Without thinking, Emma punched Shane hard. “She was broken.”
“We’re all broken. Does that mean we sell out our kid for a man’s attention?”
“Jerry was a shithead. Useless. Didn’t even pay rent when Mom worked double shifts.”
“And your mother let him stay.”
“Yes.” She threw another punch, and another.
“He treated her like shit. And she took it.” The sting of tears swelled Emma’s rage. Punch. Punch. Punch.
“Your mom couldn’t fight back. She was weak. You couldn’t fight her battles, you were just a kid.”
Punch. Punch. Punch.
“I’m Jerry. Make me pay.”
Red rage slammed down like a slaughterer’s knife. It cut through reality. She barely saw the flurry of her fists pummeling the chest of the man who stood before her. Time and space divided into butchered sections. She didn’t know how long it lasted, but every impact felt good, powerful, delivering justice.
Finally, the target of her rage stepped back, placing himself out of reach. She hit air twice before her fists dropped. Her arms hung at her sides, knuckles aching, muscles sore, anger spent.
Instead of the hollowness she’d felt at the end of the obstacle course, she experienced a sense of relief. This time, when tears tracked down her cheeks, she felt vindicated.
All stilled. She felt her breath lift into her lungs and release out. The inhale held hope she hadn’t expected. The exhale held all the rage she’d carried and hadn’t known it.
Finally, she could breathe.
“Well done.” His words echoed distantly.
She couldn’t believe the empowerment overwhelming her, even though her muscles were impossibly raw from the day and her head swam with exhaustion. She hadn’t learned anything to keep her safe.
But she’d learned something to set her free.
“I understand,” she said, colliding against his chest, where he held her tight. As if he understood, he gathered her into the shelter of his arms. “I know what you were trying to explain.”
Shane had helped her confront demons she hadn’t realized still haunted her. The sigh she released took with it the helplessness she’d felt all those years ago. Between the moments of red haze, she’d heard his words, and now they settled. She hadn’t done anything to deserve her mother’s abandonment. She was just a kid. And she couldn’t have stood up to an adult male, no matter how he hurt her mother.
The complete release of all that baggage left her free but drained. She released a soul-deep sigh and sagged where she stood. Shane stepped in to clasp her waist, hold her upright.
“You were amazing,” he said. “Like I said, most of the men in my group didn’t conquer what you did just now. That was some heavy stuff, and you overcame it. You won.”
“I’m more exhausted right now than after the obstacle course,” she admitted, leaning into his secure hold. “But I feel more capable than I ever have.”
The corner of his mouth lifted. “That’s why we’re here. To make sense of the absurd, heal the unimaginable, and deliver pride in place of doubt.”
She lifted her head to rest her chin on his shoulder. “You must’ve been the best marine a troop could’ve asked for.”
“Mostly,” came his cryptic response, as he shifted out from under her chin’s resting place.
The quick extraction led her to suspect Shane could use the same kind of Fight Club initiation he’d offered her. Unfortunately, she doubted any human being alive could withstand a single punch he threw to relieve the weight of his past.
To Emma’s immense relief, the shower room proved as spotless as Mick Chesney had claimed. Half walls of tile separated six stalls. She set her towels on the bench outside the first stall and reveled in the hot water washing way the trials of the day.
One dusky mirror allowed her to apply minimal makeup. A girl could use the shine off a patent leather heel, if it meant adequately layering on mascara in a pinch. She was a girly girl at heart.
Hair towel-dried enough to be presentable, she walked into the main room wearing flipflops, jeans and a light flowing tank top patterned in shades of green and blue. She arrived to find Shane busy in the bunker’s galley kitchen.
At first, she didn’t notice what he was up to, because he’d changed into Levi’s and a white t-shirt that showed off every finely-honed muscle in his torso. The bands of the sleeves stretched across his muscles so tightly, she suspected if he spent one more hour at the gym his biceps would burst the seams.
