by Cara McKenna
She stood up straight, slipping her fingertips under her glasses to rub her eyes. She smiled weakly. “I’ll take that over being sent away.”
“Good. Prepare yourself for overprotection, then.”
“Is overprotective Vince much different from pushy Vince, or possessive Vince?”
“Oh, he’s way worse,” he promised with a soft clap on her back and a grim smile. “But he’s real good in bed.”
“Jesus, you’re terrible.”
“You know I’m kidding. Same as I know you can handle yourself just fine . . . I like you behind me, on my bike,” he told her.
“I know you do.”
“Like you even better standing next to me.”
She seemed to steel herself, and shouldered her purse. “Call Nita and let’s get to the bar.”
“Yes, ma’am.”
He gave Nita the gist and made sure everything was quiet back home, then locked up the spot behind them, squinting against the blazing August sun.
Kim stood by his bike, strapping on the helmet he’d bought her the week before—blue like her eyes. She waited until he was astride, then got on behind him. Christ, he loved the warm weight of her body, the feel of her arms around him. He’d feel those sensations again when they next climbed into bed together, skin to skin in the dark. And he’d picked her, and she’d picked him—no obligation, no reason. Only need. He never could have guessed that attachment could feel this easy and right. And freeing, somehow. Like a surrender.
“Ready?” he asked, glancing over his shoulder at the woman he loved—loved so deep, it got him high.
She nodded. “Ready.”
He stomped on the starter and glided them out of the lot, bound for the bar. Down the main drag of the only town he’d called home, under the mean Nevada sun. Toward familiar faces and worries yet to unfold, with his past all around him and his future hugged tight to his back.
There were blanks left to fill in—scary ones. And bones to find, blackened by the dark desperation of men whose identities were yet to be confirmed. This shit went deeper than he wanted to imagine. At least for these short minutes, no longer than the drive down Station Street, he could take some comfort. Feeling Kim against him and knowing his brother and his friends were already waiting, prepared to stand by his side, whatever was to come . . .
He wasn’t alone in this. They had his back, same as he’d had Alex’s.
The Desert Dogs had been made by this town, colored by its red dirt, and shaped by its hard edges. Now that the shadows were lengthening and darkness growing, it was time for them to rise again and protect what was theirs.
Read on for an exciting look at the next title in
Cara McKenna’s scorching-hot Desert Dogs series,
GIVE IT ALL
Coming soon from Piatkus
I’ve got to stop sleeping with Miah.
Raina shifted under the covers, feeling him all around her. His arm locked to her waist, the warm length of his sleeping body pressed along her back and legs. His bed beneath her, his scent in the pillow under her cheek.
She was surrounded by old smells. Familiar ones. Though strangely, until a few weeks ago, she’d never actually been in Miah’s bed. They’d been lovers for a few short, blazing months, two summers back, but the man was claustrophobic. They’d come to know each other’s bodies on blankets under the wide-open northeastern Nevada sky, on the grass, and in the bed of his truck . . . Closest she’d ever come to laying him indoors had been the cab of that F150. She still remembered every moment. The radio had been playing. “Life in a Northern Town” had come on, and goose bumps had broken out all over her skin, Miah’s fingers on her clit and his mouth on her neck as she’d come.
This is different, she reminded herself.
Jeremiah Church’s long, strong body was dressed in a tee and shorts, and Raina still wore her jeans and tank and bra.
This sleeping together was strictly literal.
But it really had to stop.
They’d lost a childhood friend six weeks ago—Alex Dunn, a sheriff’s deputy. Raina hadn’t slept properly since the day she’d accepted that Alex’s death hadn’t been the drunk-driving accident everyone had believed it was. The same day, Sheriff Tremblay had been called out and incriminated himself. She’d shut Benji’s late that night—four a.m., probably—and even after that, she and Miah had sat together on the bar’s front stoop, nursing a whiskey between them. Miah had been too drunk to drive home, and too upset besides.
