by Pam Godwin
“Look at her.” He tilts his head toward Conor without shifting his gaze from me.
My pulse stutters as I find her red hair in the crowd of cowboy hats. With her fingers curled around Jake’s neck, she lifts on her toes and whispers to him. As he listens, his hands roam her tiny frame with intimate familiarity.
They’re definitely back together.
“You may not see what I see.” Jarret’s voice yanks my attention back to him. “But you see her, and you know there’s something extraordinary there. Something rare and priceless and worth protecting.” His jaw flexes. “Here’s a free tip for your bullshit story. I love that girl more than life itself. I can’t even fathom playing a part in the brutality inflicted on her that night.”
Crystal-clear sincerity sharpens his tone, his eyes glowing with devastation. I believe him, but I know he’s involved in something. Something illegal. I just don’t know how deep it goes. Yet.
In a blink, he’s off the chair, breaching my personal space with his arms bracketed around me.
“She’s been though more hell than you can comprehend in your privileged existence.” He seethes at my ear. “If you exploit her suffering, I will ruin you.”
“Don’t you dare threaten me.” My blood goes hot, burning my cheeks. “Step the fuck back.”
His pupils swallow the golden hues of his eyes, and his lips stretch into a humorless, wolfish smile.
“You got some fire beneath those prissy clothes.” He returns to his chair.
I thought my clothes made me look professional. I’m either ridiculously transparent or he’s really good at reading people. Unfortunately, I don’t have any casual clothes among the few things left to my name.
“You just met me.” I straighten my spine and meet his gaze head-on. “Yet you condemned me the moment I approached. You don’t know a damn thing about my existence, privileged or otherwise.”
“Fair enough.” He rubs a thumb along his bottom lip, searching my eyes. “Enlighten me.”
“What do you want to know?” I glance at Jake and Conor, where they burn up the dance floor with their eye-fucking, hip-grinding, disgustingly-in-love embrace.
“Which side of the bed do you sleep on?” he asks.
“What?” I whip my head toward him, expecting a taunting smirk.
“You heard me.” He stares at me steadily, dead serious.
Last time I owned a bed, I slept on the right, snuggled up to the man I loved. But that’s an ugly story, not appropriate for current company.
“I don’t have a side,” I say honestly. “You?”
“Same. Where is this bed of yours?”
“Chicago.”
His gaze darts to Conor, eyebrows gathering.
“I know she lived there a few years ago, but it’s a big city.” I chew my lip and give him the truth. “None of you were on my radar until recently.”
“How did you hear about us?”
Since he sees right through me, I won’t lie to him again. So I answer with a non-answer. “I have my ways.”
He continues to watch Conor dance with his brother, and a pinch of envy twinges in my gut. She’s a lucky woman to be cared for so deeply by two protective, insanely attractive men.
“Are you in love with her?” I ask.
His eyes slide to mine, the only part of him that moves. “You’re not very good at your job.”
“What’s that supposed to mean?”
“It means I’ve been straight with you, and you still don’t get it.” His stony expression chills me to the bone. “I consider her my sister, and I protect what’s mine. It’s time for you to leave.”
“You don’t own this establishment.” I stare him down with the recklessness of a woman who has nothing left to lose. “Good luck kicking me out.”
His silent glare confirms what I already assumed. He doesn’t like me. That bothers me, but I don’t blame him.
I’m a threat.
He rises to his feet and ambles away. Without speaking or casting me a backward glance, he effectively brushes me off.
My stomach sinks. The disappointment is made worse when he joins a table of smiling young women.
I remain seated, easily forgotten and replaced with the flirtatious giggles of his friends. Or potential bed partners. Or whatever those women are to him.
It stings. It shouldn’t, but I’m hypersensitive to being cast away by men. It’s like I’m wearing a sign on my forehead that reads, Not worth the effort.
Not even worth a goodbye.
As much as I want to tuck tail and flee, pride holds me in place through several songs. The music isn’t bad. A little twangy. I like all kinds of genres, especially country pop. The folks in this town would probably roll their eyes at that.
