Can't Let Go--A Bad Boy Romance

by Gena Showalter

  This had been a targeted strike meant to harm the owner. The property was simply collateral damage.

  As Jude raced forward, he narrowed his focus—get in, get out. He jumped and dodged, but not quickly enough. Flames lashed his arm, singeing his shirt, leaving a white-hot line of blisters in their wake. He hissed, but didn’t slow, taking the stairs three at a time.

  Smoke burned his eyes, his throat. Can’t stop. Can’t go back without those cats. Light-headed, a bit unsteady, he punched the code in the lock and shouldered his way past the door.

  Soot: everywhere. Temperature: hellish. In the sunroom, an agitated Belle prowled in front of her babies.

  A flurry of movement behind him. Brock flew into the room.

  “Ryanne—” Jude began. The single word scraped his throat raw; he suspected he’d already sustained esophageal burns.

  Between coughing fits, he said, “She’s safe with Daniel.”

  He hated that his friend was in danger outside of combat, but welcomed the aid. Working together as they’d done a thousand times before, they placed the entire fur family inside a laundry hamper, using wet towels to prevent any more smoke inhalation.

  Brock led the way out, and Jude carried the hamper. By the time they reached the stairs, the blaze had already spread. Half of the banister was engulfed, plus a few of the steps. Too dangerous. If the wood snapped, they’d plummet. They backtracked, returning to the apartment.

  Jude opened the window in the sunroom, and cool night air gusted inside. Droplets of water misted over him, cool and welcome, and he frowned. Why?

  The answer clicked. Two fire trucks had finally arrived. Lights flashed nearby, men in full bodysuits working to douse the fire.

  “Over here,” he shouted, but he knew he hadn’t been heard over the roar of the flames and firehoses. No matter. A truck’s ladder was already extending up to him, thanks to Ryanne, who was pointing in his direction.

  As soon as the edge reached the window, he practically shoved Brock out and handed his friend the hamper. Jude followed him out.

  Just a little farther...almost there...

  His foot hit land, and someone rushed over to hustle him toward a waiting ambulance. Light-headedness had graduated to full-blown swimming, but the second his gaze landed on the smug Dushku—who hadn’t moved from his spot among the crowd—he erupted, pushing his way through the masses to get in the old man’s face.

  “You think you’ve won? You have no idea the hell you’ve unleashed.”

  Dushku withdrew a linen square from his pocket and wiped his glasses, as if Jude’s presence had dirtied them. “You lost, Mr. Laurent. Accept defeat gracefully, and be thankful you and yours survived. This could have ended much worse.”

  Hard hands locked around Jude—Daniel. “We can deal with him later, after we’ve watched the security feed and proven he’s responsible. Now’s the time you take care of yourself.”

  Dushku revealed no hint of emotion.

  Daniel dragged Jude to an ambulance, where he was hooked to an oxygen mask. Then Daniel went to check on Brock while Jude searched the surrounding area for Ryanne. No sign of her.

  “The brunette,” he said, trying not to panic.

  “The Mexican hottie? She’s fine, sugar, you have my word,” the medic replied. “Like everyone else, she’s being kept at a distance for her own safety.”

  “I need to see her.” Had to assure himself that she was all right. He removed the mask and leaped from the vehicle.

  “Hey,” the medic called. “Your blood pressure is too high and—” His voice got lost in the murmur of the crowd and the roar of the water spray.

  Jude found Ryanne with Belle and the kittens, as well as Daniel, Loner and Brett Vandercamp. All four labored furiously, using some sort of suction on the kittens to clean their nasal passages.

  Ryanne’s cheeks were colorless, her bottom lip swollen. Her front teeth had left two little puncture wounds in the center. She lifted her gaze, spotted Jude and cried out. In a blink, she was flying across the distance. When she threw herself into his arms, he caught her, his eyes burning all over again. Damn smoke. As weak as he was, impact sent him stumbling back, sharp pains lancing through his leg.

