Brightest As We Fall

by Cleo Peitsche

  He glanced over. She looked so peaceful.

  Strange woman, he thought.

  Damn, that look on her face when she came for him in the car. Ferocious and determined. He still didn’t know what to make of her.

  As long as she was asleep, she wasn’t pestering him with questions or making him hard with her nervous, eager fumbling.

  Doggy style or girl-on-top?

  Her question showed a certain lack of imagination. If she’d actually gone through with her intended new career as a hooker, she would have been in for a rude education.

  He smiled. He could only imagine the look on DeeAnn’s face if he’d actually told her what he preferred.

  That would have put an end to her inquiries, probably forever.

  Part II

  Chapter 18

  The tall man kneels in front of me in the luxurious hotel room. He slips his hands under the bottom of my silky dress and gently slides the fabric higher, until my bare pussy is exposed.

  One of his eyebrows lifts. “When did you take them off?”

  “I didn’t have any clean underwear.” I grimace. That’s not exactly sexy talk. But the man doesn’t seem to have noticed. He floats up, grabs my ass and pulls me onto the tip of his huge erection.

  My entire body shudders in anticipation. I want to wiggle down on him, but he won’t let me.

  “I’ll keep you safe.” His eyes stare into mine. “You’ll never be lonely. DeeAnn, you’ll never be afraid again.”

  I open my mouth to tell him I’m not afraid, but he’s read my mind and he knows the truth, and he covers my mouth with his for a sweet, sensual kiss.

  “You need this. I do, too.” His cock claims my pussy, then retreats, giving me a scant second to catch my breath before he thrusts again, deeper and then faster, always deeper and faster, an indecent rhythm totally at odds with the tenderness of his words and that kiss and the way he looked at me.

  Gasping, I slowly come awake slumped in the uncomfortable passenger seat of a strange car.

  I must still be asleep because why aren’t I home, in my own bed?

  My face is flushed hot from the dream. Or from the sunshine pouring through the windows.

  “Damn, woman,” I mutter, but my lips seem to tingle with that loving kiss.

  Blinking away the final vestiges of sleep, I bring the seat upright. It all comes rushing back: the payday loan shop, the outlaw bikers, the stolen money.

  Jason.

  The man from my dream.

  I shove the frustratingly vivid images into the remotest recesses of my mind and vow never to think of them again.

  We’re parked at the edge of a lake so large I can barely see the trees on the far shore. Seagulls wheel and screech overhead.

  Jason is leaning against an old signpost and staring into the distance. Feeling like I’m spying, I watch him take a sip from a paper coffee cup, his gaze glassy. The thick column of his neck bobs as he swallows.

  There aren’t any picnickers lounging or athletes out for a swim, yet Jason looks out of place. It’s got more to do with his somber expression than his jeans and construction boots.

  He hasn’t noticed me yet. I should climb out of the car, get an update on our situation.

  But I’m fascinated by him. Jason is smart and radiates calm competence. He’s also hot as sin, with his messy dark hair and square jaw. In an alternate reality—maybe born into a better family, though I don’t know his background—he might have become a politician. He possesses the requisite confidence and even charm, and he obviously doesn’t mind getting his hands dirty.

  Something is different this morning. It takes a second to pinpoint what: Jason’s presence feels familiar to me.

  I know it’s because we’ve spent so much of the last however many hours together, because when he first barged into E-Z Cash to collect me, there wasn’t a flicker of anything. I guess trauma will do that, make companions out of strangers and accelerate feelings of intimacy.

  There’s something else. I search myself, trying to understand.

  I don’t remember much of my dreams, but I’m certain Jason appeared in all of them. They were comforting. Like I was somewhere safe—we were together and safe.

  Jason looks my way, directly into my eyes. Into my mind.

  It’s uncanny, that thing he does, the way he reads people. The way he handled that farmer last night.

  Jason knew exactly how far he could push him. He understood the situation far better than I ever could have.

