victorian settee. A French side table displayed a Moroccan vase, an Egyptian bowl filled with blown glass fruit and an elephant figurine hand-carved in Africa. A landscape of the Scottish Highlands hung on the wall.

  Nothing really fit together and colors clashed, but she loved every piece.

  He remained on the floor, petting the now purring cat, a faraway expression on his face. She sat across from him, trying not to be envious while wishing she were the one being stroked so gently.

  “She needs a name,” Ryanne told him. “The cat” and “feline” were already old. “Since she’ll be staying at your place—did I mention I think you should take her home?—I’ll let you have the honors of choosing—”

  He choked on his own tongue. “Hell, no. Finders keepers.”

  “But you said you’d ensure her delivery—”

  “No, no, a thousand times no. I’ll ensure a safe delivery here.”

  “Fine,” she grumbled. “She can stay here.” For now. “I’ll call her...Ali Cat?” No. Too on point. “Kitty Poppins? Kitkat?” Argh! Same problem.

  “Names are important. They define who we are and set the stage for who we become. So choose one with care.”

  “Wow. That’s a lot of pressure for a single word.” She traced a finger over her lock tattoo, her curiosity too great to ignore. “What does Jude mean?”

  There was a slight hesitation before he admitted, “The praised one.”

  “Seriously?” She snickered, and the corners of his mouth might—might!—have twitched. So close to success, but still so far away. “I wonder what Ryanne means.”

  “It’s the feminine form of Ryan, which means little king.”

  Had he known already...or had he looked it up after meeting her?

  Warmth settled low in her belly. “So. Ryanne means little queen. You’re right, our names set the stage for who we become. But I’m not calling you the praised one. Do you have a nickname?”

  A pause, a clipped nod.

  “Well,” she prompted. “Don’t hold back. Tell me before I start calling you Gollum or Spanky McSparkle.”

  “Spanky McSparkle?” He pursed those beautiful, scarred lips. “In the military, my teammates called me...Priest.”

  “Seriously?” she repeated. “Why—”

  “Nope. No more sharing. Name the cat and move on.”

  Someone sure turned cranky superfast. Oh, wait. Cranky was Jude Laurent’s default setting. “We’ll call her Belle.” Decision made. “And yes, you did, in fact, name her. You called her beautiful.”

  He glowered, and yet the expression lacked heat. “All right. It’s 9:03. Let’s get down to business.”

  “All right. Let’s.”

  Over the next hour, he explained the complex camera system he intended to put into place. Once, only once, she accidentally touched him. He jolted, as if she’d burned him. A bad reaction, or a really, really good one?

  The next time she touched him was on purpose. Again, he jolted.

  Focus. Business now, play later.

  Basically every inch of her bar and parking lot would be filmed twenty-four hours a day, with the exception of the bathrooms and the inside of her apartment. A panic button would be added to her apartment, and with a few tweaks, the closet in her bedroom would become a safe room. She would hire three bouncers, though he’d suggested four, and all three males would be big, burly and fearless; they would enforce her rules and eject anyone who acted out of line. And if ever she held a big event, he had employees in the city who would drive down to help with security. Finally, she would hire a full-time night watchman, who would patrol the parking lot, stopping any outside mischief before it had time to enter the bar.

  “You do realize all these changes and additions will eat up my profits, right?” Thousands of dollars would be spent on cameras and installation, plus the ongoing salaries of four new employees.

  “If something were to happen to your bar, you’d make zero profits. But, to supplement your income, you can begin hosting daytime events. Think about it. The bar is closed mornings and afternoons every day of the week. You can offer private parties, showers, whatever. The possibilities are endless.”

  The Strawberry Valley book club did need a bigger place to get together. And the local matchmaker wanted a venue for the meet and greets she was hoping to host. But everything Jude suggested meant more work for Ryanne, and she was already overtaxed.

  Still, he was right. What if she made enough money to pay for all the security additions, salaries and upgrades for her travels? Excitement sparked.

  “The panic button you mentioned,” she said. “It will be linked to Blueberry Hill PD? Strawberry Valley PD? Grapevine PD?”

  A muscle jumped underneath his eye. “None of the above. The signal will go to LPH Protection. We have monitors in place 24/7. Someone there will notify 911 as well as call Daniel, Brock...or me.”

  Delicious, drugging warmth spilled through her. Getting personal with Jude Laurent... “Are you saying you’ll drop whatever you’re doing in order to save a damsel in distress?”

  His nod was immediate. “I will. So will they.”

  “Well, hiring the right employees will take time.” Am I really going to do this?

  “I know. That’s why I’ll be acting as a bouncer in the meantime.”

