by Christa Wick
Every Last Look
- His To Claim Series: Barrett & Quinn -
Christa Wick
C.M. Wick
Contents
Book Description
1. Quinn
2. Barrett
3. Quinn
4. Quinn
5. Barrett
6. Quinn
7. Quinn
8. Quinn
9. Barrett
10. Barrett
11. Quinn
12. Barrett
13. Barrett
14. Barrett
15. Quinn
16. Quinn
17. Barrett
18. Barrett
19. Quinn
20. Quinn
21. Quinn
22. Barrett
23. Quinn
24. Quinn
25. Quinn
26. Barrett
27. Quinn
28. Quinn
29. Barrett
30. Barrett
31. Barrett
Epilogue #1
Epilogue #2
Also by Christa Wick
Thank You For Reading & Reviewing!!!
About the Author
Copyright © 2019 by Christa Wick
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All rights reserved under International and Pan-American Copyright Conventions. Except as permitted under the U.S. Copyright Act of 1976, this book and any portion thereof may not be reproduced, scanned, reverse-engineered, decompiled, transferred, or distributed in any print or electronic form without the express written permission of the author, except for the use of brief quotations in a book review. Participation in any aspect of piracy of copyrighted materials, inclusive of the downloading and obtainment of this book through non-retail or other unauthorized means, is in actionable violation of the author’s rights.
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This is a work of fiction. Names, characters, businesses, media, brands, places, and incidents are either the products of the author’s imagination or used fictitiously. The author acknowledges the trademarked status and registered trademark owners of all branded names referenced without TM, SM, or (R) symbols due to formatting constraints, and is not claiming ownership of or collaboration with said trademark brands. Any resemblance to actual persons, living or dead, or events is purely coincidental.
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Published by Evergreen Books Publishing
Copy edits and line edits by GBI Author Services
Proofreading by Rosa Sharon
Cover design by Violet Duke
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Previously published as Barrett Cole (c) 2017 by Christa Wick.
Book Description
Granted, standing in the middle of a deserted road with an axe in each hand probably wasn’t the best way to get a car to stop for me. But stop, she did. Well, sort of. Okay, so she was just avoiding a rollover into the same ditch I’d broken down in when she braked long enough for me to hop in her truck bed.
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Still, it’s fate.
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Not just because I need a ride asap to join the other smokejumpers in my crew already gearing up at the airstrip to fight a massive forest fire heading toward my family ranch, but more so because this is going to be a helluva story we’ll be telling our grandkids one day.
* * *
Just as soon as I can get the skittish thing to trust that I’m nothing like whatever it is she’s been running from.
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The HIS TO CLAIM Series
Book 1: Every Last Touch (Walker & Ashley)
Book 2: Every Last Look (Barrett & Quinn)
Book 3: Every Last Secret (Sutton & Maddy)
Book 4: Every Last Reason (Emerson & Delia)
Book 5: Every Last Call (Gamble & Siobhan)
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BONUS FREEBIE (big brother Adler & Sage’s story: Every Last Doubt) available for download at christawick.com/free
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Previously published as Barrett Cole (c) 2017, completely rewritten in first person POV and revised throughout with newly added content, a different extended ending, and a touch more steam (note that this hero is really gentle with his skittish heroine, so the book does start a little tamer than my usual stuff -- but it picks up, as it is a Christa Wick book, after all *grin*).
1
Quinn
“Continue straight for nine-point-six miles. In nine-point-six miles, prepare to turn—”
“Sweet, merciful Father!” I slapped at the volume control on the navigation unit. For the last two miles, the GPS had cut in and out, the unit restating its instructions each time it came online again.
All total, the device had refreshed seven times in less than three minutes, the constant repetition shredding my nerves. More than making me a little crazy, the malfunctioning GPS worried me.
If the fault was with the rented pickup truck’s unit or the dense stand of trees the road twisted through, then my life wasn’t over. I had always been good at remembering routes. Most artists, even failed ones like me, had great spatial memories. But, if the problem was a persistent issue with the area’s signal reception, then I might as well join some religious order where they promised to feed and house me in exchange for labor.
Seeing the screen go blank on the navigation unit again, I watched as the empty space filled with a connection lost warning. Swearing, I beat my palm against the steering wheel.
“Please let it be the truck’s unit,” I prayed as I patted around the center console for my phone. Fingers brushing the slim metal casing, I hit the power button and brought the phone up to eye level.
“Whoa…” Dropping the phone, I clutched the steering wheel as the truck entered a turn going too fast.
“Aye-aye, Captain,” I mumbled, bringing the vehicle under control again. “Message received loud and clear, both hands on the wheel, eyes on the road.”
