Blindsided

“Like what?”

  She stared out her window. “Doesn’t matter,” she said, her voice flat. “I’ll deal.”

  “Okay.” She didn’t want to share? Fine with him. The less tangled up he got with her the better. Even if he couldn’t stop imagining being tangled up with her naked.

  Getting to know her meant developing a relationship, and he didn’t do relationships.

  When he didn’t press for details, she closed her eyes. Within minutes, she was sound asleep, her head against the glass, lips parted. He hadn’t seen her that relaxed…ever. He pounded his sweet caffeine and tried not to be mesmerized by the nearly empty road as lane markings flashed by in rhythm.

  Ninety minutes later, while they were skimming along the northern edge of Los Angeles on I-210, Scott turned in to a gas station.

  Valerie stirred, blinking against the bright overhead lighting as she stretched her arms up and back, pulling her cotton T-shirt tight across her breasts. “Where are we?”

  He averted his eyes and removed the key from the ignition. “Pasadena. The van needs gas, and I have to hit the head.”

  “If that means use the bathroom, then me too.”

  He opened his door, keeping his face down, out of direct line of sight from any overhead cameras. “Hang tight while I pump gas. I think we should go inside together.”

  She glanced at the mini-mart, its windows plastered with cigarette and beer sale signs. “Okay.”

  Five minutes later, Valerie exited the bathroom at the far corner of the dingy shop and wrinkled her nose. “It’s not pretty, but the plumbing works and it has TP.” She wiped her hands on her jeans. “No more paper towel, though.”

  Scott glanced at the cashier with his slicked-back white hair and tattoo-covered arms. He didn’t like the look in the older man’s eyes as his gaze followed her movements. “I’ll be out in one minute.” Or less. “Do you want to pick out snacks? I’m easy.”

  She nodded.

  “Stay alert.”

  “I’ll be fine.” Adjusting the fake glasses she’d purchased at the drugstore to sit higher on her nose, she strode past him toward the chips.

  CHAPTER EIGHT

  Pasadena, CA

  Monday, 3:45 a.m.

  WHILE SCOTT WAS IN THE restroom, two men entered the store. Valerie moved out of sight behind the rack of Fritos and beef jerky, peeking between a gap in the shelves. The fewer people who saw her and Scott the better. Plus, these guys gave off a bad vibe.

  Or maybe she was being paranoid.

  The short man had black hair, light brown skin, and a thin black mustache that traced his upper lip as if drawn with a Sharpie. He scratched his arm, his movements jerky as he started down the first aisle toward the refrigerated drinks, looking over his shoulder every few seconds.

  Mustache’s partner had stringy blond hair hanging loose to his massive shoulders. He’d stuffed his football-player-gone-soft body into a blue letterman’s jacket with cracked leather sleeves. Hands in pockets, the aging jock strode directly to the counter and whispered tersely to the man wearing a red polo with the gas station logo on the breast.

  The cashier’s eyes widened and he shook his head, stepping back. “Dude, I can’t open it. Only the manager.”

  Oh, God. Seriously? Adrenaline flooded Valerie’s limbs, making her heart beat fast enough to explode. She bent low and ran on her toes toward the bathroom and around a rack of bug spray and flashlights, out of sight. There had to be a rear exit, right? But she couldn’t abandon Scott to these men. Besides, the van was parked at the pump. They knew someone else was here.

  “You think I’m fuckin’ around, bitch?” Jock pointed a silver handgun at the ceiling and pulled the trigger. Bang!

  Valerie screamed and dropped to the floor as debris rained onto the front counter. So much for keeping quiet.

  “Yo!” Mustache called out, from her left, his voice shaky. “I found our witness.”

  “Take care of it.”

  She scrambled to her feet, twisted to avoid his grasp, and collided with the shelf. Pain seared her left forearm as bottles of Raid clanged to the floor along with her glasses. The man grabbed a handful of her shirt and yanked her back against his chest. “No.” She slammed her right elbow up into his chin.

  He grunted, but pressed her closer, his hot hand on her left breast. “You want to play, chica?” he rasped into her ear, squeezing painfully. His breath smelled like stale beer and bubblegum.