  “Sorry, I’m sorry,” she rushed out. “Are you okay? You’re covered in soot and your skin! Your poor skin.” Her chin trembled as she looked him over. “So many blisters.”

  “I’ll be fine.” He stared at the bar, the flames dying as water from multiple hoses sprayed.

  A stray thought hit him: if the bar burned down, Ryanne would no longer be a bar owner. She could walk away, start a new life.

  What. The. Hell? He was so prejudiced, he welcomed the destruction of Ryanne’s livelihood?

  He deserved every blister, and more.

  “Jude.” Her hand fluttered over her heart. “Did you just...smile?”

  Did he? “The cats are alive and well,” was all he said. A statement of fact.

  “Yes,” she replied, her tone flat now, “but you weren’t looking at the cats. You were looking at my home.”

  * * *

  “YOU DID,” RYANNE SAID, before Jude had a chance to respond. “You rarely smile. I have to fight you for a single grin, yet you willingly, happily give one while my home burns down. You hate the fact that I sell alcohol. I bet you hate yourself, too, for screwing me.”

  She remembered the words he’d spoken to her the night she’d discovered Dushku was selling Savannah in her parking lot.

  Frankly, I’d rather let it burn to the ground.

  It. Her bar. Well, he’d certainly gotten his wish.

  “I’m sorry,” he said. “It was a momentary lapse of judgment. A moment of insanity.”

  Maybe he believed that, but he only fooled himself.

  She’d fooled herself, too. He hadn’t stayed away from her these past few weeks because she’d been a wrecking ball to two and a half years of self-imposed celibacy. He’d stayed away because he’d found her lacking. She finally saw the truth. To Jude, the Scratching Post would always be the bane of his world. She would always be the bane of his world.

  She was shaking so hard, she felt as if she were seizing. Her cats were alive, at least, some in better condition than others. Jude—their rescuer and her betrayer—had escaped the flames with only minor injuries.

  “From the looks of things,” she said, “the firefighters will soon extinguish the blaze. Perhaps you’d like to light a match.”

  “Ryanne—”

  “No. I didn’t serve the boy who killed your family, but you treat me as if I’m the one responsible.” Could she really spend the next couple months of her life with this man?

  Tears stung her eyes.

  “Ryanne,” he repeated, reaching for her.

  “No.” She leaped out of range. “Don’t. I mean it.” Not here, not now. She might break down, and she’d rather die than break down in front of Dushku. “We’ll talk later.” Tomorrow, maybe. Or next month. Or when she returned from Rome. Or never. Her lockbox of hurt threatened to burst open at any second.

  “I’m taking Belle and her babies to my clinic,” Brett said, snagging her attention. “Will put them all in the oxygen tank.” He pointed to Loner, who was covered in soot like everyone else. “You. Can you come with me? Ryanne can’t leave, and Jude needs medical attention. My assistant is at home in bed.”

  Loner nodded, eager to help. “You just have to tell me what you want me to do.”

  “Carry the hamper, I’ll carry the equipment.”

  The two rushed off, and though Ryanne would have liked to follow, she clasped Jude’s arm as he coughed, nearly hacking up a lung.

  “You’re getting medical assistance. Don’t protest,” she snapped when he opened his mouth.

  As she ushered him to the ambulance, he clo
sed his mouth. Opened it again. Closed it again.

  Brock sat on a gurney, a clear mask covering the lower half of his face.

  “Well, well.” A redheaded medic bustled in the back, searching for another mask. “My other sexy patient decided to return. Couldn’t get enough of me, sugar? Understandable. Hardly anyone can.”

  Jude eased beside Brock, looking anywhere but at Ryanne.

  Red anchored the mask around Jude’s nose and mouth while saying to Ryanne, “Sorry, honey, but we’re taking these two to the emergency clinic in Grapevine, and there isn’t room for you. You’ll have to follow us.”

  “No. We’re staying here,” Jude said. “We can’t leave until we speak with the authorities.”

  Her tremors intensified, a ten on the RW Afflicter Scale. “I’ll stay behind, and you’ll go.” They needed time apart, and she needed time to think. Emotions were too high right now, too raw.