I’d never been one to play with my phone while driving. The suburbs of Los Angeles were as packed as the city’s center. Cars constantly zipped across lanes. One glance away from the road and side mirrors in L.A. could easily end a life.
Combined, the pickup and country road were even worse. Knowing it would never handle the mountains on the drive from L.A. to Montana, I had sold my hand-me-down Volkswagen Golf that was three months older than I was. The truck I rented came equipped with four-wheel drive and a lift kit suited to the off-road terrain I was bound for. Unsurprisingly, the two vehicles had massively different reactions to turns.
Coming out of the curve, I glanced at the navigation unit to find the screen still showing there was no connection.
Okay, first things first, I told myself. Find a straight stretch of road, preferably without all the dumb trees, and pull over. Check the phone. Then decide if it's appropriate to panic. Do any of that out of order and I would wind up coming out of another curve and plowing into the back of some car or truck.
Not that I had seen any vehicles in either direction for the last fifteen minutes or more. I was officially in the middle of nowhere. The way my life was going, that meant there was a middle of nowhere kind of catastrophe lying in wait, like a moose or one of those fuzzy cow-not-a-cow things ambling down the center of the road.
“Just go slow and look for someplace to pull over,” I repeated.
My cheeks flushed from how the stress of the trip and the last few months of life had me talking to myself all the time, even when I wasn’t alone. Normal people could get away with thinking out loud, but half of my gene pool was…well, far from normal.
To be honest, it wasn’t even in the same hemisphere as normal.
Easing out of another curve, I emerged onto an open stretch of road—and immediately panicked as I saw a towering male
straddling the center line, a duffel bag strapped to his back and a long axe in each hand.
I slammed my palm down on the horn and held it. My head jerked left and right, my frantic gaze searching for the one way to steer that didn’t result in someone dying. The road had no shoulder on either side, just two narrow lanes and the crazy guy waving his axes. A truck as big as the rental filled the ditch on my right, half of the vehicle’s rear axle completely separated from the other half.
I pulled into the oncoming lane. The maniac moved to head me off. The distance between his body and my truck rapidly grew smaller. Hitting the brakes, I learned a second lesson in how completely different a vehicle that sat twice as high and weighed four times as much as my Golf behaved during an emergency stop.
The rear of the truck fishtailed. I fought the steering wheel, my shoulder wrenched to the point it would certainly be pulled from its socket. Ahead of me, the man leapt into the ditch, his face a picture of shock and disbelief.
For one terrifying second, the driver-side tires left the ground.
The rollover didn’t materialize. The wheels touched down, the truck motionless except for a rough bounce as everything settled into place.
Numb with fear, I looked around for the axe-wielding highway killer. I looked toward the ditch, not sure which ditch I was looking at after the truck had spun. Twisting in my seat, I stared out the rear window in time to see the man sprinting from the other side of the road.
Shoving one axe through the bag’s straps as he ran, he vaulted into the truck bed, moving like a gazelle despite his imposing size and bulging equipment.
After a quick check of the locks and windows, I reached for my phone, hands patting around as I kept my gaze glued to the stranger. Finding the device, I hit the phone icon.
no reception
True panic seeped into my bones. I had driven all the way to Montana to die on a deserted stretch of road, my life nothing more than a footnote in some FBI manual on serial killers and their victims.
Kneeling in the truck bed, his big chest heaving, the man tapped the rear window then held up his hand, the fingers splayed.
“Five miles,” he shouted, the glass only dampening his growling voice.
I glared at him in an effort to hide how badly my shoulders shook. Whatever this five-mile business was, I refused to start a dialogue. That’s what killers, con men, and other narcissists did. They got you to talk, then to unlock the door, then to turn your back on them.
I’d seen enough movies—and sat through enough family dinners—to know how it would end if I offered the least bit of trust.
The man moved to the passenger side of the truck bed and tapped at its window, then held his index finger about an inch from his thumb in a pinching position.
He wanted me to open the window a little.
I wanted him the hell out of my truck!
Shaking my head, I nodded at the axe he held. The man rolled his eyes, pulled out the axe threaded through his duffel straps and placed both weapons on the floor of the truck bed.
I lowered the window an inch.
Head tilting, he spoke through the narrow gap.
“Ma’am, I really need to get to my fire team. There’s a dirt strip just five miles down the road on your left.”
I stared, confusion parting my lips, my tongue pushing at the gate of my teeth. If the guy was a serial killer, he had to be the best-looking one ever, his hair was black as coal and his eyes the deepest shade of green I had ever seen. He was built, too. Naturally so, not like some gym rat injecting steroids in between masturbating to his reflection in the mirror.
