Gin Fling: Bootleg Springs Book Five

by Score, Lucy

  “Take me here, Jonah,” I begged. I brought my heels to the edge of the table, opening my legs as wide as they could go.

  “Fuck, Shelby. Who could say no to you?” He brought his forehead to mine, nipped at my lower lip, still pumping himself into my hand, still fucking me with his fingers.

  Our breath mingled in the dark.

  “Please, Jonah,” I breathed.

  “I don’t want to hurt you,” he whispered. “Your body’s been through a lot today, and I’m worked up enough that I don’t know if I can be gentle.”

  “That’s exactly what I want. Don’t be gentle with me. Trust me to take it, to handle it.”

  He growled low, fighting with his body’s wants and his need to be careful with me.

  “Show me you trust me,” I demanded. I angled the head of his cock so it brushed between my wet, wet folds on his next thrust.

  I saw the tightening of his jaw. He grabbed me by the back of the neck with one hand. “I’m going to be so pissed at you if you let me hurt you.”

  “We’ll both deal with it,” I promised, nudging my hips forward so he was notched in place. “Take me. Show me.”

  Without warning he drove into me, impaling me on the table. And then he was dragging his cock in and out of my slick flesh. Owning me. Claiming me.

  He held me by the neck, keeping our foreheads pressed tight as he fucked into me.

  “Stay quiet,” he warned. “There are about fifty people right outside this door who could hear you scream when you come on my cock, Shelby.”

  I sobbed out a response, clinging to his shoulders as he used my body. It felt so decadent. Like my body and I were no longer strangers. Like Jonah had taught me how to find the pleasure my body could afford.

  “Wider, baby,” he grunted when my knees buckled, closing on his hips.

  What a tableau we made. Fully clothed and rutting into each other. Gasping for breath. Begging for the undefined more. My breasts bounced as his thrusts grew more aggressive. I could name and describe the dozens of physiological reactions that were happening in our bodies right this second. But I couldn’t for the life of me ascribe what I felt for this man to mere science.

  It was elemental and magic. It was exotic and home.

  My neck stung where his grip tightened. And I felt the first shimmers of what we were both chasing.

  “Shelby,” he bit out. That impatience, that need to satisfy me even though his own biological drive was leading the charge. It did me in. Jonah loved me. He would always want to take care of me.

  And I did the same for him.

  With his free hand, he found my exposed flesh, dancing pads of eager fingers over that tight bundle of nerves.

  “Yes,” I hissed. Again and again and again. Even after I broke. Even after he broke.

  I felt him come. Felt the warm rush of his orgasm as it painted me from the inside.

  He grunted softly and flexed into me again and again. I rode it with him, my hungry muscles opening and closing around him.

  “I love you,” he said, his voice ragged, his breath uneven. “I love you, Shelby. Say you’ll be mine. I want a wedding like this. I want kids with you. I want the rest of my life to be spent at your side.”

  Of course. Of course. It drummed like my heart inside me, vibrating like a song.

  “Yes, Jonah. Yes to all of it.”

  54

  Jonah

  “That was the most Bodine thing I’ve ever done in my life,” I confessed to Shelby as we tried to right our clothes. Shelby’s hair was a “just had sex” disaster, and I fucking loved it. But her parents were outside, and so was my mother. And it was just bad form to strut on out of here looking like we’d just had the best pair of orgasms available to humans.

  “What? Have sex in the town sheriff’s garden shed during his daughter’s wedding?” she asked smugly. “I feel a bit Bodiney myself tonight.”

  “Maybe it’s the moon or the wedding or the gin. But Shelby, honey, I’m pretty excited about fall and winter and every other season I’m going to be spending with you.”

  She laid a hand over her heart. “You sure know how to make a girl feel special.”

  “How about you go get us a couple of gin and tonics, and I’ll figure out a plan to get us out of here so we can go home and celebrate some more?” I suggested.

  She answered by pressing a kiss to my cheek. “I’d be delighted, sugar.”

  Wearing a shit-eating grin, I went in search of the groom and found all hell breaking loose instead.

