Pretty Reckless (Entangled Ignite)

by Jodi Linton

  Boomer’s face relaxed.

  “There’s cold ones in the fridge. You want another?”

  “Sure.”

  He came back a moment later with two beers and sat back down beside me. I took another long and satisfying drink and then got down to business with Boomer.

  “So do you mind telling me why you’re here?”

  Boomer picked up a throw pillow and twisted it between his hands. The expression on his face was anxious, and his skin looked paler than usual. “I think I’m being followed,” he whispered.

  That warranted an unexpected laugh that hurt my bruised ribs. Ever since he got back from the army, he’d been spouting off about folks spying on him.

  “How much have you had to drink?” I asked him suspiciously.

  “Only three beers.” He gulped. “You don’t believe me do you, Laney?”

  “About the beer or you being followed?”

  “The people following me.”

  There was something in his expression or the way he said it that made an alarm ring somewhere inside me. Pretty darn curious to hear his explanation, I sat up. “Ouch.” I winced as pain shot straight through my hip. “Why do you think you’re being followed?”

  His eyes flickered toward the front window then back to me. He leaned over the pillow, scrunching it beneath his beer belly. “You remember the other day when you ran me over?”

  I groaned. “I didn’t run you over.”

  “To each his own,” he huffed. “I don’t think I slept the night off outside of Rusty’s Saloon.” Boomer bit down on his lips and picked up his already empty beer, letting the last remaining drops leak onto his tongue. “Is this all you have?” he asked swishing the bottom of the bottle across his shaking knees.

  “I haven’t had time to hit up the store.” I took the empty bottle from his hands and placed it back on the coffee table. “Now tell me why you suddenly think you slept someplace other than outside Rusty’s.”

  He hunched into his shoulders and fell back against the cushions. “Rusty says I was never there.”

  I ran a battered hand through my ratty hair. “What does this have to do with why you think you’re being followed?”

  “Just a hunch,” Boomer shrugged, “I saw a strange truck driving up and down my street the past two nights.”

  Well, that got my attention. No one in their right mind would case out Boomer Copley’s neighborhood at night. Hell, I wouldn’t even go there during the day. He stood and picked up the empty bottles.

  “Laney, do you mind if I stay here for a couple of nights?” he pleaded. “Just until Nathan’s back.”

  I rolled my eyes at him. “What the hell. It’s not like my life could get any worse.”

  “Thanks,” he smiled and walked into the kitchen.

  I switched off the lamp. “Goodnight, Boomer,” I shouted, headed toward my bedroom, took a look at all those stairs, and thought better of it, turning instead toward the small parlor to the other side of the entry where I kept a pull-out couch for unexpected guests. Boomer met me in the hall before I reached it.

  “Here, you could use this.” Boomer tossed a package of frozen peas at me.

  “Thanks.” I pulled a smile, feeling the pinching pain on the left side of my face. As I stepped inside my guestroom, a cool night breeze blew across my face. Earlier, I’d left the windows open in an attempt to freshen up the place, and the lace curtains were flapping against the frame. I walked over and jiggled the old wood-framed window, pulling it shut and doubled checking the lock. A good soak in my claw foot tub was calling my name, but I was going to settle for one in the smaller bathtub my aunt had added to the house as an afterthought a few years before she died. I peeled off my filthy, bloody clothes and sank into the bath. The hot water washed over my stomach, then spilled over the porcelain edges. I scrubbed away the blood and grime, then sank deeper into the murky water. It didn’t take long for my skin to shrivel up like a prune, so I popped the plug and stepped out.

  I slipped on an oversized Rangers baseball jersey, grabbed a couple of blankets from the linen closet, and dragged myself into the living room. Boomer was already snoring, huddled up and clutching his legs on the couch. I dropped a quilt over him and picked up the shotgun that sat by the front door. Then I padded back into the guest room and turned the lock three times on the bedroom door just to make sure it had clicked. Simply put, I was scared shitless. Not only had someone shot Gunner and killed Bosley in Odessa, but they were hell-bent on hanging me out to dry.