They’d fallen silent. It should have felt cold. It got down to the forties at night in Fortuity, even now at the close of summer. But Raina hadn’t registered the temperature, couldn’t even remember the minutes or hours passing, with the two of them just sitting there.
After a long time she’d said, “Well.” No other thoughts had come, no lament about the state of their town or the tragedy surrounding their friend.
Miah had said even less. Not a single word. Instead he’d gotten to his feet and taken her hand. He’d led her through the bar to the back stairs, up to the second floor to her apartment. Through the kitchen and den and into her room, where the dawn light was just beginning to slip through the front windows and swallow the aura of the neon sign flickering outside. He’d thrown the covers wide and she’d taken his lead when he pushed off his boots. Whatever he’d needed, she’d have given. Any persuasion of sex that might have offered an escape for the both of them. But all he’d done was draw her onto the mattress and hold her. Spooned her. Fully dressed. No words, no sex or kissing, just the jerky sound of his uneven breathing against her neck, and his strong arms clinging as though she was the only thing keeping him from drowning.
The same thing, the night after. And the night after that. Then they’d switched to meeting at Three C, Miah’s family’s cattle ranch, as his work demanded he get back to his usual routines. And her new routine became driving over there at three in the morning, once the bar was closed. She’d find him waiting on the front porch, and he’d lead her inside. Sometimes he held her, sometimes the other way around. Sometimes they lay on their backs, fingers laced on the sheets between them.
It was weird—and probably not especially healthy—and no doubt confusing. But so was everything about their lives, just now. She was thirty-two and he was a couple years older, but all the recent uncertainty had them feeling as lost as teenagers.
She took a deep breath, ribs expanding and pressing her into Miah’s warmth. Everything was so fucked right now, fucked and shapeless, the mysteries far from solved. But their two bodies were solid, amid all the chaos—something to hold on to.
This fraught spooning was what Miah needed, and Raina had gotten herself accustomed to offering far less to men the past few years. It felt nice, being what a man needed beyond the mechanical release of sex. And this particular man deserved good. Which was more than she could say for most of the ones she’d known. Or fucked.
But she really had to stop sleeping with him. He’d whispered once to her as they were drifting off, about how she was the only thing that let him sleep. His lips had moved against her neck as he’d said it, and heat had trickled through her. Something in those words or the caress of his mouth had her thinking, Sooner or later, this neediness is going to turn carnal. He was going to want more from her—the things she’d taken away when she’d broken his heart two summers ago. The things she was promising now, frankly, coming back every night. Things she wanted, too, in her body . . . but not anyplace deep enough to make it okay. Because he wanted far more than Raina had in her to give.
As another dawn rose, staining the sky dark aqua through the skylight above them, Raina’s thoughts turned to another man. The near stranger who’d helped her friends find some truth in the shadows obscuring Alex’s murder. A man who presented like an entitled prick, but whose reckless actions had been those of a reluctant hero.
The stranger was tall, also. But where Miah smelled of the ranch—of leather and sweat and earth—the other man smelled o
f civility. Linen and soap, and a hint of cologne that didn’t cloy, merely flirted. A man whose jaw was as smooth as Miah’s neglected one was bearded. Whose eyes were clear gray to Miah’s near-black ones; his hair lightest brown and styled, versus Miah’s overgrown black waves. His voice cultured and British and velvet dark to Miah’s down-home, plain-speaking one. Their accents, their hands, their shoes, their jobs—everything opposed. Everything mismatched but for the way they roused her. In that, they were perfect equals.
As the sky grew lighter, her instincts urged her, Go. Miah would be waking soon to start his long workday. She always slipped out before he rose, worried he’d try to kiss her good-bye. Worried one kiss would be all it took for them to tear aside this flimsy barrier and find themselves clawing at each other’s clothes, hungry hands moving over familiar skin. And tempting as the sex was, it wasn’t fair. Because he was a good man, and it meant far more to him than it did to her. He was rare, that way. Sex was an expression of his feelings for a woman.