  Gibson was holding Misty Lynn at arm’s length, a look of abject horror on his face.

  “Just give me another chance, Gibs,” she wailed, eyeliner smeared under her eyes.

  “Someone needs to tell that girl that desperation ain’t attractive.” Mayor Hornsbladt sighed into his sweet tea.

  “How dare you try to ruin my brother and my best friend’s wedding?” Scarlett snarled. “I knew invitin’ your stupid ass was a mistake. But noooo, we had to be nice.”

  “Where are Bowie and Cassidy?” I asked Mayor Hornsbladt.

  “The newlyweds had a distinct sparkle in their eyes and called it a night about five minutes ago. I think y’all’s parents are waving them off out front.”

  At least the bride and groom weren’t here to witness Misty Lynn’s meltdown.

  “C’mon, Gibs. It was always so good between us,” Misty Lynn mewled. She was a drunken mess. Her dress was grass-stained, and her hair was exploding out of the prom updo she’d fashioned.

  “Never gonna happen, Misty Lynn,” Gibson growled. He let her go, but she latched herself to him like a needy barnacle on the indifferent hull of a ship.

  “Jameson, Jonah? Wanna help a guy out?” Gibson asked through gritted teeth as he tried to dislodge her.

  “Oh, I’ll help you out,” Scarlett said, striding over and grabbing a fistful of Misty Lynn’s hair. “Now you listen, and you listen good, Misty Lynn. You ain’t never gonna be good enough for my brother. And now that your daddy and Jonah’s mama are gettin’ serious, you can’t try to lure him into your soggy sheets. You’ll be kin if they get married. Brother and sister.”

  “It’s not true!” Misty Lynn howled. Even drunk, she at least had an idea of how genetics worked.

  “Stop making a fool of yourself in front of the entire town and grow some goddamn self-respect!” Scarlett said, keeping hold of the other woman’s hair.

  Misty Lynn took a swing at Scarlett but missed. Scarlett released her grip on the hair and watched her opponent sway.

  “Y’all think you’re so high and mighty. But you’re not!” Misty Lynn slurred. “Your daddy was a murderer, and your mama was nothing but a loser. People feel sorry for you. They pity you,” she spat out. “And you know what? They’re all secretly scared that one day, someone is gonna push your buttons and you’re gonna snap. Just like your daddy.”

  She did a slow turn around our circle until she faced me. “And you. Your daddy didn’t even want you. Yet here you are beggin’ for scraps.”

  “Misty Lynn, that’s enough,” Shelby said coolly. She had a drink in each hand.

  “Oh, I’m just gettin’ started,” Misty Lynn sneered. “I’m just gonna keep tellin’ the truth that everyone else around here is too scared to say. That Gibson always looks like he’s five seconds away from murderin’ someone. Or that Scarlett’s gonna wind up with a drinkin’ problem just like her daddy.”

  “Misty Lynn,” Gibson said. His voice snapped out like the crack of a whip. “Hear me. We will never be together again. I regret every moment of my time with you when I was too young and too dumb to recognize that you were just a user.”

  She stumbled back like he’d struck her. “You don’t mean that, Gibson Bodine.”

  “You don’t even know what it’s like have real feelings for someone,” Gibson said, his face twisting into a mask of frustration. “You string that poor bastard Rhett Ginsler along just to discard him when you get bored. That’s not sexy. That’s not
attractive. That’s fucking sad. You’re fucking sad. I tolerate you because you’re a Bootlegger. Because we grew up together. But you will never be anything more to me.”

  “Well, fuck you then,” she shrieked. “Fuck all of you, dumb fucking losers!”

  The music picked back up, and so did the conversations of all the witnesses. It wasn’t the craziest thing Bootleg had seen at a wedding. Not by a long shot.

  Misty Lynn turned and stumbled out of the yard. Shelby sent me an apologetic look and set the drinks down on an empty table. She headed in the direction Misty Lynn fled.

  Maybe a good psychological talking to would help. I doubted it. But Shelby didn’t like to see anyone in pain. Not even a man-eating monster like Misty Lynn.