  I placed the shotgun next to the night stand, crawled under the covers, and smashed the frozen peas to my swollen cheek. For a long time, I lay there unable to sleep, wishing I’d taken Gunner up on his offer to join me inside the house. Sure, Boomer was here, but I didn’t think he’d even wake up if someone tried to get in here to follow up on the beating I’d already been given.

  The sound of a tree branch clawing away at the window pane made me jolt painfully upright. Unfortunately, terror can be a great motivator, and I suppose I had a tendency to let my fears run full throttle. I snatched up the shotgun and cradled it at my side, pressed my head back into the pillow, and stared down the window lock until the sleep took me.

  Chapter Eleven

  The next morning, the smell of bacon dragged me from slumber. Stiff and screaming sore, I got out of bed slower than any snail could possibly move and hobbled into the kitchen where Boomer was standing over the stove. The frying pan sizzled as he hummed off key to ‘Friends in Low Places’ blasting from the radio. Sunlight beamed against the window, beating down on the white tile floor. I ruffled my bedhead hair and wobbled up behind him.

  “I didn’t know you knew how to cook,” I said, sniffing the fatty smell of frying bacon.

  “I had to. It wasn’t like my mother was going to cook me breakfast before school,” he said, flipping a strip of crackling meat.

  I pulled out a chair and shakily poured myself a glass of orange juice. His scrubby appearance hadn’t changed much from the night before. “How did you sleep?” I asked, sipping the juice.

  “From the looks of it, better than you,” he said, turning to face me. “Are you going to give me the rundown on what happened to you last night?”

  After tossing the strips of bacon onto a paper towel, he carried them over to the table. I watched him ferret around the top shelf of my cupboards until he finally found what he was looking for—my secret, reserve bottle of Jim Beam. He poured himself a mug of coffee and topped it off with a splash of whiskey. By the time he had taken his seat, I had already eaten through half the bacon and three slices of toast.

  “This is great,” I said through a mouthful of toast.

  “Not accustomed to a hot breakfast, are you?” He took a strip of bacon.

  “I’m more the grab and go kind of girl.”

  “And by that, you mean?”

  “Coffee and a pack of powdered donuts,” I answered meekly. Hell, listening to myself say that, I realized that even my alcoholic best bud treated himself better than I did, food-wise. How pathetic was that?

  I went for another strip of bacon. Boomer slapped my hand down on the table and looked me straight in the eye. “The black eye. Start talking,” he demanded. “And don’t think I didn’t see Gunner sitting inside Marty Stockherd’s truck while pulling out of the drive last night, either.”

  This beat everything. I was getting scolded by the town drunk of all people. I slumped down in my chair, felt the weight of my throbbing head pound down to my neck, and tried my best to give him a sweet smile. He frowned at my attempt to charm my way out of the conversation.

  “It’s not what you think,” I said, trying to play the whole thing off like it was nothing. “Gunner just brought me home after walloping the guy who beat me up.”

  “Come on, Laney,” he shouted, clearly fed up with my evasion. “What kind of mess have you gotten yourself into?”

  “You’re one to talk,” I hollered back. “Breaking into my place because you
don’t even know where you slept the other night.”

  He scooted his chair back from the table and slouched over to the coffee pot. This was one of my many problems when it came to my relationship with Boomer Copley. He thought of me as the sister he never had, and I pushed every button I could to frustrate him. I figured if he wanted a sister so bad, why not give it to him full force.

  “For one, what are you doing with Gunner Wilson? If I’m not mistaken, that ring on your finger belongs to Nathan,” he said, pouring himself another helping of whiskey and coffee. “And second, why the hell is someone beating you up?”

  My exact question also. I’d been up all night thinking about the masked lunatic Gunner left in the station jail cell.

  I finished off a couple of more strips of bacon before pushing my plate aside. “I should get ready,” I said, standing up with a groan. “Wouldn’t want to be late to work.”

  Boomer eyed me speculatively. “Are you sure going in today is such a good idea?”

  “I’ll be fine. How about you, staying here by yourself?” I maneuvered my way slowly over to the coffee pot and poured another to take with me to get dressed.

