by Freya Barker
“Don’t let it bother you. He’s an asshole to everyone.” Dimas winks at me as he loads my weapon.
“Seems nice enough to you.”
“Only because I bring him a bottle of his favorite whiskey every so often.” He shrugs, handing me my gun. “Show me what you’ve got.”
The first magazine I empty misses the paper target more than it hits, but by the time I’m halfway through the second, my shots are starting to group nicely. Dimas nods in what I assume is approval as he goes to replace the target with a fresh one.
“Again.”
Instead of focusing on the biggest part of the target—the torso—I put half of the next clip in its head, and the other half in his crotch area. When the second clip is empty I slip the earmuffs around my neck.
“Now you have me worried and turned on at the same time,” he mumbles, as he plucks the weapon from my hand and pulls me flush against him.
I chuckle against his lips, giving his tongue easy access. For a moment, I lose track of where I am, until I hear the rustle of paper and turn my head to see Rocket approaching with the target in his hand.
“Thought I was fucking seeing things,” he grumbles before pinning me with bloodshot eyes. “What was your name again?”
“Willa,” I supply, propping a hand on my hip.
“Nice shooting,” he comments, and I glance at Dimas who is looking at me with an unidentifiable smirk on his face.
“I’m a little rusty, it’s been a while.”
He harrumphs to that and turns to Dimas. “You keeping this one?”
“Thinking about it,” he mutters in response, his eyes fixed on me.
“Figures,” the old man grumbles, before making his way back inside without so much as another glance in my direction.
“What was that all about?” I ask when the door slams shut behind him.
“Rocket has a thing for women who can handle a gun. Last woman who impressed him was Bree, but Yanis almost bit off his head when he tried hitting on her.”
It wasn’t that part of the conversation I was questioning but I decide to let it go.
“Hate to insult your friend, but I’m not so sure he’s Bree’s type. Or anyone’s under seventy for that matter.”
Dimas barks out a laugh.
“I’ve seen some of his lady friends. You’d be surprised.”
“Well, there’s no accounting for poor taste,” I conclude with a shrug, before turning to hang the ear protection back on the hook.
“Not gonna argue with you there.”
I roll up the target Rocket left behind for a souvenir while Dimas collects my gun.
“I’m thinking I may frame this and hang it over my bed.”
“Let’s go, Annie Oakley,” he says, chuckling as he wraps his hand around the back of my neck.
“Are you sure you don’t want me to shoot some more?” I tease.
“I’m good. Let’s grab something to eat and go home.”
I tilt my head back and smile up in his green eyes, letting him know I like the sound of that.
As soon as we get back in the truck, I check my phone I left in the center console. One message from my sister.
Connie: Thanks for taking Britt. I’ll check in next week.
Oh shit.
Dimas
Willa has been in a state since we left the gun range.
Apparently with all that happened the past few days, she’d forgotten her parents were to drop off her niece tomorrow to stay with her for an undetermined period of time. At least that’s what I’ve deduced from her rambling. There was some more about golf trips, summer camps, and marital problems I couldn’t make heads or tails of, but I listened, hummed, and nodded my support anyway.
“They can’t know,” she insists before taking her first proper breath, giving me a chance to say something.
“Can’t know what?”
“That I was arrested. That I’m a suspect in a murder case. They can’t know any of it. My mother would have a nervous breakdown and my father…” She doesn’t finish the sentence, but I get the sense whatever the news would do to her father would not be good.
“So don’t tell them. It’s a bogus charge anyway. We’ll get it cleared up,” I reassure her. “You won’t need to say a thing if you don’t want to.”
I glance to the side and see her distraught dark eyes on me.
“But Britt’s gonna be here. She’s smart, she’ll figure out something is up.” She clasps her hands in her lap so hard her knuckles turn white. “She’s going to wonder why someone is always keeping an eye out. Why you’re there. Oh God, and what am I gonna do with her when I work? I can’t leave her alone, and now I can’t send her off to camp.”