When the law finally caught up to my unwanted passenger, women would write him love letters in prison because he was deliciously sexy and the world was a twisted, bizarre place.
“Ma’am,” he barked, jabbing a finger in my original direction of travel. “Look out the window.”
I glanced, my gaze jerking straight back to the man before I had a chance to notice anything other than asphalt. Even the glance had been foolish, I chided myself. He wasn’t going to get me with one of his serial killer tricks.
“Ma’am,” he repeated, an irritated warble infecting the rough baritone. “I said look—look at the sky above the trees.”
The next line of trees was maybe two miles ahead. I looked, really looked, this time. A heavy column of gray and black smoke drifted upward to stain the cloudless blue sky.
“I have to reach my rendezvous, ma’am. I’ll hop out when we get there and you can be on your way.”
I nodded, shame at my overactive imagination churning my gut into oily knots. I pulled forward, to the edge of the road, turning as I did, then put the vehicle in reverse, backing up just enough to straighten the truck’s direction. My passenger sat down, his back against the rear window, both of his thick, muscular arms stretched out to grip the sides of the truck bed.
With a glance at my odometer, I started forward, my attention bouncing between the distance traveled and the left side of the road where he had said there would be a dirt strip. I drove through another dense stand of trees.
Leaving the woods, the road was met by a flat plain of tall grass and wildflowers in their final bloom of the year. I checked the odometer. I had driven four-point nine miles.
Nothing about the left side of the road in front of me suggested there was someplace to turn, no hint of another road of any kind.
My passenger tapped on the window. Slowing, I glanced in my side mirror and saw where he was pointing. I crept forward. There was no road, but the grass had been recently trampled flat by something, tires most likely.
He tapped my door window. I rolled it down half an inch, my body reflexively shrinking toward the center of the truck’s bench seat.
“Trust me,” he shouted. “This big ass truck will make it through fine. You can see part of the strip from here.”
Squinting, I saw what could be a dirt road—or just a patch of dirt.
“There,” he said, his finger curving left. “That’s the hangar.”
Nodding, I pulled off the road, the truck down to a crawl until I reached the airstrip and turned toward the hangar.
Half a dozen vehicles were parked next to the metal building. Twice as many men were running around, all of them dressed in thick, tan colored suits that looked more like what a pilot would wear than a fireman.
Reaching the other vehicles, I put the truck in park. Before I could turn the engine off, my passenger tossed his axes on the ground and jumped over the side. He landed, a small cloud of dust kicking up around his feet as he let the heavy duffel drop. He jerked the zipper open, pulled out a peculiar looking pair of pants and tossed them over his shoulder.
I watched with mounting discomfort as my passenger shed his boots and shucked off the body-hugging jeans, his spectacularly muscled bottom covered by nothing more than a pair of black briefs.
I’d have to be blind not to see the big bulge at the front of those tight black undies. My mouth pursed because “undies” and “briefs” were poor descriptors for the fabric that clung to him like a second skin. The strip of clothing was more like what professional male swimmers wore, or would wear if they had a bulge like that.
“Looks like we lost the cell tower!” a man shouted as he ran over to the truck carrying one of the tan suits and a hand radio. He thrust the outfit at my passenger. “Fire must be rolling through the west ridge.”
Doing a double take as he noticed me, the new guy pointed his radio in my direction.
“Hey, Barrett, don’t be rude. Who’s your ride?”
Barrett? Was that a first name or a last, I wondered right before the man in question stripped his shirt away and thoroughly short-circuited my brain.
“Uh, yeah,” he said, not missing a beat as he stepped into the weird pants and drew them up long, powerful legs. “No clue. Axle sheared on my truck. Guess I rode it too hard last week.”
Grinning, Radio Guy stepped up to the window. “Hey, I’m Winston.�
�
“Stop drooling,” Barrett ordered as he shouldered the man out of the way. “Tell the guys I want everyone strapped in and ready to lift in four minutes.”
I snapped my mouth shut, uncertain whether the drooling remark was meant for me or Winston. The passenger’s green eyes caught me watching him and he smirked.
“You finally ready to roll that window down the rest of the way?” he teased, stepping into the jumpsuit and zipping up.
I hit the button for the power window.
“Where were you heading?” he asked, pulling some harness contraption from his duffel that had its own bags attached. He stepped into it, the pouches positioned in front and covering his stomach and lower groin.
“A relative’s cabin,” I answered. I hesitated on whether I should apologize for almost running him over and my initial refusal to give him a ride. Better not to, I decided. He had given his team four minutes to board the plane. It would take me at least ten to string the right words together.
“It’s in the middle of nowhere. I just have GPS coordinates, there’s no official road. His name is…or…was Jasper Carey.”