  She fought to turn, to slug him in the stomach, kick, bite, whatever she had to do to get his hands off her body.

  Until he brandished a knife.

  Valerie’s vision narrowed to the shiny blade. To the sickly light glinting off the steel, taunting her as the man waved it in her face.

  “You gonna play hard to get?”

  Every cell in her body turned to ice. Her chest squeezed until she couldn’t breathe, couldn’t think, couldn’t move. The knife had to be six inches long, its tip honed to a fine point. She could almost feel the sharp edge slicing through her skin, feel the blood spread across her abdomen as it seeped through her clothes…

  Fight. Run. The room started spinning. Breathe.

  “You and me? We’re going to have—”

  The knife fell away and the thug released her. She stumbled into the wall. Wha—? Spinning fast, she came face to face with Scott. He had Mustache in a chokehold. Within a few seconds the man stopped fighting and Scott lowered him to the grimy linoleum.

  “Oh, thank God,” she whispered, ready to collapse along with her attacker as tremors wracked her body.

  Scott took a pack of bungee cords from the shelf and bound the man’s wrists and ankles. Once the robber was secure, Scott gripped her shoulders, half holding her up. “Are you okay?”

  She grabbed him around the neck and clung to him like a lifeline. “Thank you,” she whispered, swallowing against her tightening throat. “I’m fine now.”

  After a beat, he enclosed her in his arms, his body hard and warm against hers. She wanted to stay like this for hours, letting him leach away her panic with the stroke of his hands, calm her frantic heartbeat with his murmured comforts.

  She hadn’t been hugged in a lifetime, and she never wanted to let go.

  Instead, he backed away almost instantly. “We’re not safe yet,” he said, his low voice rough and regretful.

  Her face was probably ten shades of red if the heat in her cheeks was any indication. “Yeah, sorry.”

  Muffled conversation and clanging noises came from the front of the shop. Then Jock yelled, “Yo, Chuy! Let’s bolt.”

  “Come on,” Scott said, reaching out.

  Valerie lifted her hand.

  “You’re bleeding.”

  Sure enough, a three-inch cut on her left forearm oozed blood, dripping down to her wrist. “Oh.” The wound started to throb. “It’s just a cut. I’ll be okay.” But her stomach turned queasy.

  Holding her around the shoulders, Scott half-carried her to the front of the aisle—safely away from her trussed-up attacker—and removed his shirt. A bullet pendant hung from a black cord tied around his neck, the only adornment on a torso worthy of being immortalized on film. He wrapped the cotton shirt around her forearm, tying it off with an awkward knot.

  “Stay here,” he mouthed, and then stood and walked into the open, totally casual, as if the other guy wasn’t brandishing a big-ass gun.

  “Wait.” She grabbed for him and missed.

  Scooting forward, she peeked around the shelving.

  The clerk’s eyes widened at Scott’s approach, and Jock spun on his feet, aiming his gun at Scott’s head. “Stay the fuck back, Pipsqueak. You don’t want to mess with me.”

  Scott raised his hands, palms up, as if he could calm the man through sheer will. “If you leave now, things don’t have to get messy.”

  Jock laughed. “Oh yeah?” He stepped forward, holding the muzzle of the gun inches from Scott’s nose. “I’m so scared.”

  Scott was going to get himself
killed.

  Valerie popped to her feet, gripping the beer display on the end-cap until she regained her balance. Her ears buzzed, but she scanned the shelves behind her for anything she could use as a weapon. Grabbing a tire iron off the rack, she sidestepped Mr. Grabby Hands on the floor and raced along the refrigerator doors at the rear of the store, close to the front entrance where she could sneak up on the gunman.

  As soon as Scott noticed her, his jaw tightened. He sprang into action, knocking the gun aside as he stepped out of the line of fire. The big man roared and rushed him. Scott grabbed the guy’s neck and shoulder, and in some blur of a move, twisted him around and dropped him flat on his back. The gun clattered to the floor at his feet.

  Jock groaned and started to rise.

  Scott scooped the gun off the floor, checked the ammo, and pointed it at the man’s chest. “Don’t move.”

