Hard Love (Guns & Ink Book 2)

by Shana Vanterpool

  And even though I knew it was farfetched, I also knew it was probably because of me.

  “Are you kidding me?” she exhaled, leaning against the doorway and sending her eyes over every inch of me. “I leave for the first time in forever, and you’re sitting up eating fucking pudding when I come back?”

  “It’s good pudding. You should try some. A little on the chalky side, but this isn’t exactly Outback Steakhouse.”

  She gave me a soft smile, and every pain I felt burned worse at the sight of it. Her teeth were creamy white and her lips—her entire face—was free of makeup. There was so much relief in her smile that I sensed no happiness in it. “Not my first choice of fine dining.” She shrugged away from the wall and took her seat by my bed. “I’m more of a Sizzler kind of girl.”

  My lips twitched. “More bang for your buck. Nothing wrong with that.”

  Her eyes filled with tears, but her smile stayed in place. “Plus, come on, that cheese toast is the best part.”

  I cleared my throat and struggled to maintain eye contact. “Bloomin’ Onion any day.”

  She broke eye contact first, giggling softly and shaking her head. It was startling in that moment how young she looked. She was the same age as me, but she looked so sweet and soft, breakable … at least not in a way I’d ever seen her. She was tough and strong, and that was sexy, but there was something about her softness that made my cock twitch.

  Hard-on’s and gunshot wounds didn’t go together.

  “Brando,” she whispered, eyes falling over me once more. “I’m sorry I was here, but—”

  “Don’t be,” I cut her off. “Don’t be sorry you were here. I’m glad you were.”

  She looked down and twisted her fingers together. She was wearing a hoodie today the color of dark cherries and black skinny jeans, a single tear in her right shin. Her black Vans were small, and I wondered suddenly what size her feet were. And what she’d look like in a pair of black high heels. Naked. Onyx hair flowing down her back and shoulders. Those deep bottomless brown eyes burning with lust. The colorful twisting tattoos on her arms adding life to her pain. When she looked back up and I saw her pupils dilate, I knew I wasn’t hiding what I was feeling well, or at all.

  “I didn’t know how you’d feel about me being here. Hell, even I don’t know how I feel.” She brought her legs up and her knees to her chest, holding them close to her body as she gazed openly at me. “I just knew I wasn’t leaving you alone.”

  The rush of lust was a punch to my chest. I couldn’t breathe, and it hurt not being able to breathe. There was something about her openness that fucking got to me. Most people—myself included—were so aware of our outsides that we forgot about our insides, or it was the other way around. Maybe our insides determined what we showed outside. Catherine was different. Her outsides showed her insides for the entire world to see. It made me wonder how many of us stopped to look. My guess was, not as much as she deserved.

  “I’m used to being alone, Catherine. If that’s what’s got you worried, you can rest easy. I’m okay.”

  “Cat,” she corrected, pressing her chin into her knee. “You’re okay? I don’t believe that. I don’t believe a man who was shot and had to be resuscitated is okay. You just woke up from a coma. Cut the macho bullshit. You are not okay.”

  “So, I’m not okay then. Doesn’t mean you have to disrupt your life for me. Go back to your life in Portland. I’m not okay, but I will be.”

  Something wounded and angry darkened her eyes. “If you don’t want me here, just say it. No love lost on my end.” She rose.

  I watched her in a confused daze. She was halfway out the door before I called her back.

  She’d been here, it seemed, since I had, and though I didn’t understand why, I was thankful. I had a feeling waking up would have been ten times harder on me if she wasn’t the first thing I saw. “Don’t leave,” I called as best I could with bullet holes torn in my back and a lung that begged to explode. I cringed and grabbed for my side, breathing through gritted teeth, out of breath in a way I had never been before. “Sit down.” I sagged back, clenching my eyes shut as I floundered for air.

  “Shit, I’m sorry.” Her delicate hands gripped my left bicep.