  I checked the front of the house first to make sure that Bowie and Cassidy were actually gone and didn’t accidentally run down a drunken Misty Lynn on their way home.

  I saw my mother in an embrace with Jimmy Bob under the oak tree. Sheriff Tucker and Nadine were wandering up the walkway arm-in-arm. No newlyweds, no Misty Lynn.

  I ducked around between the garage and the house again, not really wanting to be the one to break the news to the parents that Misty Lynn had just caused an epic scene.

  “Dinner and a show,” Jameson said, appearing next to me. Like a good brother, he handed me a beer.

  “Gibs okay?” I asked.

  “Seems to be. He’s used to her freak-outs by now.”

  I scanned the backyard for Shelby. I spotted her clutch on a table and the two drinks she’d left on another one.

  “You lookin’ for someone in particular?” Jameson drawled.

  “Shelby,” I said. “We’re ah, kind of an official thing. Like permanently.”

  He clapped me on the back. “About damn time.”

  “Aren’t men supposed to avoid commitment?” I joked.

  “Only the stupid ones. ’Round here, we all know there’s nothing better than pairing off with someone who’s willing to put up with your shit for the rest of your life. So you’re stickin’ around?”

  I nodded. “Yeah. Yeah, I am. Shelby, too. And my mom’s thinking she just might take up residency, too.”

  “No, shit?” Jameson looked downright thrilled.

  “Yep. She’s in talks with Clarabell about managing Moonshine.”

  “Your mama?” Gibson approached from behind and joined the conversation.

  “Yeah. Hey, have you seen Shelby?” I asked him.

  “Not since she took off after Misty Lynn to soothe the she-beast,” Gibs quipped.

  I felt something. A little frisson of nerves skating through my gut.

  “I’m gonna try to find her. I don’t like her wandering around in the dark after what happened when she was on the bike.”

  Gibson frowned. “Call her.”

  “I’m probably overreacting.”

  “Call her,” he insisted.

  I pulled out my phone, dialed.

  “What’s going on? You don’t think Misty Lynn would take a swing at her, do you?” Jameson asked.

  I heard Shelby’s ringtone and felt a fleeting second of hope before I realized it was coming from her clutch.

  Gibson stepped off the deck and picked up the clutch. Opened it. He froze, then lifted his steely gaze to me. “Jonah.”

  I knew from the tone it wasn’t good. I was off the deck, snatching the paper out of his hand before I could even formulate a question.

  It was a sketch. Charcoal lines of a woman who looked a hell of a lot like Shelby. A naked woman. Scrawled across the bottom were the words “See you soon.”

  I started for the front yard, Gibson on my heels. Jameson on his. “What the fuck is wrong with you two?” Jameson asked good-naturedly.

  That’s when we heard the scream.

  Misty Lynn holding a hand to her head, blood seeping through her fingers and turning her peroxide-blonde hair pink, stumbled into the backyard. “Call the cops, y’all. He took Shelby!”

  Sheriff Tucker, Nadine, and my mother burst out of the back door of the house as pandemonium broke out in the backyard.

  “What’s the trouble?” the sheriff demanded.

  But I was sprinting for the street.

  55

  Shelby

  I had a two-bottles-of-wine headache, and the rest of my body felt like I’d gotten run over by the entire Bootleg Springs Fourth of July parade.

  It smelled weird in here. Humid, close.

  The garden shed? No. Good things happened in there. This was somewhere different.

  So dark.

  My head hurt.

  Something was very, very wrong.

  I tried to remember, struggled to fish out the memories. Jonah said he loved me. Bowie and Cassidy got married. Misty Lynn… something there. Something bad. She’d done something. But what?

  I remembered the sound of glass breaking. Ah. She’d broken the window on Gibson’s truck and was digging around inside it. Vengeance for the truth he’d told.

  I’d tried to stop her.

  I tried to move my arms, to rub the daze from my eyes. That’s when I realized I couldn’t move them. But I was moving. Or rather my body was traveling through space. Movement.

  A car? My senses slowly knit back together to deliver a still incomplete picture.

  The pain in my head bloomed bright, and I knew it was no normal headache.

