by J. Kenner
"I don't know..."
Beside him, Elizabeth shifted. "I think it's a great idea. I don't want to wait here, Tom. What if that freak comes back?"
"Lady's got a point. He lit up my car playing chicken with you two. Wouldn't surprise me at all if he comes back to see if I've done just that—gone off to get help for you guys."
"I only have one spare."
"And I got one. Won't be a perfect fit, but I got tools. We get it on, and it'll hold you to a gas station."
He glanced at Elizabeth, who eyed the Dude with a frown, then nodded. "Yeah. I want to get out of here."
"Right. Okay." He felt the weight of the knife in his pocket as he shifted to turn off the car. He had the keys in his hands, keeping them tight between his fingers. Neither the keys nor the knife would do much good if the gun-toting maniac came back, but it made him feel a little safer.
He shifted the keys to his left hand and grabbed Elizabeth's hand. Her side of the car was sitting at an odd angle, and if she opened that door, she'd tumble out. "Just slide over. I've got you."
He opened the door, and the Dude stepped back, then moved forward again as Elizabeth scrambled to get free. The Dude took her elbow. "Here ya go, ma'am. I got you."
She flashed him one of her rare smiles, almost flirtatious, and Tom swallowed, feeling like an idiot because what the hell was he jealous about? He wasn't. He was just on edge, was all.
"We're newlyweds," he said, showing the Dude his hand and his ring.
"Hell of a thing to happen on your honeymoon," the Dude said. "Come on. My car's a few yards back. We can get my spare and a jack."
They started walking that way, Elizabeth using her phone as a flashlight. It barely cut through the inky black, but Tom could tell they were easing off the shoulder and onto the Texas rock and scrubby bushes. "You're off the road?"
"Shit yeah. Park on the shoulder and some sleepy-ass truck driver will rear-end you before you know it. There she is," he said, as Elizabeth's beam caught the front edge of a truck, its bumper scraped with red paint.
Tom grabbed her hand and took a step backwards.
"Aw, dammit. You found me out." The Dude pulled a Rossi revolver from under his jacket. "What a fucking inconvenience."
"Look, just—just let us go. I have money. What do you want? A thousand? Ten thousand?"
"Sounds like a start. But maybe I want the girl."
Tom squeezed her fingers even as an invisible hand clutched at his heart. "You leave her the fuck alone."
The Dude stepped closer. "Yeah? You're telling me what to do? Who's the one with the gun here?"
Tom swallowed. "That would be you."
"And don't you fucking forget it. Walk." He waved the gun toward the darkness further off the highway.
"No." Tom clutched tight to Elizabeth.
"No?" The Dude thrust the gun out and down. Then blam! Rocks and sand went flying at Tom's feet before he even had time to think about it.
"Are you fucking crazy?" Elizabeth screamed.
"Me? Crazy?” He waved the gun. "Hell no."
"Hush." Tom kept his voice low, calm. "Don't provoke him."
"That's right, Liz. Don't provoke me."
A chill shot down Tom's spine. "How do you know her name?"
"I think the more relevant question is what the fuck are you doing married to my girl."
"Your gir—" But that was all he got out. He heard the crack of the gun, felt the push as the bullet hit him in the chest. He stumbled back. And in the soft glow of the light from Elizabeth's phone, he saw her release his hand and pull her fingers free.
He landed on the ground, and as he looked up at Elizabeth's scowling face, he parted his lips to ask a question.
But the question didn't come.
"Are you insane?" Liz snapped. "How long have we planned this? How much time did we spend working out every fucking little detail?"
"He pissed me off," Eric said.
God save her from idiot lovers. "He's fucking dead, you moron. How am I supposed to pull anything from his bank accounts when we don't have his goddamn account numbers and access codes?"
The plan had been to get Tom in a hotel, get him tied up, get the information and then kill him. Eric would pistol whip her, fuck her hard, and then get himself gone while she called 9-1-1. After that, she could draw from the account without having to wait for all the probate bullshit, bullshit which would undoubtedly leave some of her money with his pedantic, pain in the butt relatives.