  I hated being seen like this. Naked in more ways than one, without a mask in sight. I felt exposed, turned inside out. “Sit down and stop being defensive. I just woke up from a coma. I’m not fully equipped to deal with a woman period. And especially not one like you.” I opened my eyes to meet hers. “I could use a friend right now, Cat.” I could see the turmoil in her gaze. She needed a reason to stay other than the reason that brought her here. I gave her one, and deep down, I needed her around for the exact reasons I wanted to push her away.

  She gave my bicep a squeeze. Faintly, her throat bobbed. She didn’t say anything more about her outburst or my request; she sat down and brought her knees back to her chest.

  It took me exactly five minutes to outgrow the silence. The television in the corner was playing a recap of a football game. My pain grew until it felt like a demon inside of me. Dark and pulsing. My right hand formed a fist. I needed a wall. Something to give me a fighting chance. But I knew there was nothing to protect me anymore.

  My career was undoubtedly over. Captain wouldn’t have me on the force like this. I’d already been on the fence with my career, and to think of adding my body to the list of those found under the floorboards, only further pushed me into the turmoil.

  What was I going to do?

  I hated that question, hated the pressure to find an answer.

  “What do you mean, a woman like me?” she spoke up abruptly.

  It was the perfect replacement question. Any other time I wouldn’t willingly go down such a dangerous path—I wasn’t a stupid man. “I think that’s self-explanatory.”

  “How?” she demanded, shooting daggers at me.

  “It’s not a bad thing,” I assured her.

  “Hmm,” she muttered, dark gaze unsure of my genuineness. “Lucky for me I don’t care what men think of me.”

  I’d obviously hit a nerve. “This man didn’t think anything wrong about you. This man’s going to sleep for a few hours.” My eyes slid shut and the moment they did, my mouth took over. “Don’t leave,” I whispered, reaching desperately for sleep, for anything to calm the turmoil inside of me. “Don’t leave me alone, Cat.”

  Brushing against my own death had inserted a fragmented part into my soul that knew everything I’d ever done was wrong, and everything I ever did from here on out had to matter. That was a lot of pressure, especially since the way I’d lived my life hadn’t mattered, and if it did matter, that was only because it hurt.

  I took pain with me everywhere I went, like a diseased, infested monkey on my back digging its claws into my flesh. That monkey made me try harder, crease my suits a little sharper, and smile a little bigger.

  Getting shot dropped a tumultuous tear gas bomb in my lap and the contents were seeping out. Gagging me. Polluting every breath I took. But tear gas was non-lethal, and no matter how hard it was to breathe now, the smoke would clear.

  It had to.

  Cat was eating when I came to. It was disorienting waking up that time. She was the only thing I focused on for a few minutes as my brain caught up to my nightmares. It was unsettling, in the midst of my turmoil, that she was the only thing that made sense.

  The scent of cilantro and lime floated over to me and I groaned from deep in my throat. Jell-O and water weren’t cutting it anymore. I watched her bring a taco to her lips. Her plump lips took the taco into her mouth and her teeth bit down; she didn’t spill a drop as she chewed, eyes focused on her phone. It rested on the arm of the chair and I heard what sounded like a video playing. There were earphones in her ear.

  As my stomach growled in hunger, I watched her feed hers. She seemed much calmer. There was something about her that hadn’t been there when I first woke up. Her eyes weren’t red around her irises and she’d do
ne her hair this morning. It hung around her face and brushed past her shoulders, her long-sleeved black shirt sheathing her arms.

  Her jeans were acid washed and skin tight. I studied the denim stretched over her thighs, the way it stretched tightly and disappeared where her thighs touched. I lifted my left leg to put my heel on the bed, in hopes it would block my hard-on. When I did, her head snapped up and her eyes locked on me.

  I didn’t know why, but I smiled. It was close-lipped and obviously better than admitting she was making me hard.

  She smiled back softly and then ripped her headphones out. “Did I wake you?”

  I shook my head.

  When I continued to stare at her without speaking, she cleared her throat and shrugged.

  “It’s been easier to eat since you woke up,” she revealed quietly, lifting her half-eaten taco in its wrapper for proof.

  The idea of her starving for weeks because of me wiped away my appetite. “Cat,” I breathed, voice disgustingly rough and sleep-filled. “You should have eaten.” I wasn’t worth going hungry for. “Don’t let me interrupt you.”