  I could hear the rumble of an engine. Feel the rock of the vehicle as it traversed uneven ground.

  I didn’t know what had happened or where I was, but I knew I was in trouble.

  There was a tired squeal of old, abused brakes and the rocking stopped. The engine cut off, and fear crawled its way up my spine.

  I heard a metallic clunk and more screeching.

  “Hello, Shelby.”

  Oh, God. He found me.

  * * *

  I managed to stay limp when he lifted me out of the trunk. I needed time to figure out how I was bound, where I was. How to escape.

  I was not the optimistic, fresh-out-of-college, naïve social worker this time. No. I was Shelby Thompson, dissertation and triathlon finisher, Jonah-lover, dog mom, and Bootlegger.

  I would not go down without a fight.

  It felt like a zip tie binding my wrists behind me, and I focused on the hard plastic biting into my skin rather than the hand that was caressing the backs of my thighs as I was carried.

  There were footfalls on wood and then a long slow creak. A door of some sort?

  He flipped me over, placing me in a chair. Fear and adrenaline had my entire body trembling.

  “I know you’re awake, Shelby,” the voice said calmly. And then suddenly there was light.

  He pulled the hood off my face, and I saw him in the dull yellow light of a single bulb. He was older now and—God help me—even bigger. He’d always been a big kid. Now he was a big man.

  We were in a cabin, a shack really. There were gaps in the walls and mismatched furniture that had seen better decades. It was hot and stuffy inside.

  It stung when he ripped the tape off my lips. Lips that had said “I love you.” Lips that had kissed Jonah and made promises just hours ago.

  “Hello, Christian,” I said quietly.

  I paged through my rusty memory banks. Christian Harrell. Patterns of aggression, delusions, paranoia, and obsessive behaviors.

  His family had been one of the first that I worked with fresh off my bachelor’s degree. Diagnoses aren’t usually made in the teens, but Christian had been showing early symptoms of schizophrenia. His diagnosis had been made officially at the mental health facility he was remanded to after he attempted to fatally stab his caseworker. Me.

  Guilty but mentally ill. And as a juvenile, he’d been remanded to a hospital until he turned eighteen. My family thought I’d put the whole thing behind me, tucked it into a box and wiped my hands of it.

  I preferred that they think that. But I’d kept tabs since. That’s what you did when someone who tried to end your life st
ill existed in the world. You watched, and you waited.

  He’d moved with his family to Illinois where he saw a therapist regularly, and his medication was monitored. He worked in a grocery store. And now he was squatting in front of me, toying with a knife.

  He liked knives.

  “You’ve been a bad girl, Shelby.” I flinched at the voice. He’d been a kid the last time. But he was a man now. “Hiding from me. Whoring yourself out. I’ve been watching. You know what I’m gonna do when I’m done with you?”

  I didn’t answer.

  “I’m gonna find your roommate.” He traced the tip of the knife down my cheek. “He thought he could take you from me.”

  “How’s your mother, Christian?” I asked suddenly. Keep him talking. Distract him from the knife. He’d always been close with his mother. She was his protector. “Does she know where you are?”

  Did anyone know where you were? Where we were?

  “Mom’s stealing from me. She’s taking money out of my room.” He scratched the back of his head with the hand that held the knife.

  Delusions. He’d always had trouble with thoughts about people taking things from him.

  “Mom’s stealing,” he repeated.

  “Does she know you’re here?” I pressed.

  He laughed, an unhinged, inhuman sound.

  “Did you bring your medicine?” I asked.

  He stood abruptly, shoving into my space, his forehead pressed against mine. “It’s not medicine. They’re trying to control me,” he hissed.

  He was sweaty and shaking, and I felt the first lick of despair. I couldn’t talk him down from this. Couldn’t appeal to him or make him let me go. I was going to have to fight for my life. He was mentally ill. And I was going to have to hurt him if I wanted to see the sunrise that was just starting to change the light through the shack’s dingy window.

  Something flickered outside. A shadow. Something moving.

  Crap on a cracker. Were there bears up here? Was I going to have to fight off Christian and then a bear? Could a girl not catch a break?