Really, he should take off the poor shirt to spare it. What had that cotton ever done to him? At least he’d relieve her imagination’s obsession picturing what all those sexy muscles would look like on full display—or feel like pressed up against her.
Needing a distraction from that enticing thought, she focused a tray of aluminum foil-wrapped food sat ready for transportation. She vaguely identified corn on the cob next to a stick of butter, two objects resembling potatoes, and three patty-shaped meat. Why did they need to be wrapped in foil, when the bunker came equipped with a six-burner stove and double oven?
“Aren’t we cooking here?” she asked.
He whipped the kitchen towel from his shoulder, tucking it into his right back pocket. “You said you didn’t mind roughing it a little. Tonight, we’re cooking over open flame.”
“We?” she squeaked.
“I have a feast ready. All we need is the fire.”
She twined her hands together. “I haven’t built a fire before. I wouldn’t know where to start.”
“That’s why you’ve got me.” He winked. “I’m the handy guy who can make fire.”
The wood burning kind wasn’t the only fire she wanted him to make tonight. Desire already burned steadily through her veins.
She spread her arms. “Where?”
“There are metal grates down by the lake. We’re cooking out, heathen style.” He grinned. “Up for it?”
“I’m up for anything with you.” The words popped out, escaping her filter. She shrugged and smiled.
“Good answer.” He lifted the giant tray with their dinner onto his shoulder, balancing it with his hand. “It’s a short hike. Can you bring the beverages?”
When he gestured to the two-liter jugs of water near the door, next to a stack of red Solo cups, she shook her head. “I brought something better.”
As she unveiled two large bottles of sangria from her suitcase, he looked pleasantly surprised. “From now on, I’ll never judge you for the weight of your suitcase.”
She laughed.
“Why did you bring those?” he asked.
“Just preparing ahead, to ward off the chance of boredom.”
He leveled her a look. “I wouldn’t spend one second in your company wishing I was somewhere else.”
“Me, either.” She lifted the two wine jugs. “These can’t hurt, right?”
“Nope,” he agreed. “Hope you brought a wine opener.”
She wagged her eyebrows. “Twist-offs.”
“Nice.”
Accepting his appreciation, she inclined her head. “I don’t mess around.”
“I knew I adored you the moment we met.”
She waved a bottle at him in a negating gesture. “Wait until the sangria kicks in before you sweet talk me.”
He narrowed his eyes, a smile playing on his lips. “Why?”
“You’ll find out,” she tossed back, a sway in her hips as she turned and walked out the screen door.
Shane hated to see her leave, but loved to watch her go. Mm-mm.
Two hours—the minimum he needed with her naked form stretched out beneath him. He wanted to make her feel amazing and sexy, to show her how he saw her, scars not included. He wouldn’t ignore them, but he’d show her with his mouth and body how she deserved to be treated, worshipped.
Eyeing her additional bottles of sangria clutched in her hands, he chuckled to himself. It meant they were both nervous, but both willing. He couldn’t
have asked for a better combination.
“Hey, Emma,” he called out before she left the bunker. “Do me a favor? We need plates and silverware.”
Returning to the cupboards in the galley kitchen, she sent him a nod. “I’ve got it.”
You’ve got me, too, pretty girl. You have no idea.
When they reached the lake, she held up mosquito repellant. “Figured this would come in handy.”
“Hell, yeah.” He’d thought of everything else but that.
“I brought sangria bottles and mosquito repellant. Not bad for a girl who’s never been camping.”
He pressed a hand over his chest compelling his sincerity. “You’re amazing.”
“Thank you,” she said, looking proud of herself. She sank onto the plank seat of a picnic table and screwed off the lid of the first bottle to fill their plastic cups.
“Cheers.” She smiled and lifted her glass.
“Cheers.” He clinked his cup with hers.
What a trooper. He marveled at the way she embraced every new challenge he threw at her. Not many women would’ve smiled contentedly while he cooked out on the shore of a lake in the middle of nowhere.