  “Don’t worry about me,” he said before shooting back a swallow of whiskey directly from the bottle.

  Actually, I was more worried about my whiskey. That bottle of Jim Beam would be lucky to last Boomer until noon.

  I took a quick shower, enjoying the water dripping over my bruises but wincing when it hit my scraped palms. I doctored the deep scraps, biting my bottom lip as the alcohol hit the open flesh, and wrapped them in gauze. Afterwards, I inched my painful way into a pair of worn blue jeans and my trusty cotton uniform T-shirt. My hands protested when I tugged on my boots, pulled back my wet hair, and globbed some much needed concealer onto my left cheek bone. It didn’t do the trick. The bright blue bruise still laughed back at me.

  Boomer was gone when I reentered the kitchen. He had taped a note to the fridge stating that he went on a beer run. I grabbed the keys to my old Ford pickup and headed outside where the heat slapped me in the face. I pulled my aviator sunglasses over my eyes and eased myself carefully up into the truck. It had been awhile since I’d taken it for a drive—the fuel cost alone had killed my joyriding. I fired up the engine, let the old beast growl a moment, then barreled off to the station.

  I parked in front of the station, lunged out of the truck, hobbled down the sidewalk, and yanked open the passenger door of Gunner’s Yukon. It was hard to believe the Odessa Crime Lab had already released the Yukon, but there it sat. It was just like Gunner to have everything fall in his lap. The man never seemed to go down without a fight, not even when I’d chosen to attend senior prom with Luke Wagner after the night Gunner’d played hide-n-seek with my pink lace panties in the back seat of his jacked up pickup. It had been a kick in the pants to see him all riled up over that little “in your face, Wilson” from me.

  I stuck a hand inside the glove compartment and rooted around. My fingers grazed the edge of a map, a Tylenol bottle, and a Bowie knife. But there was no gun. Damn it. I pushed the passenger seat back and winced my way down onto my scraped hands and knees to search below the seat. The sweat was trickling down my spine when I heard a set of footsteps near up behind me.

  “Lose something?” Gunner asked from behind me.

  I shot up, banging my head on the door frame. “Son of a bitch,” I said rubbing my scalp.

  Gunner was standing behind me twirling my 9mm in his hand. He smiled and helped me to my feet.

  “Didn’t think you’d be coming in today,” I said reaching for my gun. “You know after yesterday, and all.”

  He pulled it back, teasing my snatching hand. “Darling, Tylenol works miracles, especially when it’s got codeine in it.”

  “So I can see. Now give me my damn gun.” I leaped for it, feeling a stabbing pain jolt up my legs.

  Gunner shook his head. “Only if you can convince me you’re okay enough to handle this.” He waggled the Glock in my face. “And also that this tough girl act you’re putting on isn’t just a front to keep me away.”

  “I’m fine,” I snarled, even though it was clear to both of us that I wasn’t.

  Just then, Dobbs tapped on the window from inside the station. Gunner turned, giving me a window of opportunity. I snagged my gun from his hands.

  “You just don’t play nice,” I snapped and hobbled inside.

  The air conditioner was at full blast. Dobbs had cranked it up to ‘deep freeze’ cold. Two box fans whistled away over in the corner, and Elroy had himself positioned in front of both, blocking the flow of air and sending it directly into his glistening face. I pulled out a seat next to Sheriff Dobbs and pressed my butt into the cloth cushion with relief. Moving around might help prevent me from stiffening up again, but it still hurt like blazes. Gunner came up behind me and leaned over my shoulder.

  For someone who’d just been shot, he was fairing way too well. Also, having him breathe down my neck wasn’t the most fun thing to ever happen to me, both because it was making my memories of the two of us itch, and because I hated to have anyone breathing down my neck, let alone him. I inched my chair forward to put some space between us. Dobbs huffed and wiped a drop of sweat from his forehead. He pulled a chair to my side and flopped down in the seat.

  “You both look like shit,” he wheezed, “So who beat up who?”

  “My money’s on Laney,” Elroy chimed in.

  I shot him the evil eye. “And why would that be?”

  He gulped. “You’re crazier than a June Bug,” he stuttered.