  “No. I’m staying with you.” He removed the mask despite the medic’s protests.

  “Yes,” she snapped. “Put the mask on. Now.”

  At the same time, Red said, “If you want to recover in a timely fashion, you’ll suck up oxygen like a good boy. Otherwise you’ll be knocked on your ass for days, unable to argue with your hottie.”

  “Don’t worry. I’ll stay with her.” Daniel approached her side, draped an arm over her shoulders. “Go,” he told the medic. “Get my boys the care they need.”

  Red banged on the window that blocked him from the driver, and shut the door. Ryanne’s gaze remained on Jude until the last possible second. Anger pulsed from him. No, anger wasn’t a strong enough word. Rage. Why? Because circumstances forced him to leave...or had he’d realized he couldn’t fix what he’d just broken? Her trust, yes, but also the fragile bond between them.

  The lights on the vehicle switched on, the siren blaring. As the ambulance pulled away from the parking lot and motored down the road, Ryanne’s knees threatened to buckle.

  “He’ll be okay. He’s survived far worse.” Daniel looked her over, concern tightening his features. “Will you be okay? Let’s find you a chair so you can sit down.”

  No way. Dushku and company still watched, though they’d returned to their side of the street. Afraid of Jude? “There’s too much to do.”

  “Ma’am? Are you the owner of this bar?” A fireman covered in soot stepped up, his gaze focused on her.

  “Yes.” I can do this. “How can I help you?”

  “As soon as the smoke clears,” Fireman said, “you can check out the damage, but I think you’ll be pleased to know the worst of it is localized to a single area.”

  Waiting to go inside was torture. Was her best friend—her bar—dead or alive?

  Finally approval came and she raced inside, alternating waves of relief and dismay hitting her. The counter would need to be replaced, and her liquor supply was history. No, not true. She wasn’t completely wiped out. She still had a large stash of moonshine and locally sourced beers in the basement.

  Her office and the stairs leading to her apartment would have to be rebuilt, but everything else simply needed a good scrubbing. Soot covered many of the walls, most of the tables and chairs. A layer of ash covered the dance floor, but outside the bar area, the wood planks were in perfect condition.

  Jude would be disappointed.

  Her teeth ground together.

  Different men and women spoke with her. Dazed, she forgot their names. All but Officer Jim Rayburn, who didn’t try to hide his smirk, and the arson investigator. The latter asked her a million questions about her whereabouts and maybe kinda sorta looked at her as if she were to blame. Whatever. The truth would come out. And really, she was too shocked to care what anyone thought. In less than an hour, her entire world had been turned upside down.

  “There’s no question the fire was set deliberately,” the AI told her. “An investigation will be launched. If someone was paid to do it, or if they acted alone, we’ll find the truth. So, if there’s anything you’d like to tell me, now is the time.”

  “Oh, I know the fire was set deliberately, and I can guess Mr. Dushku over there paid someone. He’s wanted my bar since he decided to open a club across the street. Ask Jim Rayburn. I’m pretty sure he’s on Dushku’s payroll.”

  As Jim blustered, she pulled her phone from its sheath on her leg, then showed the fireman and Daniel what little security feed had been sent to her in-box.

  Thank God Jude had insisted on cameras.

  Maybe she’d misinterpreted his smile? Maybe he had been thinking about the kittens.

  Maybe she was an idiot, trying to justify his actions.

  AI’s expression softened somewhat. “I’d like a copy of that.”

  “Sure thing. I’ll make sure you receive security feed for the entire day,” Daniel told him.

  “Much appreciated.” AI focused on Ryanne. “If you want to gather some of your belongings, one of the officers will accompany you. I’m sorry to say you can’t be in here without an escort until the investigation is complete.”

  Tears momentarily obstructed her vision. “No, thanks.” Everything smelled like smoke, and would constantly remind her of what had happened, and all she’d lost. “I’ll be fine.” Would she, though?

  Jude hadn’t even gotten to use the grab bars she and the girls had installed.