  “Too late.” She smiled, to show me she was teasing, and wrapped her taco up and put it into a brown takeout bag. Grease created a halo at the bottom of the bag, and my stomach yearned to know how many tacos she had left. She put her elbow on her chair and placed her chin in her palm, watching me. “They think I’m your wife. Must be the tattoos.”

  I lay my head to the side and gazed at her. She hadn’t mentioned my tattoos until now. Or the unyielding loyalty, I thought to myself. Loyalty I’d done nothing to deserve. “How’d I propose?”

  A sad wistful smile played on her lips. “You were drunk.”

  “That isn’t romantic.” I studied her lips, wanting them so badly in that moment it seemed unhealthy to want to self-destruct after already being shot.

  “I don’t do romance. So, in my book, a drunken proposal’s the same as flowers and chocolate.”

  Truthfully, I didn’t do romance either. I didn’t have a romantic bone in my entire body. “How can anyone fail with standards that low?” I winked, maintaining eye contact with her.

  There was something intimate about looking into another person’s eyes. I tried not to do it unless I had to. Talking to a victim, to a perp—questioning and grilling a soul wasn’t the same as looking into one. A rush of air left my lungs and I lay there, cheek pressed into the pillow as we played with the other’s soul.

  Like running my fingers through a still pond. Ripples ricocheted from my finger tips and in the horizon, I spotted a storm behind her calm waters. I could only imagine the disaster she was seeing in my soul.

  Blood rushed to my cock and I wanted to fill her. Calm and chaos colliding had to be the most addictive kind of destruction.

  “They manage,” she whispered, her tongue darting out to lick at her bottom lip.

  I struggled to hold her eyes and not follow the tip of her pink tongue gliding across the supple flesh of her lip. I wondered if she felt it too. The pressure in the room, the force of disaster clinging to every breath. I couldn’t think around my desire, around my pain. I wanted to dive right into her storm. Heat filled my guts and I had to wonder how fucking old I was. I was a twenty-six-year-old man. I hadn’t fought an erection that hard since I was thirteen.

  And like most things I did at thirteen, I knew my hard dick would get me into trouble.

  “Good morning!” a singsong voice greeted, breaking the spell between Catherine and me.

  I cleared my throat and looked over at the door to find Mona. She was wearing Barbie scrubs today, and the sheer amount of pink made me uneasy. But it also made me oddly … calm. Like chewing on a huge offensive piece of bubblegum. “Morning,” I mumbled.

  “Time to clean your wounds,” she announced, giving Cat a knowing look when she shot up.

  “Can he have coffee?” Cat asked.

  Mona pursed her lips and put on a fresh pair of gloves. “I don’t see why not. Give me fifteen with him?”

  “Yeah, sure.” Cat touched my hand, giving my fingers a squeeze. “I’ll be back.”

  Why the hell did it feel like my entire world was going with her? That fucking attachment wasn’t like me. “Cream and sugar?”

  She rubbed her thumb over my knuckles. “Sure, hubby.”

  I studied her tight little ass in her acid washed jeans as she left. Before I got another hard-on—and scared Mona away—I thought of what was to come. Invasiveness. Cleaning my wounds had to be.

  “Young love,” Mona said, sighing adoringly. “This is going to be hard.”

  I quirked a brow, studying the alcohol wash and gauze in her hands. “Love or cleaning my wounds?”

  She beamed. “Both. Every time I’ve done this, you’ve been out. It’ll be ten times easier when you’re awake. Eventually, I’ll have to get your wife to stay for a cleaning so she can do it for you when you’re discharged.”

  I could have stopped her then. Corrected her. Instead, I stared, wondering how many times this woman wiped my ass when I was in a coma, and why Cat hadn’t corrected her either. “How do you want me?”

  “On your right side. If it’s too painful, let me know and we can take breaks.”