“Why can’t you?”
That seems to have been the wrong question because she shoots an indignant glare at me.
“I can’t send her to camp when she may not be safe. Someone was murdered!”
I’m learning interesting things about Willa. She seems able to take things on the chin better than most when it only affects her, but she seems almost frantic in her need to shield the ones she loves.
Time to break it down to bite-sized pieces.
“Here’s what we’ll do; we’re going to stop at the grocery store and stock up on food. Your fridge is empty and kids eat. A lot. We’ll get your spare bedroom in order and then we call Bree. She’s kickass at problem-solving, knows just about everything going on in this town, and can help us come up with a plan for your niece. We’ll get this sorted, sweetheart.”
“You can’t be there.”
“Sorry?”
“After tonight. You can’t be there when they come.”
The turnoff into the Safeway parking lot is up ahead, and I wait to respond until I’ve parked the truck in a vacant spot. Then I turn in my seat.
“Yes, I can,” I tell her firmly, putting my hand on her wringing ones. “You won’t even have to lie. Tell them I’m your manfriend.”
It takes her a minute, but then she snorts out a laugh.
“My manfriend?”
“Sure. Unless you want to call me your lover, I’m good with that too,” I tease, glad to have succeeded in breaking through her panic. Even if it is for a moment.
“You don’t understand. My mom’s going to turn this into a big deal and make it embarrassing. Oh my God, the moment my dad finds out you’re a veteran, you’ll be invited to his next golf game. Seriously, meeting my parents is the kind of pressure you’ll regret.”
“Why?” When she shakes her head like she doesn’t get it, I repeat, “Why would I regret it?”
“Because they’ll make it uncomfortable.”
I shrug, unclipping my seat belt before I lean over the console and press a kiss to her stubborn mouth.
“They can bring it on, sweetheart. If I can handle being drawn and quartered by my brother yesterday—talk about uncomfortable—I can handle your parents.”
My brother had not taken well to the news I’d gotten myself—and my teammates—involved in what was an active police investigation. He’d been less than complimentary about my admitted involvement with Willa; reminding me of the not so great track record I have with women and thus should not have messed with a friend of Rosie’s.
Now granted, I may have a tendency to dine and dash so to speak, but in my defense, there has never really been anyone who affects me the way Willa does. I don’t pretend to have any idea where this is leading, but what I do know is I want to stick around and find out. That in itself should’ve told him this isn’t the same, but he wasn’t exactly receptive.
My brother is a hard-ass, or at least he pretends to be. Our parents to this day live the kind of idealistic and romanticized life that only sheer luck and my brother’s levelheadedness and leadership has sustained. If not for his deep-rooted sense of responsibility—something entirely lacking in my parents—life could’ve looked a lot different for them, and for us.
I’m neither a dreamer, nor a pragmatist�
�I hover somewhere in between—but those are the only two defining qualities Yanis recognizes, so if I’m not one, I must be the other.
Willa seems pensive in contrast to her earlier ramblings, as we zip around Safeway choosing stuff that doesn’t require a huge skill set in the kitchen. Neither of us have one.
It’s clear she does better with stress when doing something, so once we have the groceries tucked away back at home, she heads to the spare bedroom to get it ready for her niece. I give Bree a call and fill her in.
“Give me an hour,” she suggests before asking, “You have plans for dinner?”
“Not particularly.” We did buy stuff, but that would require turning on the stove or firing up the almost brand-new grill on Willa’s back deck, and given the current stress levels I’m not sure that would be a good idea.
“I’ll pick up some takeout on the way.”
“Sounds good.”
“Oh my God, this is delicious.”
Willa’s fingers and face are covered in barbecue sauce as she gnaws on the ribs Bree showed up with.