  Ugh. That was her main concern? After everything he’d done? What is wrong with me?

  The guy patted her on the shoulder, an awkward and failed attempt at offering comfort. Then he told her he would be in touch and padded off, leaving her to deal with the wreckage of her life—alone.

  CHAPTER SIXTEEN

  THE NEXT FEW weeks passed in a blur for Ryanne. She bought a handful of new clothes and moved into a room at the Strawberry Inn with her family of cats. All the little kitties survived without permanent damage, and so did Belle, who seemed to use the fire as an excuse to behave even feistier than ever. Thankfully, there’d been no serious injuries among the patrons, either.

  Several days ago, Ryanne had a breakdown. Feeling isolated and abandoned, wishing Earl would magically appear to hug her, desperate for some kind of parental support, any kind of parental support, she’d called her mother.

  A very big mistake.

  The conversation had been short but not very sweet. After telling Selma what happened, her mother had said, “This might just be a blessing in disguise, cariño. Now you can let go of Earl.”

  Let go of Earl? Never! Ryanne had hung up and cried like a baby. She’d wanted so badly to find Jude and throw herself into his arms, but...that smile. It kept playing through her mind, allowing fury to take root deep inside her heart.

  He’d smiled, thrilled by the ruination of her bar. His satisfaction had been momentary, yes, but even a single second was too long.

  When it rained, it poured. One of her waitresses quit, unwilling to wait for the bar to reopen. She needed money now, and Ryanne understood. Then Sutter gave her an ultimatum: continue to pay me, even though I’m not working, or accept my resignation. Again, she understood. People needed money to survive.

  Ryanne decided to pay everyone out of pocket, under one condition. Her employees had to sign a contract agreeing to return to work as soon as the doors to the Scratching Post opened. Everyone had signed, without hesitation.

  Now I’m homeless, jobless and hemorrhaging cash. Yay me.

  She’d considered canceling her trip to Rome, but her plane tickets and the villa had been paid for already—and both were nonrefundable. Another mistake on her part. At the time of purchase, she’d feared a way out would be an excuse to lose her lady balls. She’d thought: What if Rome wasn’t as magnificent as she’d envisioned? What if her fantasies were better? And yeah, okay, she’d desired Jude even then, and had wondered what would happen to her resolve if he
ever showed interest in her.

  I will not become my mother.

  If Ryanne needed the reminder a thousand times, she would give herself the reminder a thousand and one times.

  Would Jude smile about her departure, happy to be rid of her?

  She hadn’t gone to the hospital to see him, had only called to check on him. He was released the next day and showed up at the inn, knocking on her door, but she told him to go away. He asked if the cats were okay, and as soon as she confirmed that they were, he left.

  Afterward, she’d fumed. Only cares about my kittens, the bastardo! He’d even returned the next day and the next, each time asking if the cats missed him.

  In fact, she was due for another visit any—

  A knock sounded at her door.

  She called, “Go away, Jude.”

  “Talk to me, Wade.”

  Using her last name again? Jerk!

  Behind her, every single kitten meowed. They did miss him, the traitors.

  “No need,” she replied. “You smiled while my home burned down. We’re done.”

  There. She’d said the words out loud. Made it official.

  Don’t cry. Don’t you dare cry.

  Where was the lockbox?

  Stuff, click, shove.

  “Ryanne.”

  The hurt in his voice...

  Stuff. “Much like your siblings, I’ve abandoned you, and you don’t give second chances, remember? Walk away.” Oh, my gosh. Had she really just said that? She was a witch of the highest order.

  There was a pause, thick with tension. Then he said, “You alone can have a second chance. See how forgiving I can be? You try it. Forgive me. Because I’m sorry. I’m so sorry. I’m not happy about what happened. I’m ashamed of my reaction. I wish I could go back—”

  “But you can’t. You can’t go back, and neither can I. I can’t unsee that smile.”

  The knob twisted. Trying to come inside without permission? The lock held.

  “Open the door, Ryanne. Please. I’m not smiling now.”

  A plea from those scarred lips...