Or so I thought.
Legends by country-pop singer Kelsea Ballerini trickles through the speakers, and the room gravitates toward the dance floor. At the center, Jake and Conor sway in an embrace that entrances the entire bar.
It’s not just the seductive way they dance together. It’s the passion that glows between them, like the rest of the world doesn’t exist, and all they see is each other.
I thought I had that with someone once, and it was pretty amazing. Until it wasn’t.
At the end of the song, Conor steps off the dance floor and heads into the bathroom. A few minutes later, Jake bypasses the line outside the door and shuts them both inside.
Across the room, the woman beside Jarret runs a hand up his thigh.
I’ve seen enough.
I make my way out of the Big Sugar. If Jarret’s aware of my exit, he doesn’t show it. He doesn’t look in my direction once.
No matter. He’ll see me again.
When I reach my ugly old sedan, I move it to an unlit corner of the parking lot and wait.
Jarret said he planned to work off some steam in a warm, feisty body. If that’s the case, he’ll leave with a woman.
Does he have a regular lover? Or does he play the field? If he has a confidant, someone he spends a lot of time with, I might have better luck coaxing information from her.
Thirty minutes later, Jake leads Conor out of the bar. Her smile screams freshly fucked, and following on their heels is Jarret.
He’s alone?
The three of them pile into a big pickup truck, with Jake in the driver’s seat.
It’s only ten in the evening. Traffic on the main street allows me to tail them at a distance without being noticed.
Until they reach a dirt road at the edge of town.
They turn off, kicking up dust and leaving the Sandbank traffic behind. If I follow, they’ll spot me.
I slow the car, creeping along the shoulder until Jake’s truck disappears over a hill. Then I veer onto the dirt road.
Not wanting to catch up with them, I maintain a slow speed until I reach a private drive about a mile up.
I scoped out the route to their ranch earlier today and found a place to bed down for the night. There’s a motel in town, but I didn’t bother checking for vacancy. I can’t afford to stay there.
Overgrown weeds consume the private road, surrounded by the seclusion of thick trees. The tire tracks are from my sedan earlier. Other than me, no one’s driven through here in a long time.
I back in, park the car out of view of the dirt road, and shut off the motor. When I’m ready to sleep, I’ll drive deeper onto the isolated property. There’s a lake back there I can use to wash in.
For now, I’m content to sit here and watch the road for activity. Since Jarret rode to the bar with Jake, it’s possible he went home for his own truck before heading out again.
If that happens, I’ll follow him. I have nothing else to do and nowhere to go. Everything I own is in this car. How’s that for privileged? Jarret would choke on his words if he knew how hard I worked for every penny I earned. And lost.
The large envelope on the passenger seat holds the solution to my homelessness. Once the documents are finalized, I’ll get a pi
ece of my life back.
But money isn’t what brought me to Sandbank. I need to understand what happened. I need answers.
For now, I slide the envelope under the floor mat. From the backseat, I pull out a jar of beets and a bottle of water. Then I roll down the window and eat dinner beneath the soothing chirrup of night critters.
It’s quiet here, so unlike the constant din of a big city. I could live in a place like this, away from the hustle and judgment of people.
There’s nothing left for me in Chicago, and I won’t be returning. I can write articles from anywhere. Hell, I can wait tables or bartend and be happy.
Happiness. I have that to look forward to. Starting over won’t be easy, but I’m stronger this time. Less gullible.
But first, I need to right the wrongs that have been done to me.
Finished with dinner, I discard the containers in a trash bag and settle into a more comfortable slump behind the steering wheel.
Just as my eyes grow heavy with sleep, the sound of an approaching vehicle jerks me into awareness.
I crane my neck until headlights emerge on the hill in the direction of Julep Ranch. Grabbing the key in the ignition, I wait for the motorist to pass.
Tires crunch, followed by the blare of an unfamiliar country song. Then a pickup truck similar to Jake’s rolls past.