Much nicer to be on her own with cash in her pocket, and his too nice, I-don't-have-to-work-and-can-stay-home-all-day-and-be-a-pain-in-your-butt body out of her life.
And then the braintrust here had to go and screw it all up.
"You're still married. You'll still get it."
"Think, Eric! Think." She pressed her hands to her temple, then scowled at him again. "And you smell like a damn brewery. Are you drunk? Are we seriously doing this while you're drunk?"
He actually looked sheepish. "I was bored. You guys took your damn time."
"Honestly! And quit waving that thing. You're making me nervous." She held out her hand and he slapped the gun into her palm.
"You got a real bitchy attitude sometimes, Liz. You know that right? Sometimes you just need to chill. Go with the flow. It's all gonna work out just fine, and we're gonna be soaking in the sun on some foreign beach by the weekend."
She drew in a breath, nodded. "Right. You're right. I'm just a little freaked. I wasn't expecting the backup plan."
"That's why they call it a backup, baby." He'd been waiting in the truck at the turn-off to Balmorhea. She'd known she couldn't push too hard, not and be Tom's adoring little "Elizabeth." So Eric had waited, and if they passed the exit, then he was supposed to come after them. Smooth as silk.
And in a lot of ways, so much better.
She smiled. "Sorry. I'm okay. You're right. The account numbers were just to speed things up. No pre-nup. I'm his little wifey. I'll get my share, easy squeazy. My share, and a lot of sympathy. Car jacked on our honeymoon? How fucking rotten is that?"
Eric spread his hands. "I'm the man."
"That you are."
"So, I need to get out of here," he said. "But you gotta be a little fucked up. Pistol-whipped and all that shit. Just like we planned at the hotel. Gimme the gun back."
She held it out to him. "Don't hold back. When you hit me, make it look good."
"Shit, Liz," he said, stepping close to take it. "Didn't nobody ever tell you about not pointing that thing at people?"
Blam!
Even in the dark, she could see the blood spread across the bright white cotton of his shirt. "Sorry, Eric," she said as he fell. "Nobody ever said a word."
She realized her mistake right away. She should have let him fuck her, let him whack her on the cheek a few times to raise a huge bruise. Because now she was going to have to do at least a little damage to herself.
She'd tell the cops the car jack story, but she'd say that when he was trying to rape her she got the gun from him. Managed to shoot him, and then escaped in his truck.
Nice and neat, except for the fact that she didn't have a mark on her.
She turned the flashlight app on and shined a light around the area. She found a rough rock and used it to rip her jeans, then she sat on her ass and dragged herself along the ground, wincing as the gravel and debris cut at her knees and hands.
She'd had a manicure before they left, but now she clawed at the dirt, fighting a pretend assailant who was dragging her off, ripping her cuticles, breaking her nails. Not really a problem, since she could pay for a lifetime of manicures now.
She wasn't looking forward to messing up her face—much easier to have someone else do it for her. She shined the light at Eric's lifeless body. No help there. And as for her dear, departed husband....
Her light found him, too, his shirt stained red, his eyes open in surprise, blood bubbles forming at his moving lips—
What the fuck?
She stepped closer. It had to be a trick of the light.
"E..za..beth."
"Oh, shit, Tom. Why the fuck aren't you dead?"
His lips moved again, but she couldn't make out the words.
Dammit all, she didn't need this shit. "Look, I'm really sorry. I mean, you're an okay guy and all. But I'd have to slit my throat if I stayed married to you. Nothing personal. Really."
Again, the lips moved. Again, she heard nothing.
Fuck. Fuck, fuck, fuck.
She got closer. "What is it? You want to tell me the account numbers? You're probably in a lot of pain. Tell me, and I can make it all go away."
He nodded. Or she thought he did. Not that easy to tell, really.