  Her heart leaped, a thousand butterflies taking flight in her stomach. Jude...nearby every night... “There’s a slight problem with your plan. You make my customers uncomfortable.”

  “Good. They’ll be on their best behavior.”

  “Or they’ll leave and never return.”

  His wide shoulders hiked in a shrug.

  Such a contradiction, this man. Helpful, but indifferent. Kind, but aloof. Smoldering, but
standoffish.

  “All right,” she said, and sighed. Safety first. “You have permission to proceed. With everything.” She couldn’t help but add, “After I hear my daily compliment.”

  One brow arched. “Rescuing your cat wasn’t enough?”

  “Our cat. We’re co-owners.” She’d almost said coparents, but had stopped herself in time. No reason to remind him of the daughters he’d lost.

  “Fine.” His lips compressed, and he gave her his patented I disapprove look. “You want a compliment, you get a compliment. You are a...singular woman.”

  She waited for him to say more. He didn’t.

  Well. “Singular woman” was as good a compliment as any, she supposed, and maybe kinda sorta better than she’d anticipated. “Just so you know, I’ll expect something a lot more personal tomorrow.”

  “Why?” he grated. “Why do you care what I think about you?”

  Make a man laugh, and he’ll have a good day. Teach a man to have fun, and he’ll have a good life.

  Remembering her plan, she twirled a lock of hair around her finger and batted her lashes at him. “Don’t be silly, praised one. I just like to watch you squirm.”

  CHAPTER FOUR

  FOR THE NEXT WEEK, Jude did his best to avoid the too flirtatious, too happy Ryanne. An impossible task, considering he worked at the Scratching Post each of the seven days, installing cameras in the morning, checking food deliveries in the afternoon, acting as a bouncer in the evening and helping care for Belle every minute in between. The pregnant, very grumpy cat hadn’t yet given birth.

  Ryanne had texted him a few times, too. Random invitations to do ridiculous things.

  Let’s go to a finger-painting workshop! We’ve GOT to improve our employer-employee relations.

  His response? How will finger paint help us?

  Duh! Our bodies are the canvases and we get to paint each other. (You know, a little hands-on learning. Or big. Yeah, probably big.)

  No.

  Not just no, but hell, no.

  Her next text had read What about a petting zoo in the city??? (I promise I’m not the animal you’ll be stroking.)

  Again he’d replied, No.

  Movie? I’ll pay AND share my popcorn w/you.

  Another solid No.

  She texted him a gif of a cartoon character sobbing.

  Avoiding this woman had begun to prick at his pride. He’d once been part of a military unit known as the Ten. Ten soldiers sent on the most dangerous missions—secret missions that would never be talked about in history books. They’d killed the enemy and rescued other soldiers amid impossible odds of survival. Amid it all, Jude, Brock and Daniel had seen and done things no human should have seen or done. It changed them.

  Brock now tried to make everyone he met fall in like with him, since he couldn’t like himself. Daniel kept all newcomers at a distance, too afraid of losing another person, and Jude...he tended to numb-out, and live life on autopilot.

  He craved autopilot. But Ryanne had twisted him into a million little knots, and none of those knots helped him stay numb.

  Despite her—or because of her—he pushed himself to his limits, wanting to get the job settled as soon as possible. As soon as he finished installations, he would make Brock front man. That way, Brock would receive a notice when something went wrong at the bar, and Jude could finally wipe Ryanne from his mind.

  Already he’d spoken to Martin Dushku, who’d thrown more shade than a decades-old oak. He’d lied with a smile, misdirected with ease and hid his threats behind false concern.

  Jude felt sorry for the man’s wife. The pair had been together for thirty-one years and had two adult children. A twenty-seven-year-old son named Filip and a twenty-three-year-old daughter named Paulina; they also had a four-year-old grandchild named Thomas.

  Filip, Thomas’s father, was in prison for manslaughter, with only a year left on his sentence. Interestingly enough, Jude had been unable to find any mention of Thomas’s mother.

  When Jude had first walked onto the construction site, two goons had closed in fast to frisk him, as he’d known they would. Of course, they hadn’t found the small metal pins sheathed in the heels of his boots. More than that, Jude himself was a weapon. He could turn any innocent object into a weapon, as well. An ink pen, a keyboard. A paper clip. A chair.

  After coming up empty, the men escorted him into a luxurious trailer, where Dushku perched behind a desk. The conversation had been short and anything but sweet.

  “Both the Scratching Post and its owner are under my protection,” Jude had said. “You won’t like what happens if you harm them. And keep your stable off Ryanne’s property. The next time someone sells a ride at the Scratching Post, a live stream will be the least of your troubles.”