An elbow perches on the window frame. Broad shoulders. Wide-brimmed hat. Sculpted profile.
Jarret Holsten.
Following him will be tricky until we get into town. I force myself to wait a full minute before I start the engine and speed off after him.
When I arrive at the main thoroughfare, he’s nowhere in sight. I scan the passing trucks. Which way did he go?
I turn toward town center, hoping it’s the right direction.
A few blocks later, I spot his truck at a gas station. My heart rate doubles as I park in the shadows of an adjacent lot and watch him stroll inside the convenience store.
Doesn’t take him long to return to his truck with a small bag in hand. I’d bet the case of canned oysters in my backseat that he just purchased a box of condoms.
Oh God, I’m watching a man buy condoms. Of all the things I’ve done over the past couple of months, this is the first time I’ve felt like a bona fide stalker.
What am I doing? Am I actually going to follow this guy to wherever he goes to get laid? What if he sees me? What if I see something disturbing? Like freaky, fucked-up sex shit? Some things can’t be unseen.
Considering the crimes I think he’s involved in, this might not end well for me. He’s not exactly the kind of man I want to piss off.
I’d rather focus on Jake instead, but he seems to be attached to Conor’s hip. I need to keep some distance from her.
When this is all said and done, maybe I’ll have my conscience examined. Until then, I need to stop second-guessing myself.
I have to finish this. If I don’t, the mystery surrounding my total ruin will forever haunt me. I need an explanation.
I need closure.
With a tight grip on the steering wheel, I hit the gas and follow Jarret Holsten.
I trail three cars behind Jarret’s truck, my shoulders tight and hands locked at ten and two, just like my mom in Chicago rush hour. God rest her soul.
I loosen my grip as he leads me through town. He swings onto a residential road lined with huge trees and tiny houses, in the opposite direction of the Big Sugar.
After several turns, he pulls into a driveway and kills the engine. I veer onto a side street and park on the curb, out of view. Then I sneak toward the house on foot.
Since I’m new at this stalking business, my attempt at tiptoeing is anything but quiet. Because I forgot to change my damn shoes.
I click-clack back to the car and consider my options. Heels or ballet flats? Neither would allow a fast getaway. I opt for no shoes and, after a moment a deliberation, grab the small hunting knife I keep under the driver’s seat.
Untucking my shirt, I wedge the sheathed blade between my waistband and tailbone and creep barefoot down the inky, quiet street.
A dog barks in the distance, and my heart jumps. The humidity clings to my skin, and I tremble so violently my lungs seize, making it impossible to suck air without sounding asthmatic.
His truck comes into view, and darkness cloaks the front of the one-story house. Nothing moves. No sound. He must already be inside.
Curtains conceal the rooms within, but a spill of light casts a flicker over the side yard.
I head that way and find an uncovered, illuminated window near the rear. A bedroom?
Indecision holds me in place.
Can I assume he’s in there with a woman? What else would he be here for? His only family in Sandbank is his brother. Is he visiting a friend? In a back bedroom? Maybe he’s blackmailing or murdering someone.
If he hauls out a rolled-up rug, I’m out of here.
Keeping to the shadows, I slip between the houses, duck beneath the window, and slowly peek over the sill. The vantage point gives me a straight shot through the glass pane, into the bedroom beyond, and…
Oh my God, that escalated quickly.
A slender brunette climbs up Jarret’s body, all legs and hands and frantic kisses.
He just stands there, letting her paw and lick him ravenously. She lifts his shirt, and he raises his arms so she can pull it off. Then she’s on him again, clawing at his chest and eating at his mouth, as if he’s the first meal she’s had in days.
Is he returning her kisses? I can’t tell. His profile’s too fuzzy through the grimy glass. I wish I could see his full expression.
I wish I knew what he tastes like.