  “I’ll bet you don’t even know how to use it,” the idiot said, his deep, jeering voice hollow and lacking the bravado of moments before. Anyone who’d been paying attention could see that Scott knew his way around a weapon.

  “Try me.” Scott’s voice didn’t betray a hint of nerves, no shake, no strain, just his usual smooth, flat tone.

  Jock paled and slowly sat.

  “Call the police,” Scott said to the clerk.

  The man nodded and lifted the receiver.

  Shit. Couldn’t he wait until they left? “We need to get out of here,” Valerie said. “Let me tie him up.”

  Scott gave a sharp negative jerk with his head without looking at her. “I don’t want you anywhere near him.”

  A little thrill ran through her. But he wasn’t just protecting her. If the thug grabbed her, he’d have leverage over Scott. She’d make things worse. Her stomach bottomed out.

  “Lock him in the bathroom,” she said. She’d noticed an external latch on the door earlier. The idea of being locked in the grimy little space had given her the creeps. It wouldn’t hold the beast of a man for long, but maybe long enough.

  Scott didn’t move. Piped-in jazz crackled through an overhead speaker, and the clerk on the phone recited his version of events to a dispatcher, his strained words tumbling over themselves like people scrambling to escape a fire.

  “Scott—”

  “Okay.” He waved Jock toward the back corner of the room, and gestured to the cashier. “Get something to block the door.”

  They walked past the big man’s partner, who had awakened. Mustache stopped struggling against his bonds when he saw them coming.

  Jock kicked him in the side. “Worthless piece of—”

  “Enough,” Scott said, his voice low, but all the more menacing for it.

  His captive glared at him and Valerie in turn, but entered the small restroom and closed the door without a fight.

  Sirens wailed outside, faint but growing closer.

  She took a new padlock off the hardware shelf, unwrapped it, and unlocked it with fumbling fingers. Leaving the combination sticker on the back, she hooked it through the loop of the latch and closed it, pulling down to test.

  They both turned at a loud clank behind them. The clerk pushed a hand-operated pallet truck carrying a six-foot high stack of Budweiser cases.

  “Perfect,” Scott said, helping the man angle the pallet into position in front of the bathroom door. “That should hold him until the cops arrive.”

  “Thank you,” the older man said.

  Scott grabbed Valerie’s hand. “Sorry we can’t stick around.” He gave the gun to the cashier, butt first.

  “They won’t be able to get your license plate off the camera.”

  “Good to know,” Scott said, tugging her toward the door. A little bell dinged as they crossed the threshold. “Appreciate it.”

  “Semper Fi, buddy.”

  “Oorah.” Scott released the door and they raced to the van.

  “Where else are you hurt?” Scott’s hands shook on the wheel as he sped away from the gas station and onto the freeway, his body coming down from the adrenaline rush. And the rush of anger from seeing that asshole’s hands on Valerie. He’d wanted to do a lot more than choke the guy out.

  “Nowhere,” she said, unable to hide the tremor in her voice. “Thanks to you.”

  “Good, so I don’t have to feel bad when I ask what the hell you were thinking sneaking up on that guy. Were you trying to get yourself killed?” He scanned his mirrors repeatedly. “A fucking tire iron against a giant with a gun,” he muttered.

  “You’re one to talk,” she said, her voice defensive. “You didn’t even have a weapon, and as you just pointed out, he was huge and armed.”

  Only an idiot wouldn’t have been nervous about facing down that asshat, but Scott had confidence in his skills. The Marines—and his childhood—had trained him well. But he knew nothing about Valerie except that she had frozen when her attacker pulled a knife.

  “I wanted you out of harm’s way so I wouldn’t have to worry about you. If I’d needed your help I would have asked for it.”

  “But it’s okay to leave me behind to worry about you,” she said, her voice vibrating with anger.

  “I may not look like much, but I can hold my own.” He clamped his mouth shut before anything else stupid tumbled out. All his old insecurities came rushing back, and he hated himself for it.