  I drop my head and fiddle with my shoelaces. My feet hurt, and I wonder how bad the damage is. That’s not my priority, though. Jason is dangerous, and I need to watch myself with him. At the moment, our interests are aligned; he won’t abandon me on the side of the road because he doesn’t want me running around, loose and available for the bad guys or the cops to snatch up and interrogate.

  Some men—not just men, I suppose—would have killed me. Jason might be a criminal, but he didn’t murder me for my share of the money.

  None of this means he won’t ditch me later.

  On the continuum of criminals, with serial killers on one end and jaywalkers on the other, Jason is somewhere in the middle, I guess.

  Unless he killed the bikers intentionally. But I don’t think he and Toby would have brought me along if they’d planned for it to become a shootout. Jason is too smart for that.

  When I raise my head again, Jason is walking toward the car. Tight jeans, that sleeveless T-shirt, his tattoos rippling.

  The self-assured way he moves sends a clear signal that he’s not someone to fuck with. I wonder if it comes naturally to him, a byproduct of the testosterone that gave him those enormous muscles and that deep voice.

  And oh, his voice.

  The way he talks, the rasp of his words and his certainty, makes me think about sex, about what it would feel like to hear him whispering dirty things into my ear while he fucks me with long, slow strokes.

  “Come,” he says, causing flutters in my belly. “Take a walk with me.”

  He opens the door, and I get out.

  Mistake.

  My feet are in instant agony. I sag against the side of the car.

  “Sorry,” I gasp. “I don’t think I’m walking anywhere—”

  Jason doesn’t seem surprised. “Is it blisters?” He asks not like he’s worried about me, but more like he’s thinking my injuries might put a crimp in whatever plan he came up with while I was sleeping.

  Blisters? Or someone took a rusty vegetable peeler to my toes and heels. And my ankle is killing me. But I’m not going to tell Jason any of that.

  Somehow, I find the strength to stand straight, and I make sure to keep the pain from showing on my face.

  “Yeah, a blister or two. Did you get any sleep?”

  He shakes his head, then drains his coffee.

  His blue eyes are trained on me as he crushes the empty paper cup and tosses it into the back of the car.

  “Come on,” he says, and he picks me up.

  My face smooshes against his broad chest. I can’t say he smells like a spa. It’s clear he’s been running around. Running around and sweating, and he is a man, after all.

  So, no, he doesn’t smell good, but my heart beats faster, and the most primal parts of me are responding to his scent.

  He holds me tightly against him, but he’s stiff, and I’m stiff—no one would say he’s cradling me. Nothing like that.

  He carries me across the sidewalk in front of the car and then carefully sets me down at the sidewalk’s edge, where it meets the sandy, rocky beach and wild weeds.

  I wince as the awful pain in my feet shoots up my legs. For the first time, it occurs to me that whatever is wrong might be something worse than a few blisters and a mild sprain.

  “Take off your shoes. I’ll go buy you a coffee.”

  I don’t want coffee, but I like the idea of Jason being elsewhere while I assess the damage.

  The second he’s far enough away, I dr
op awkwardly onto my ass.

  The impact makes my teeth clack together, but it’s sweet, sweet relief to be off my feet again.

  The skin is so tender that even gently removing my shoes hurts like a bitch. My white gym socks are stained brown with blood and resemble a bad tie-dye.

  “Fuck,” I mutter.

  I glance up. Jason’s almost at his destination, a small general store that I hadn’t noticed before because it’s behind the car. He won’t be gone long, so I suck in a deep breath and refocus on my unpleasant task.

  Gritting my teeth, I rip the socks off my feet and blink away tears of pain.

  The damage is extensive. The raw patches worry me most: both my heels, over several toes.

  It would take a week of not walking for my skin to heal up.

  Not an option.

  This is what happens the one time I leave home without making sure I have a couple of Band-Aids in my bag. Because normally I do, but I brought the duffel instead of a purse and didn’t transfer everything.

  No bandages. No aspirin.