  Dushku had chuckled, not the least bit intimidated. “You must be mistaken. I value women and would never take part in prostitution. And I certainly wouldn’t do so on Miss Wade’s property. I’ve heard about her problems with the local PD.” He’d sighed, as if weary. “If sex and drugs are being sold at the Scratching Post, I’m sure authorities will believe Miss Wade is the one responsible.”

  “I didn’t say anything about drugs,” Jude had grated.

  The man’s amusement had bloomed into a smirk. “I’ve already looked into you, Mr. Laurent. You were a good soldier once. A husband and father. Now you’re a cripple with nothing to lose—except another leg.”

  Behind him, one of the guards had snickered. “What do you call a man with one leg? A pogo stick.”

  Laughter had abounded while Jude simmered in his seat. Rage and grief had bubbled in his chest; the two emotions were always there, rooted deep in his heart, but some days were worse than others. How dare this scumbag mention Constance and the twins!

  “If you take me on, Mr. Laurent, you will fail.” For a moment, only a moment, Dushku had allowed his true demeanor to surface, his features cold as ice. “I promise you.”

  Mere seconds had passed as Jude struggled to control his breathing, though it had felt like an eternity.

  “Did the truth hurt your feelings?” Dushku had shaken his head. “I’m not sure why. You are a cripple without a family, and I won’t hesitate to ruin this new life you’ve carved out for yourself.”

  More rage. More grief. At the best of times, Jude felt like only half a man. What if he couldn’t protect Ryanne?

  He’d mimicked the man’s smirk. “I don’t think you searched deep enough into my background, Mr. Dushku. I’m a hunter, born and bred. When I was just a boy, I learned to stalk and kill deer and wild hogs. As a man, Uncle Sam taught me to stalk and kill men. I’m very good. My victims are never found.” He’d stood. “Again, I suggest you stay on your side of the street, and we’ll stay on ours. I won’t stop you from running your business, but I will stop you from hurting innocents.”

  Dushku had said, “I, too, would hate for any harm to come to innocents, especially someone as kind and beautiful as Miss Wade. If she decides to sell the bar within the next couple of months in order to travel the world as she dreams, I’m willing to help her. If not... You might be a hunter, Mr. Laurent, but I’m a ghost. You’ll never see me coming.”

  Jude had left, before he broke down and showed Dushku the error of his ways.

  So far, there had been only one attempt to strike at Ryanne. Blueberry Hill PD raided the bar, harassing customers as they checked IDs and asked questions about “reported suspicious activity.” Jude had admired Ryanne’s calm in the midst of the chaos, and he’d been surprised by the support of her patrons, almost everyone rushing to her defense, forcing the officers to leave without making an arrest.

  “A little help, please.” Ryanne’s sex-drugs-and-rock-and-roll voice stopped him in his tracks.

  Behind the counter where he’d watched her mix drinks wa
s the entrance to the basement. He watched as the gorgeous woman lugged a large box up the steps. Mason jars clinked together, her infamous fruit cocktail moonshine sloshing inside. Beads of sweat glistened on her forehead, and he almost—almost—rushed to her aid. While he was good with protecting her and her home, he avoided anything related to the actual buying, selling and marketing of alcohol.

  “Is this a test?” he finally asked. “This seems like a test. The moment I help you, you’ll accuse me of setting back feminism a hundred years.”

  “Yeah, that sounds exactly like me,” she muttered as she lumbered past him.

  He kind of wanted to grin. Usually she was the one teasing him.

  No wonder she did it so often. Hello, fun. Long time no see.

  For the next hour, Jude worked like a man possessed, installing motion-sensitive lights in the bathroom hallway. Soon the bar would open to the public, and he would have to walk the room for eight hours, on the lookout for any signs of wayward activity. Guaranteed, he would irritate people tonight. His leg had pained him all day, darkening his mood. He needed to rest, but he needed to work and remain distracted more.

  When he entered the main area, he found Ryanne doing what she did best, mixing drinks for Lyndie and Dorothea. Considering Brock had a secret thing for Lyndie, a delicate strawberry blonde, and Daniel was almost always attached to Dorothea’s side, Jude expected his friends to be nearby, but...no.

  “—negotiated. Said I could have three orgasms a day or one more dog.” Dorothea rolled her big, blue eyes. She was a pretty woman with dark, corkscrew curls, and the soft curves of a ’50s pinup model. “I demanded four orgasms a day and two more dogs, of course.”

  Ryanne threw back her head, laughing with abandon.

  Lust punched Jude straight in the gut, shocking him, waking once deadened nerve endings. Tingles exploded throughout his entire body, followed by heat and hunger, such clawing hunger.

  He gnashed his teeth as he fought the sensations. Want a bartender? No! And yet, the hunger persisted.