She got down close to him, the gun in her hand. She could smell the blood. She'd thought Eric had got him in the heart, but now that she was closer, she could see he missed it. Probably got a lung, though. Poor guy was probably drowning in his own blood.
"Nine...ven...teen."
"Hold on, baby. Say it slower, say it louder. Just say it, and I'll make it all be over." She bent closer, her ear near his mouth.
"Fuck...you..."
She jerked away, but it was too late. His arm was already up, that damn knife of his already out, and she gagged on blood as he thrust the blade deep into her throat.
Fucker!! She screamed, or she tried to. She was gagging, choking, and with her free hand, she yanked the knife out, tossed it aside, and clutched hard at her neck as warm blood pulsed out between her fingers. She was on her knees, swaying, her head like a balloon about to lift off into space.
Dead. He was fucking dead. She lifted the gun, got it right in his face, and pulled the trigger.
Click.
Nothing. Just click.
In front of her, through the haze of gray that was fast overtaking her, she saw her husband smile, and this time she heard his weak whisper. "Rossi's a five-shooter, bitch."
And as she tumbled sideways, her blood spilling out onto the warm Texas dust, she heard his voice one last time. The last words she ever heard. "'Til death do us part, Elizabeth. 'Til death do us part."
A note from JK:
I hope you enjoyed ’Til Death Do Us Part! Keep reading for some awesome excerpts from my other books, more information about me and my titles … and for a link to download a completely free book!
And be sure to subscribe to my newsletter or text JKenner to 21000 so you’ll be among the first to know when fab things happen!
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Excerpt from Tainted
Blood Lily Chronicles, Book 1
Can I just say that dying sucks? All that bullshit about seeing the light and having this final moment of inner peace, blah, blah, blah. It's crap.
Dying is messy and terrifying and it hurts like hell.
I ought to know. After all, I was the one on that basement floor in a puddle of my own blood and bile. And there was no peace, no light, no anything. Nothing except the ice-cold knowledge that the sins I'd racked up in the last twelve or so hours were more than sufficient to push me through the gates of hell.
Forget everything else I'd done in my twenty-six years on this earth, good and bad. You go out planning to kill a man—even a man as vile as Lucas Johnson—and your fate is pretty much sealed.
From a practical standpoint, the moment of death is a little bit late to start getting all profound and reflective. As they say, what's done is done. But that doesn't matter, because even if you're the least introspective person on the planet, you still go through the whole Psych 101 rigmarole. You tell yourself that maybe you should have said your bedtime prayers once in a while. You wonder if all those torture-porn horror movies you watched while your boyfriend copped a feel weren't actually a sneak peek into what hell had to offer.
In other words, you get scared.
When you're living, you might tell God to take a flying leap for putting your mother six feet under when you were only fourteen. For leaving you with a stepfather who decided to cuddle up with Jack Daniel's because he no longer had a loving wife in his bed. For leaving you in charge of a pigtailed little half sister who thought you hung the moon.
And for making you arrogant enough to swear that you'd protect that precious kid no matter what, even though that wasn't a promise you could keep. Not when there are monsters like Lucas Johnson trolling the earth. Monsters who suck the life from little girls.
For all those reasons, you might turn your back on God, and think you're oh-so-righteous for doing it. But you'd be wrong.
Trust me. I know.
I know, because even as my life faded, the fires of hell nipped at my toes.
In the end, I got lucky. But then again, luck is all a matter of perspective, isn’t it?
Check out JK’s dark urban fantasy romance series, The Blood Lily Chronicles. Grab book one, Tainted, now!
Excerpt from Down On Me
Man of the Month, book 1
I hope you enjoy this excerpt from Down On Me, book one in the Man of the Month series. I’m so excited about this series! I hope you love Reece and Jenna (and all the rest of the guys and girls) as much as I do!
CHAPTER ONE
Reece Walker ran his palms over the slick, soapy ass of the woman in his arms and knew that he was going straight to hell.