  My mind races as I study the wreckage of my feet again. If I don’t walk much for a few days, and if I can keep the wounds clean and dry, that should be sufficient.

  How, exactly, will I manage that without Jason finding out?

  Jason and I both need new clothes. I’ll get some extra-wide, extra-big sneakers and several pairs of comfy socks. That should help prevent additional chafing. I can claim to need feminine supplies, then secretly buy a huge tube of antibiotic ointment.

  I glance over to make sure Jason isn’t heading back yet.

  My heart leaps into my throat. He’s only about twenty steps away, a big paper bag in the crook of one arm.

  I need to get my socks and shoes back on…

  But I can’t do it. The socks are vile, and I know touching my feet is going to hurt.

  You have to, I tell myself. Wincing, I start pulling on one of the socks.

  “Did your brain leak out overnight?” Jason is looming over me. “At least one of those wounds is infected. You should—”

  “Remind me, where’d you get your medical degree? Was it Johns Hopkins or Mayo?”

  He mutters something that sounds like “all mouth, no common sense” and crouches beside me. Jason is agile, graceful for a man his size, and he balances easily on the balls of his feet as he pulls a plastic gallon jug of water from the paper bag.

  “Water, alcohol, bandages,” he says. “And a clean pair of socks.”

  I stare up at him. “New clothes aren’t actually clean. They’re covered in chemicals—”

  “These could be woven from tetanus and they would still be an improvement over your old socks. Clean and cover.” He rises. Now, looming over me, he seems like a giant. He frowns. “Why are you looking at me like that? I’m not doing it for you. Hurry up.”

  “Where’s my coffee?”

  “I’m going to get it now, princess.” His expression is somewhere between amused and irritated. If I had to pick one or the other, I’d put my money on irritated.

  “Thank you.” Since I don’t want him to buy a coffee that I already know I won’t drink, I add, “Could you buy me a soda instead? I don’t like coffee.”

  He gives me a funny look. “I’ll keep that in mind.”

  Either he’s wondering why the hell I didn’t mention that before, or he’s thinking I’m being a demanding, picky bitch.

  “What kind of soda?” he asks.

  “Clear or brown. You know, lemon-lime, cola… nothing that’s for kids.”

  He grunts and walks away.

  I rip the safety tab off the jug, then splash my feet thoroughly.

  Paradoxically, the cool water burns like hell, and my breath hisses out between my clenched teeth. But I force myself to keep rinsing until the water runs clear.

  Now I can see just how bad the damage is. Enormous popped blisters, like from breaking in stiff new shoes. About ten percent of the surface is raw. I don’t think any of the wounds are infected, but I also don’t think it’ll take much for them to end up needing medical attention.

  I’m going to have to be brave with the bottle of disinfectant.

  My hands shake as I unscrew the lid. That distinctive sinus-clearing scent of rubbing alcohol makes my eyes tear.

  Gathering my courage, I splash the top of my foot.

  At first, nothing, then a faint burn.

  Pain is weakness leaving your body. I know it’s a quote for athletes, to help them push through injury or something, but it could apply here.

  Then a few drops of liquid stream down my foot and into the worst of the wounds on my heel. Fresh blood wells up.

  My face flames from the sheer agony, and before my brain can even issue the command, my hands are dumping more water onto the pain in a desperate bid for relief.

  Fine. I decide to focus on the intact blisters and deal with the alcohol and dressings later.

  Too soon, I’m out of reasons to put it off.

  Get it over with, I tell myself.

  That sad little pep talk gets me to pick up the bottle, and I even tilt it slightly, but I can’t bring myself to pour.

  Footsteps approach. I glance over to make sure it’s Jason.

  He’s carrying two bottles, Coke and Pepsi.

  “Are you almost done?” he asks.

  Oh, it would be so easy to tell him yes. My immune system is pretty healthy, I think; most winters, I don’t catch a single cold. That’s got to count for something. Right? I mean, really, as long as I’m careful—

  “Afraid of a little pain?” Jason sets both bottles on the cracked pavement beside me. “I’ll do it.”