She wasn’t a boot. She was the bomb.
They had five minutes before dinner was ready. He knew exactly what to do with those five minutes.
He straddled her bench of the picnic table, facing her. Brushing her hair back from her shoulder, he glided his thumb along the pale length of her neck.
Maybe it was the firelight, but when she glanced at him, he swore attraction sparked in her eyes. Nudging her chin up, he lowered his head and brushed his lips against hers.
A rush of primal hunger simmered in his veins. But he kept his kiss gentle. This wasn’t a race. He intended to take his slow, sweet time.
Their lips molded together, a perfect fit. He pressed more firmly, and she matched his pressure. She opened her lips to close around his, and he mirrored the sensual motion, sipping her like a rare vintage. She curved her fingers around his wrist. An invitation?
Tilting his head, he angled his mouth over hers. His tongue drifted across the seam separating them. When she inhaled a breathless gasp, he slid inside. She tasted like sangria and heaven.
Their tongues met, swirled, caressed. He explored her thoroughly. Her pulse raced against his fingers where he cupped her jaw. So hot. He needed to stop now—before he couldn’t.
Gradually, he drew back, lifting his lids. Her lashes fluttered open, eyes glowing with desire in the ambient light.
Pressing one more lingering kiss to her damp lips, he turned to glance at the fire. He blew out a long, cooling breath. Then he grazed his thumb across her cheek. When he smiled, she smiled, too.
Relief registered, knowing she’d enjoyed their kiss as much as he had. “Dinner time,” he said.
After he plated the food and returned to the picnic table, he sat across from her. He wanted this to feel sort of like a date, as if he were sitting across from her at a restaurant, not at a campout. They ate a reasonably decent meal of corn on the cob, baked potatoes and salmon.
“How many calories do you think I burned today?” she asked.
“At least five million.”
She grinned. “Then I can eat whatever I want and don’t have to count a calorie.”
Watching her devour the food he made proved an aphrodisiac. She inhaled his dinner with gusto and licked her fingers, torturing him without realizing it.
“That was so good,” she said, rolling her eyes in epicurean appreciation. “Over a campfire no less. That’s remarkable. Were you a chef in the marines?”
He shook his head. “I learned to cook when I came back to the States. I had paid leave, no job, bored out of my mind. Between me and YouTube, I tried hundreds of recipes.”
Hauling out the bottle of sangria, she poured two generous portions into their cups. “Is this enough alcohol to tell me about what happened to you?” she asked, glancing at his left hand.
“Nope.”
“Okay.” She shrugged without pressing the issue. Then she tilted her head. “Tell me why, when your sister practically insisted you move back to Virginia Beach to be with family, I saw you step back, emotionally and physically.”
Impressed she’d caught that subtle response, he sighed in admission. “I love my family, don’t get me wrong.”
“Why don’t you feel at home here, in your home town?”
Damn, that was a great question. It had a ton to do with seeing Mrs. Laster on his mother’s front porch this morning, but he wasn’t going to talk about that.
Thinking about his answer, he scrunched up the empty aluminum foil he’d used to cook with, balling the scraps in his hands. “I think I’ve got a real chance with this bodyguard company in Denver.”
“What does ‘a real chance’ mean to you?”
Another great question.
He rose from the picnic table to add the extra logs he’d gathered from the woods to their fire pit. With a long stick, he stoked the flames.
The fire roared to life, bathing her beautiful profile in a stunning glow. He hesitated to rest his gaze on her too long. If he did, he might spread her legs and drop to his knees between her thighs, stealing another kiss that would lead to everything he wanted, but more than she might be ready for.
“Home is home, but it’s not really where I belong,” he said, his voice hoarse from the unspoken thoughts that made him painfully hard, desperately wanting her naked and under him.
“Explain,” she insisted, sucking down her sangria.