For Raina, sex was merely the scratching of an itch. And that itch was all she felt, for men. All she wanted to feel for them. It made her think of that other man, one too cold to ever get truly close to. A beautiful shell, too glossy-smooth for the creeping vines of attachment to take hold. Safe. The man at her back? Dangerous.
For long minutes she willed herself to wake Miah, to get her balls together and rip off this weird Band-Aid, quit leading the man on. But the morning air was cold, his body and the covers so warm. And she was so goddamn tired from not having slept properly for what felt like forever.
But it had to happen.
Miah’s arm was draped along her side, his exhalations hot and lazy on the back of her neck. She touched his wrist, stroking softly until she felt him stir.
“Hey,” he murmured, then yawned into her hair.
“I want to talk to you, before you have to start work.”
“Talk away.”
She took a deep breath. “These past few weeks have been awful.”
“Yeah.”
“But this has been nice. Whatever this is.” She could sense his hopes rising, and realized her wording had been cruel in its kindness. “But it has to stop. It’s been simple, but it won’t stay that way.”
He rolled her over, and suddenly she was losing her footing in this talk, that handsome face like a punch to rearrange her priorities. Even after a few hours’ sleep, his breath was sweet. “What do you mean?”
“You and me, pretending like we can just spend night after night in the same bed together, and not take things too far.”
He smiled faintly. “Would taking things too far really be so awful?”
Reckless, tempting logic. But she knew better than to trust it. “Not at first, no.”
“We both know what we’re missing, Raina.” His hand closed around her wrist, and her breathing grew shallow as she let him lead her slowly, so slowly, between their bodies, then cup her palm to the front of his shorts. She swallowed, head swimming.
Too true. I know exactly what I’m missing. She could feel precisely that, stiff and hot against her hand. If any other man on the planet tried that shit with her—took her hand and showed her where to put it—she’d have torn him a second asshole. But she trusted Miah implicitly, far more than she trusted herself. She indulged him for a single incendiary stroke, then gently escaped his grip.
“I won’t lie,” she said softly. “I do miss that. I want that, or my body does. But you need things I can’t give you. And you deserve those things.”
“You mean love.”
Intimidated by the eye contact, she drew closer to speak below his ear. “Love, for keeps, whatever you want to call it. Dating, marriage, kids, forever—all that stuff any other girl on earth would die to give you. The most I’m willing to offer you is sex, and I know that’s not enough.” And that was the cruelest part, because she knew how good they were. She wanted him so bad right now, her body was begging her mouth to promise him anything, just to feel him inside her again.
He sighed, the noise thin with annoyance, steaming against her temple. “You think I can’t be selfish, too? Can’t make this just about sex?”
“I know you can’t. Not with me, anyhow.”
“Wow. Think that highly of yourself, do you?”
She pulled back to meet those dark eyes. “I’m not blind. I see how you look at me. And I felt what I did to you, when we were together—both the good and the bad.” The wonder of their chemistry, then the aching, dogging grief that tailed the both of them well after she’d broken things off. She kicked away the covers and left the bed. “You’re the most eligible man in Fortuity, cowboy. You should have moved on ages ago.”
“You’re not that easy to replace.”
Their sexual chemistry, he had to mean. “Try harder. Because this is never going to end with you and me and a farmhouse full of brown-eyed babies, Miah.”
As she pulled on her socks, he asked, “It’s him, isn’t it? Welch.”
She sought his gaze, held it. “No, it’s not.”
“Don’t lie to me. People in this town talk, and I’ve heard from plenty of them, asking how I feel about the way they’ve seen my ex flirting with the developers’ corporate mercenary.”
“Duncan Welch means far less to me than you do, so trust me—it’s not him. It’s me, and you know it. It always has been. We had the only breakup in history where the ‘it’s not you, it’s me’ bit was true.”
“I’ve seen the way you two talk in the bar.” Miah sat up. His black hair was rumpled, his arms tan against his dark gray tee. So handsome she had to turn away.