  I made a move as if to drive my elbow into Elroy’s gut.

  He winced as though I’d actually done it. “Ouch. See? That’s exactly what I’m talking about.”

  Dobbs butted in, officially derailing our little cat fight. “As you know by now, Bosley Conrad’s dead. The old coot’s body has been released from the Odessa county morgue, and I expect all y’all in attendance tomorrow at his funeral.” He coughed, spattering a thin ring of saliva around his lips. “And old Gunner got shot in the process.” Dobbs snickered. He looked over in Gunner’s direction. I knew what he was thinking. Can’t the man protect his damn ass?

  Gunner pushed both hands down onto my shoulders, leaned into my neck, and brushed his lips against my ear. “I hope you’re feeling better, too, sweetheart.”

  I choked.

  Sheriff Dobbs eyed me down. “Laney, you look like someone worked you over with a baseball bat,” he said. “Got an anonymous call this morning from someone telling me I’d find some guy handcuffed and locked up in my jail cell after an incident out front of the station last night.”

  “Really…” I played shocked.

  He pressed his elbows into his round thighs. “Do you mind telling me what happened to the idiot?”

  I felt a hot flush climb my cheeks. “What?” I asked confused.

  “Where’s the shithead who beat you up last night?” Dobbs shouted.

  I turned to look at Gunner as sweat started to pool between my breasts. He shrugged and shook his head. Feeling suddenly nauseous and lightheaded, I tried to push myself erect.

  “Will y’all excuse me for a minute?”

  I hopped up, regretting my urge to bail when pain shot up my side, and limped to the back of the station, knowing I had only seconds before Gunner came after me. Leaning my forehead into the painted cement block wall, I tried to think. My friendly neighborhood Texas Ranger had slammed my attacker around pretty good, then wanted to stomp him until the guy was six feet under. What the hell had he done after dropping me off at home?

  “It wasn’t me,” Gunner said from behind me.

  I turned my head to see he’d braced a hip against the doorjamb. “Then who?” I asked him. “Who, besides someone from this office, would have a key to release the guy—or who would’ve taken the time to pick the lock and get him out of here? You didn’t leave him in very good shape to be escaping on his own if memory serves.”

 
He limped toward me, shaking his head as he pushed back the brim of his hat. “Luke?” Gunner asked, probing my frazzled expression. “I saw his truck parked outside of Rusty’s when I arrived. It’s possible that guy worked for him or his father…”

  I caught my gaze wandering down his body and settling on the rattlesnake tattoo that pulsated with the ripple of his forearm. His shirt rustled up, giving a peek to his flat, toned stomach. And I guess old habits die hard. My eyes began to drift down to the button fly of his tight Wranglers. The way those jeans cupped him was sinful. Dear God, I needed to get a grip. Nathan, I reminded myself, engaged.

  I blinked myself back to the topic. “I suppose Luke’s possible. We ran into each other at the bar. He probably saw the guy chained to the pole after last call.”

  I straightened back up and tried to squeeze past him. Gunner reached out and latched onto my arm, swinging me into the solid wall of his chest. “What were you doing hanging around Luke Wagner?” His voice was hot.

  I guess it was time for him to play up his bullshit macho facade.

  “Let go of me,” I demanded. “Not that it’s any of your business, but I wasn’t out with Luke. He showed up at the bar.”

  I wriggled, and Gunner let go, stumbling a few steps back and falling into a chair with a painful grimace. He shot erect as quickly as the stitches in his ass would let him. “You’re making me nuts, Laney. I can’t have what I want due to that pussy fiancé of yours”—his mouth curled with derision—“and then I want to wring that bastard Luke Wagner’s neck for coming anywhere near you.”

  I allowed myself a moment of sympathy since I felt pretty much the same way about women who hung around him. “What’s life without a few complications?” I asked.

  He sighed. “Tell me about it.”

  Elroy popped his head around the corner, dangling a bag of Cheetos from his fingers. “If this little quarrel is over, we have a meeting to attend to.”

  I shot him a cold look. Elroy jumped and hid behind the door.

  “I’ll see y’all up front,” he said and scurried that way.