  Valerie laughed without humor. “Not look like much? You freaking radiate danger with your unshakeable calm and all those muscles…” She licked her lips and focused on the road ahead. “Anyone smart would stay out of your way, but still, that guy was twice your size. And he had a gun. Would you expect one of your Marine Corps buddies to sit back and do nothing?”

  “No, but they’re trained. You’re not.”

  She gripped the edge of her seat and stared out the side window at the morass of lights from the cities that made up the never-ending Los Angeles metro. The two feet of space between them suddenly felt like a mile.

  “Look, I know you were trying to help. I do appreciate that… So, thanks.” He cleared his throat, but what else was there to say? He was used to working with teammates who knew their roles and whose skills he trusted.

  He ignored her as she studied his profile. He had more important things to worry about right now. Like the freeway, which was too damn empty. “We don’t have long before the cops realize it was us. They’ll be suspicious immediately since we left the scene.”

  She nodded glanced out the back window. “How did that guy know you were a Marine?”

  “Maybe he recognized one of us from the news. Or he noticed my HOG’s tooth necklace.”

  “Hog’s tooth?”

  “HOG stands for hunter of gunmen. It’s a designation we get when we graduate from scout sniper training. The HOG’s tooth—the bullet—is part of the ceremony.”

  “A bullet because you’re a sniper?”

  “No, because Marines are as superstitious as anyone, and the military loves its lore.” Turned out, he loved it too. How many times had he wished for a protective talisman as a kid? Now he had one, and he’d fucking earned it. “The story goes that there’s one bullet destined to end your life. A round with your name on it, so to speak. Until it’s fired, you’re invincible. The HOG’s tooth symbolizes that bullet, and the idea is that as long as you keep it on you, you’re safe.”

  “Oh.”

  Please don’t laugh. He shouldn’t care what she thought about it, but he did.

  “Don’t lose the necklace, then,” she said, her voice earnest. “We need all the help we can get.”

  He released his breath. Damn straight.

  Her gaze was on him again. At the next opportunity, he’d grab a shirt from his bag in the back. “Once the police get a look at the surveillance footage, they’ll know what we look like now.”

  “And they’ll know about the van.” Her head dropped back.

  “Yeah,” he said. “It’ll be all over the news in a couple hours, but we need to get off the road now. There’s not enough
traffic to get lost in the crowd.”

  “Can we stop at a truck stop?”

  “Seriously?”

  “I have an idea,” she said. “But we need a place with a big store. The kind with touristy knick-knacks and stuff.”

  She didn’t elaborate, but she’d proven herself with the stash of money and clothes earlier. He was willing to go along for now.

  A few miles down the road, he spotted a tall sign for Tough Tony’s Truck Harbor and exited the freeway. The lot was brightly lit and crammed with semis, but the car lot was mostly empty. From the parking stall, he had a clear view of a lanky, bearded black man standing behind the store’s counter. The rest of the shop was hidden from view, but there were only a few people sitting at the counter in the attached diner.

  It was four in the morning, after all.

  “Hang on,” he said. “You can’t go inside with my shirt on your arm.” Unbuckling his seat belt, he retrieved a first aid kit from under his seat. “Let me see,” he said, with a little wave.

  Her gaze followed his every move, making him acutely aware that he was still half naked. Sweat trickled down his back, and he forced aside the unhelpful memory of her pressed to his body. He couldn’t remember the last time someone had hugged him. Had anyone ever hugged him?

  He hadn’t quite known what to do with her at first, but he wouldn’t mind a repeat now. Especially if she were shirtless too.

  Jesus. Focus.

  Scooting to the edge of his seat, he gently took her arm, which lay across the armrests between them. He cleaned her wound with an alcohol swab, using gentle strokes, feeling every wince as if it were his own. Now that he could see the cut without the blood, it didn’t appear deep enough to require stitches, thank God. He had first aid training, but he was no medic. “Have you had a tetanus shot recently?”

  She shrugged. “I think I had a booster a few years ago.”

  Not like they could do anything about it right now. He applied antibiotic ointment and covered the wound with a large gauze pad, taping down the edges. “How’s that?”

  “Good, thanks.” She withdrew her arm and reached for the door.