I love that she doesn’t give a shit. Aside from the stress her current situation puts her in, she has to be one of the most easygoing, unpretentious women I know. Bree is another, although she’s more reserved. You always get the sense there is more to what she is showing on the outside.
Willa simply is.
Sure she’s beautiful, kills it at the gun range, is fearless in bed, and has a banging body, but that authenticity is arguably the most uniquely appealing thing about her. It seems like every new thing I discover about Willa only settles her deeper under my skin. Even her earlier panic, the hurt I sensed when talking about her parents, and the vulnerability that showed were not at all a turnoff for me.
“Texas Smokes, that new place on Colorado Avenue,” Bree says around her own mouthful of ribs.
She brought a huge paper bag with ribs, brisket, potato wedges, and the best damn coleslaw I’ve had since I left home.
“It’s good,” I agree.
“Mmm.” Bree grabs a napkin and wipes her hands and mouth. “Okay, let’s figure this out. So your niece is twelve? What is she interested in? Any sports? Dance? Tomboy or princess?”
“Tomboy, definitely. Loves doing outdoorsy things with her dad to my sister’s annoyance.”
“She doesn’t mind getting her hands dirty?”
“Nope.”
“Does she like animals?”
“She’s been begging for a dog since she was three years old, but my sister is allergic. Absolutely loves animals.”
Bree grins wide.
“Perfect. I have a friend who runs the Humane Society here in Grand Junction. He’s always looking for part-time volunteers. She’ll be helping with feeding, taking some of the dogs out for a run, and giving cuddles to whatever animal needs some lovin’.”
I watch as Willa’s mouth falls open before spreading into a wide grin.
“Get out. For real? Holy shit, she’s gonna flip.”
Chapter Eighteen
Willa
“I think it’s clean.”
I turn to find Dimas leaning against the doorway of the guest bathroom.
I’m on my knees, scrubbing the tub. Never mind I already did this last night before Dimas finally pulled me up and dragged me to bed. There he pulled every trick out of the book to get me to relax, which worked until my eyes opened this morning. I’ve been back at it ever since.
Cleaning is my way to deal with stress. The mindless tasks normally helping my body to relieve the stress and get some control of myself, but in my current situation control is so far out of reach, I’m afraid I’ll implode if I stop moving.
If only I could bake, that might be a more satisfying way to work off all this nervous tension. At least I could eat the results. Scrubbing an already clean bathtub for the second time yields nothing.
“Come have something to eat,” he urges me, finally plucking the sponge from my hand and pulling me to my feet.
“I’ll throw up,” I inform him, not sure my stomach can handle anything more than the three coffees I downed in record time this morning.
“You’re wired. Maybe we should go back to bed where I know how to mellow you out.”
If I wasn’t coiled tighter than a spring, my body would’ve responded to the touch of his hands on my hips and the promise behind the grin on his face.
“We can’t! They could be here any minute.” I twist out of his hold and grab the sponge from the tub, tucking it and the bottle of cleaning solution in the cupboard under the sink. “I have to change.”
“Hold up,” Dimas says, as I push past him to head to my bedroom.
I don’t, so he follows me and sits down on the bed while I strip off my wet T-shirt and my ratty old sweatpants, diving into my drawers for a bra and a clean shirt.
“Explain to me what has you so on edge.”
I open my mouth to snap at him but think better of it. Why am I so on edge? I mean, aside from the shit storm I seem to have landed in, why is the fact my parents are going to show any minute freaking me out?
My whole adult life I’ve marched to my own drum, done my own thing without apology or regret. I’ve steeled myself against their disapproval of my choices and let it slide down my back. So why is the thought of my parents meeting Dimas suddenly such a big deal?
“I don’t know,” I confess, musing out loud while I pull a brush through my hair. “I’ve never cared what they thought. Not as an adult anyway. Maybe I care for your sake, although I almost rather they dislike you than the opposite.”