  “Excuse me?”

  He nods at the bottle in my hand. “I’ll do it.”

  “The situation is under control,” I say.

  “If you insist.” He sits on the other side of the sodas. “I think I know a place where we can dump this car and buy a new one, no questions asked.”

  I glare at him. “No. I don’t want to buy a stolen car.”

  “It won’t be stolen. What I mean is that no one will ask to see our licenses or auto insurance.”

  “Oh. Sorry. But you can see why I assumed.”

  He shrugs, and an impish smile twists his mouth. “Don’t apologize. If you weren’t here, my criteria would be different.”

  “Great,” I say. I feel insulted, but really, isn’t this a win? I’m getting what I want.

  Jason yawns and blinks like he’s trying to reset his eyeballs. “I’m gonna go stretch my legs. We leave in an hour.”

  “All right.”

  He opens the Pepsi and takes a healthy swig before handing it to me. Even though I’m not thirsty, I also take a sip.

  God help me, some juvenile, still-stuck-at-age-fourteen part of my brain thinks his mouth was on this. It’s like we’ve kissed.

  “An hour,” he repeats. “One.”

  “I heard you.”

  He gets up. “Just letting you know how long you get to sit there hesitating.”

  “I’ll be done in twenty minutes.”

  “Fine. Then we’ll have time to get a hot breakfast. I’ll carry you back when I return.”

  “Carry me?”

  “You’re not walking on those.” Jason nods matter-of-factly at my feet.

  I jerk my legs even farther away from him, but there’s no way to hide. He eases my embarrassment by shoving his hands in his pockets and turning toward the car. I wonder where he plans to go. Probably not far, which is reassuring.

  Really, I had to decline his offer, but the truth is I might not ever get up the nerve to finish.

  “Wait,” I call. When he turns, I hold out the bottle and wiggle it because I can’t bring myself to beg for his help.

  Jason saunters back and sits beside me—the close-up of his swollen muscles would be welcome under other circumstances—and positions me so that my legs are trapped between his thighs. Now I can’t move at all.

  It’s… hot.
/>   “What are you doing?” As if protesting will stop Jason from noticing the burning in my cheeks and the hunger in my eyes.

  “Holding you down,” he says. “Feel free to grab on to me. Dig your nails in or whatever. You won’t hurt me.”

  “I’m good,” I squeak.

  His hamstrings are thick and hard with muscle. Fuck, he’s strong; I can’t even move.

  “You’re heavy. My feet are going numb.”

  “Think of it as free anesthesia from Doctor Jason.”

  “Sorry, which medical school did you graduate from?” The longer I distract him, the longer before pain and misery.

  “The university of this parking lot. Now. On the count of three. One… two.” He pours on “two.”

  My entire body feels like it’s been doused in kerosene and lit on fire. My heart jolts.

  The only reason I’m not screaming is because my lower lip is trapped between my clenched teeth.

  “Sorry,” Jason says. “I know it hurts, but I’ll be fast.”

  After a few seconds, the worst of the pain morphs into a numb throbbing that I feel through my entire body. That makes sense. What doesn’t make sense is why I’m completely and utterly turned on.

  The throbbing? It’s not only from pain.

  It’s his body, I tell myself. It’s because a powerfully built man is touching me. And my arousal has nothing to do with being pinned underneath him.

  Where it came from, I don’t understand, but I know a door has been opened.

  Even though Jason is intently focused on his task, I cover my face.

  But not before I glimpse a lengthy bulge pushing at the front of his jeans.

  Holy shit.

  Jason is thinking about sex, too.

  Christ.

  As if I weren’t in way over my head already.

  Chapter 19

  Jason tried to ignore DeeAnn’s body twitching underneath his.

  Didn’t do any good. An unwanted erection was making his jeans too tight.

  He couldn’t make it go away, but he’d be damned if he would allow himself to get fully hard, like some undersexed, pimply little teenager.