  I grabbed the handrail on the bed and pulled with the little bit of strength I still possessed in my body. It felt like my muscles had deteriorated. I knew without weighing myself that I’d lost a significant amount of weight, even before I was shot. When we found Madison’s abductor and those fifteen skeletons were unearthed, my world had twisted on its axis, and even if it were balanced, I wasn’t sure I’d want to go back there.

  I gritted my teeth and clenched my eyes shut as Mona tortured me. When she was done cleaning my wounds, both back and front, I sagged gratefully onto my back and let the pain gradually fade to bearable. “Mona?” I grunted, gripping my sheets in my fist. “Is it possible to go to the bathroom?”

  “Number one or number two?”

  I opened my eyes to roll them. “Number two.”

  She didn’t even miss a beat. “Why don’t I take your catheter out too and see if we can start getting you back to your regular self?”

  She smiled, happy to put me back together.

  I didn’t have the heart to tell her that wasn’t possible.

  Chapter Six

  Catherine

  Kill me.

  Brando was coming out of the bathroom when I walked in. His back was to me and Mona had a hand on his elbow, helping him. His back, his gloriously taut back—still somehow beautiful even with the puckered flesh of bullet wounds—led down to a slender waist and one of the most gorgeous asses I had ever seen. They were two globes of perfection. I wanted to sink my teeth into them, or better, my nails as he thrusted into me.

  Something told me Brando had a gentle soul in the middle of his chaos, but something also told me he fucked like a wild animal. Carnal, rough, and claiming.

  I never let men claim me. Not after being raped. But something about giving Brando the ability to do so didn’t feel scary. Brando wouldn’t take the control and hurt me. He’d take the control and nurture it.

  But Brando wasn’t mine.

  Looking and wanting didn’t brand a soul.

  Loving it did.

  When he noticed me, he glanced over his shoulder and frowned before looking away. Didn’t seem to mind his nudity. I definitely didn’t mind. His tall, hard body, corded with muscles and tattoos, was tempting chaos. I wanted to stand below his downpour and taste his crazy.

  What could I say? A girl could wallow in his brand of bad.

  As Mona helped him into bed, I saw the sweat dot his brow when he’d finally managed to make it. His right hand shook as it moved to grip his sheets.

  “Doctor Nino’s going to be pleased you were able to urinate and defecate on your own.” She nodded at me, as though that were good progress, so I nodded back, even though I wasn’t fond of bathroom talk. “Drink your coffee and I’ll have some scrambled eggs and oatmeal s
ent up.”

  “Thanks,” he mumbled, his entire demeanor changing. He looked sallow and weak. He looked like a man who’d been shot eight times and just woke up.

  My stomach dropped, but I forced a smile. It wouldn’t do him or me any good seeing the bad in this situation. “Here you go.” I waited for him to have hold of the cup before taking my seat.

  When Mona left, he gave up the pretenses and groaned, closing his eyes as he gripped the coffee cup in his left hand.

  I wanted to take his mind off the pain. “Nice ass.”

  He let out a tired, second-long chuckle before pressing his lips together in pain.

  “Best ass I’ve seen in a long time,” I continued. “First being mine, of course.” I bit my lip when he smiled. It lasted for two seconds that time. “But there’s only one Mona Lisa, so …” I shrugged.

  His smile lasted three seconds.

  “You’re more of a Van Gogh. The Starry Night. Mass-produced beauty. I bought a keychain once with that painting on it. Tattooed it a dozen times.”

  He didn’t smile, but he wasn’t sweating anymore, and he opened his eyes. He brought the coffee to his lips and took a sip. “Ahh,” he groaned, the first spark of true happiness lighting up his face.

  Coffee, you faithful bastard.

  “Your likeness hasn’t been created yet, then, I take it?” he stated, eyes faraway.

  “Nah. I think the only person brave enough to paint that painting is me, and I’d never delve that deep.”

  He nodded mechanically, and when I leaned over to snag as much of his gaze as I could get, I saw the shadowing of pain in his eyes. Something about him hurting strangely hurt me too. It was the most uncomfortable feeling to suffer for someone else’s suffering. Klay hurt when Madison hurt, and since they were my only true basis of love, I didn’t have to feel Brando’s pain more than once to know I was truly screwed.