His face scrunches up in confusion. At least the swelling has gone down, and the faint bruising on his jaw is mostly hidden by his beard. Evidence of a fight on his face would have prompted questions from my father I’d prefer to avoid.
“You want them not to like me?”
“No, that’s not what I mean. What I’m saying is I don’t need their approval, but I’m worried I’ll get it.”
“And that would be bad, because?”
I sink down on the bed beside him, leaning my shoulder into his.
“When Connie and Jim first started dating, I actually liked the guy. He could be funny, was head over heels for my sister, and I remember thinking at the time I should be so lucky to find a guy like him.” I snort. “It was like that movie The Stepford Wives—you know the one with Nicole Kidman? My father slowly pulled him into his vortex—his good old boys’ club—and Connie, well, she eventually became a robot like my mom.”
“You’re worried you’ll become like them?” he asks, and I shake my head.
“No, that’ll never happen,” I state firmly.
Dimas shifts so we’re face-to-face, and his hands come to rest on either side of my neck as he bends close.
“I don’t know if you’ve noticed this about me, sweetheart, but I’m a bit of a rebel myself. All you have to do is ask my brother. I have a history of not doing what’s expected of me. The chances of me ever becoming part of an old boys’ club are slim to none.” I try to hide my face, embarrassed he seems to have put his finger on my exposed nerve, but he won’t let me. “Can’t tell you what the future holds, Willa, but what I can guarantee you is, no matter what, I will never expect you to be anything other than exactly who you are.”
Okay. Even though his ability to read between my lines freaks me out a little, that may well have been the perfect thing to say.
I grab his wrists and lift my mouth to his for a soft kiss.
“Thank you.”
“You can do better than that,” he teases, with a twinkle in those green eyes.
“Yes, I can.”
I grin, throw my weight against him, knocking him to his back, and land on his chest. My mouth finds his as I feel the texture of his beard with my fingertips. As I deepen the kiss, I throw a leg over his hips and straddle him. Deep sweeps of my tongue sync with a soft roll of my hips over the hardening ridge of his cock. I moan in his mouth when his hands grab on to my h
ips and grind me down on him.
So easily he makes me forget everything until my focus is like a laser point on anywhere he touches me: my mouth, my hips, my core, …my heart.
“Dimas…” I mumble against his lips when his hands slide up to cup my breasts. His thumbs roll my erect nipples, sending a ripple down my spine and between my legs.
The sound of the doorbell is like a cattle prod to the skin.
Dimas
At this moment, I don’t care who’s outside the door; I want to end them.
Willa jumps off the bed, a sudden flurry of movement as she pulls at her shirt and smooths the hair I never got a chance to mess up.
I reach a hand down to push my happy dick into submission and scissor up from the bed. She’s already out of the bedroom by the time I get to my feet, and the sound of voices fills the house by the time I feel presentable enough to follow her.
The first person my eyes land on, walking into her living room, is the young girl with shockingly purple hair latched to Willa’s midsection. That must be Britt, the niece. Her father is next, his rigid military stance unmistakable—shoulders squared, legs slightly apart, hands clasped behind his back—as he glares at me, ignoring my polite smile. Appropriately halfway hidden behind him is a small, rotund woman, smiling almost eagerly as she catches sight of me.
I glance over at Willa to take my cue but she looks like a deer caught in the headlights, so I move forward to introduce myself. Her father first.
“Dimas Mazur,” I say, extending my hand. “Pleased to meet you.”
It takes the man a second before upbringing wins over suspicion, and he shakes my hand, clearly trying to establish alpha dog with an unnecessarily firm grasp. I maintain an impassive face, unwilling to wince or wiggle my fingers to restore blood flow before I turn to Willa’s mother.
“Ms. Smith, so nice to meet you.”
Fuck if the woman doesn’t blush when I gently press the hand she puts in mine.
“Likewise,” she says breathily, and I note how similar her voice is to Willa’s. Except Willa’s isn’t timid by any stretch of the imagination.