Ugh. What the hell’s wrong with me? Yeah, he’s insanely gorgeous, and the definition in his torso looks better than any airbrushed magazine. I would have to be in a coma to be immune to all that masculine sexiness. But I learned the hard way male beauty is only skin deep.
I should go. He obviously knows this girl. I can come back later and try to talk to her.
Go.
Get your feet moving.
Step away from the window.
Rather than doing the logical thing, I linger, silently willing him to lower his jeans. I just want a glimpse. A forbidden eye full of Jarret Holsten in the buff. I bet he’s hung like a stallion.
I know it’s wrong. I’m invading his privacy, but he has it coming after being a jerk to me. I could do a lot worse than steal a peek at his package.
After a few more seconds of her groping, he grabs her shoulder-length hair and yanks her back.
My breath catches, and my skin heats. Christ, he’s rough.
Using his grip, he forces her to her knees and stares down at her. His mouth moves, forming words I can’t hear, and she blinks up at him, eyes heavy with hunger.
He shifts slightly, putting his back to the window and blocking my view of her and whatever he’s packing in his pants.
I clutch my throat as her hands move to the vicinity of his fly. Then his jeans slide downward, just low enough to reveal two dimples on either side of his tailbone, the top of his crack, and the rise of sculpted butt cheeks.
She inches closer, and his back muscles flex. He tosses off his hat, unveiling thick, dark hair that’s cut short enough to keep him cool in the heat, but long enough to tangle around fingers.
With her face hidden by his body, I can’t see his cock sliding into her mouth, but he’s definitely giving it to her, kicking his hips with his hands clenched on her head.
There’s an edge to the way he moves. A sense of dominance and tantalizing power. It holds me in fascination and soul-deep longing to the point where I feel envious of her. Maybe even jealous.
I crave that kind of relationship, one where I can put absolute trust in a lover to fuck me however he pleases, to hurt me with pleasure-pain and take care of me afterward.
But that kind of trust has never worked out for me. Whoever said there’s glory in love obviously doesn�
�t know how that fantasy ends.
Fuck ‘em and forget ‘em. Now that’s a motto that rings true, one I intend to adopt when I’m ready to move on.
Watching Jarret face fuck this girl makes me miss sex. I already missed it, but this plunges me into a whole new hell of lonesome yearning.
It takes about five minutes of plowing into her throat before he comes. His head falls back, and his hips grind erratically, ruthlessly, as he holds her face against him.
I clench my thighs together, imagining being taken that way by a man who wants me with mindless passion.
Christ, I really need to get laid.
He releases her, and she falls back on her butt, smiling. It surprises me when he pulls up his jeans and fastens them in place. Is he finished?
He slides the belt from his waistband and folds it in half while speaking to her.
Nope, not finished.
She jumps to her feet and strips her clothes, revealing caramel skin, voluptuous curves, and huge boobs. She’s pretty. Absolutely stunning. And boy, do I feel inadequate.
I’ve always wanted a body like that. Instead, I’ve been stuck with the same gangly limbs and tiny tits I’ve had since middle school.
The bag he brought from the gas station sits on the mattress. She crawls up beside it and sprawls on her back, giving me a full-on view of her Brazilian wax job.
He prowls around the bed, trailing a hand along her leg, her hip, the full curve of her breast. When he reaches the headboard, he loops the belt around her wrists and restrains her to the metal frame.
Of course, he does. Why wouldn’t he play out all my fantasies while I stand outside the window like a creepy pervert?
My ability to leave has come and gone. I’ve never experienced the kind of raw, kinky sex I know this man is capable of. Watching might be as close as I ever come to participating in something like this.
He says something to her, tweaks her nipple, and steps into the adjoined bathroom.
Minutes pass, and I grow anxious. What is he doing? Fluffing his cock? Flossing his teeth? Maybe she keeps a bag of sex toys in there, and he’s debating between a Baby Jesus butt plug or shock therapy nipple clamps?
She doesn’t try to free herself from the shackle of his belt. Staring at the ceiling, she saws her legs together like a cricket calling for its mate.