He left his untouched, twirling the contents in the plastic cup in his hand. “I love my sister, my mom, but I’m looking for a future career beyond the military. I know they’re proud of me, but—”
“But?”
“That’s my past,” he said with a heavy sigh, almost admitting it to himself for the first time.
“And the past is in the past,” she said, like a veteran who completely understood.
Moving to her side of the picnic table, closer to the fire, he held up his cup and she clicked hers against it. The plastic clink sounded hollow in the wooded arena.
“Thing is,” he said, wondering why the words he’d yet to find flowed so smoothly with her. “I didn’t want to be a hero.”
She arched an eyebrow. “Sounds like survivor’s guilt to me.” She glanced at his damaged hand. “But what do I know? I’m just a random civilian who bid on a marine.”
“You’re more than that,” he said fiercely, not knowing why.
In the fading firelight, he caught her blush. He wanted to reach over, cup her face and drag her mouth to his. So badly his body ached.
“Why?” she asked, like she had no stake in his response. He wasn’t sure if he liked her casualness or wanted to seduce her out of it.
When he looked into her eyes, he saw the sangria had taken effect. Admittedly, he wanted to ask his own legion of questions he doubted she’d reveal under sober conditions. He deliberately told her a stupid joke, and she laughed, the echo resounding through the forest. He adored her laugh. Her affection for his dumb jokes made him feel good, because he offered amusement—a lift of humor, if nothing else. He suspected she didn’t smile enough. A damned shame, because her smile could light up the world. It lit his.
For a while they bullshitted about shows they’d both seen, and he deluged her with 90’s movie quotes. Graciously, she laughed at every one. Then they discussed philosophy, the greatest lessons he’d learned in the military, and she shared why she loved his choice of the weekend. She impressed him beyond words, because she was willing to take on a challenge she’d never faced to grow as a person.
During the silent moments, they exchanged glances with each other when they thought the other wasn’t looking. They were into each other. The thrill of knowing that filled him with a sense of rightness.
It took two plastic cup-fulls until he thought she’d be receptive to his burning question. “Who was Jerry?”
; She huffed a humorless laugh. “I kicked his ass today, didn’t I?”
“He didn’t stand a chance,” Shane agreed.
She gestured dismissively with her cup. “One of my mother’s train of useless boyfriends.”
“Did he cause your burns?”
At the mention of her scars, she clamped her lips. She shook her head.
Crickets chirped around them. Silence drew out, and he waited patiently. If she kept it to herself, he understood. If she found the courage to reveal the answer to his question, she might be the bravest woman he’d ever known.
Frowning, she swirled sangria in her glass. Her lips parted like she wanted to share.
He leaned forward.
“When did you see my scars?” she asked.
“You got stuck under the barbed wire. Your shirt hooked on one of pokes and I saw them.”
“Oh.” She polished off the rest of her sangria.
Cracking open the second bottle, he poured liberally into their cups. “I wasn’t turned off, Emma. If anything, I admire you more.”
“More than what?” she snapped.
Reaching out, he massaged her neck, and she exhaled a sound resembling reluctant bliss. When she lowered her head, he retracted his touch.
She emptied her glass as if downing a shot at a college bar.
“What happened that night?”
Wiping the back of her hand across her lips, she swiveled to stare into the fire pit. “Jerry left her. Even after he’d hit her, she hadn’t kicked him out. But when he left for good, Mom couldn’t take it—the threat of abandonment made her hopeless. She stumbled to the corner store before they closed, returning with a liter of vodka.”
He sighed heavily. “I’m sorry.”
Emma shrugged. “More vodka landed on the floor, the couch, the coffee table than made it into her glass. She’d drunkenly argued her point to an audience of one, the daughter who would’ve done anything to make her feel better.”
“That had to have sucked, being the adult when your mother wasn’t capable of taking care of herself.”
“It wasn’t always like that,” Emma shot back defensively.
Reaching out, he caressed her arm. “Then what happened?”
Bidding on the Bodyguard Page 7