“And he can no doubt see the way you and I look at each other,” she said. “But Welch is nothing to me beyond a customer and a curiosity. But you—you’ve been my friend since we were kids. You’re my ex.” She chanced a quick glance. “The past few weeks we’ve been each other’s therapy. But I’m stopping it, because deep down I know I’m using you, and as good as it’s felt up until now . . . it’s starting to feel shitty.”
Miah seemed to hold in a reply.
“I hope you’re using me, too,” she added, and stepped into her boots, the leather cold and stiff. “Though I’m afraid I know you better than that.” He gave too willingly to possibly know how to exploit anybody.
He swung his legs over the edge of the bed, planting his elbows on his thighs. “Guess we’re going back to bartender and patron again, then.”
She took the elastic off her wrist and snapped it around a sloppy bun. “Bartender and patron—and hopefully friends—for both our sakes. And the sake of the club.” Before this summer, the Desert Dogs had been nothing more than the name they’d called their bygone gang of childhood friends. Back then, they’d spend long summer days hiding from the baking sun in the auto shop, dicking around on motorcycles, thinking high school would go on forever. Now that they were in their thirties, life had lost its simplicity. Miah was married to his job, and Raina was tethered to the bar. Their friend Casey had disappeared to chase after easy shady money for close to ten years. His older brother, Vince, had done time for recreational misdemeanors. Alex was dead. And the mysteries shrouding Fortuity seemed unlikely to lift anytime soon, so the four of them had resolved to come together again, but with a purpose now: to protect their town from threats unknown, while the law was preoccupied with the more obvious ones.
Miah didn’t reply, looking more weary than annoyed. She sighed and stepped close, touched his dark hair, laid a kiss on the top of his head. “You always were too good for me, Miah.”
“Says who?”
“Everyone but you, I imagine.”
He caught her wrist, holding it until she met his eyes. “Whatever you are to me,” he said, “it counts for a lot. I ever hear about you going with some man who has the nerve to say that to you—that you’re not good enough for him or for anybody else—I’ll have more than words for him.”
She smiled sadly and he let her go. “I know you would. And I know I�
��m a fool for running from what you’ve got to offer. Again.”
His lips thinned to a tired smirk. “You always were good at running.”
She nodded, throat tight and hurting. “Watch me go.” She checked for her keys, grabbed her helmet off Miah’s dresser. As her fingers closed around the door’s cool knob, she heard words at her back, nearly too soft to make out.
“You know I will.”
The old farmhouse was quiet, save for the muted sounds of Miah’s mom in the kitchen. She’d be starting the coffee, probably making pancakes or eggs and bacon or some other perfect, wholesome breakfast, fit for her hardworking husband and son. Some meal Raina would never have made as good as her, had she ever let herself get deep enough with Miah to wind up a cattleman’s wife. A Mrs. Church. She wasn’t built for that shit. For nurturing. She’d been birthed by some flighty facsimile of jailbait, raised by a bachelor bar owner. She had zero qualifications to be the woman Miah had coming to him . . . and zero interest in earning them. She slipped out the back, skirting the far side of the house like a coward, in no mood to run into the warm and lovely woman who’d never, ever be her mother-in-law.
Her little Honda growled to life between her legs in the cold dawn air, and as she exited the ranch’s big front lot, the grinding of rubber on gravel felt like the only noise in the world.
The wind bit, waking her quicker than coffee ever could. The closer she drew to downtown and home, the heavier the guilt grew.
Any sane girl who wanted something real, something good, would’ve taken what Miah had offered two years ago. Stayed with a man whose body roused hers and whose nature promised stability. She would have fallen past lust and into love with him, got married maybe, had a kid or two, settled down for a life of relentless reliability. Raina had been given the chance to pick a guy worthy of acting as her anchor, and then what? Resent him for taking away her freedom? No, worse—lose him, maybe, like she’d lost her dad. Care enough to cling, then lose him to an accident or another woman or a midlife crisis or who knew what? Miah was steady, but he was still a man.