Not because he'd slept with a woman he barely knew. Not because he'd enticed her into bed with a series of well-timed bourbons and particularly potent half-truths. Not even because he'd lied to his best friend Brent about why Reece couldn't drive with him to the airport to pick up Jenna, the third player in their trifecta of lifelong friendship.
No, Reece was staring at the fiery pit because he was a lame, horny asshole without the balls to tell the naked beauty standing in the shower with him that she wasn't the woman he'd been thinking about for the last four hours.
And if that wasn't one of the pathways to hell, it damn sure ought to be.
He let out a sigh of frustration, and Megan tilted her head, one eyebrow rising in question as she slid her hand down to stroke his cock, which was demonstrating no guilt whatsoever about the whole going to hell issue. "Am I boring you?"
"Hardly." That, at least, was the truth. He felt like a prick, yes. But he was a well-satisfied one. "I was just thinking that you're beautiful."
She smiled, looking both shy and pleased--and Reece felt even more like a heel. What the devil was wrong with him? She was beautiful. And hot and funny and easy to talk to. Not to mention good in bed.
But she wasn't Jenna, which was a ridiculous comparison. Because Megan qualified as fair game, whereas Jenna was one of his two best friends. She trusted him. Loved him. And despite the way his cock perked up at the thought of doing all sorts of delicious things with her in bed, Reece knew damn well that would never happen. No way was he risking their friendship. Besides, Jenna didn't love him like that. Never had, never would.
And that--plus about a billion more reasons--meant that Jenna was entirely off-limits.
Too bad his vivid imagination hadn't yet gotten the memo.
Fuck it.
He tightened his grip, squeezing Megan's perfect rear. "Forget the shower," he murmured. "I'm taking you back to bed." He needed this. Wild. Hot. Demanding. And dirty enough to keep him from thinking.
Hell, he'd scorch the earth if that's what it took to burn Jenna from his mind--and he'd leave Megan limp, whimpering, and very, very satisfied. His guilt. Her pleasure. At least it would be a win for one of them.
And who knows? Maybe he'd manage to fuck the fantasies of his best friend right out of his head.
It didn't work.
Reece sprawled on his back, eyes closed, as Megan's gentle fingers traced the intricate outline of the tattoos inked across his pecs and down his arms. Her touch was warm and tender, in stark contrast to the way he'd just fucked her--a little too wild, a little too hard, as if he were fighting a battle, not mak
ing love.
Well, that was true, wasn't it?
But it was a battle he'd lost. Victory would have brought oblivion. Yet here he was, a naked woman beside him, and his thoughts still on Jenna, as wild and potent and impossible as they'd been since that night eight months ago when the earth had shifted beneath him, and he'd gazed for the first time at the woman and not the friend.
One breathtaking, transformative night, and Jenna didn't even realize it. And he'd be damned if he'd ever let her figure it out.
Beside him, Megan continued her exploration, one fingertip tracing the outline of a star. "No names? No wife or girlfriend's initials hidden in the design?"
He turned his head sharply, and she burst out laughing.
"Oh, don't look at me like that." She pulled the sheet up to cover her breasts as she rose to her knees beside him. "I'm just making conversation. No hidden agenda at all. Believe me, the last thing I'm interested in is a relationship." She scooted away, then sat on the edge of the bed, giving him an enticing view of her bare back. "I don't even do overnights."
As if to prove her point, she bent over, grabbed her bra off the floor, and started getting dressed.
"Then that's one more thing we have in common." He pushed himself up, rested his back against the headboard, and enjoyed the view as she wiggled into her jeans.
"Good," she said, with such force that he knew she meant it, and for a moment he wondered what had soured her on relationships.
As for himself, he hadn't soured so much as fizzled. He'd had a few serious girlfriends over the years, but it never worked out. No matter how good it started, invariably the relationship crumbled. Eventually, he had to acknowledge that he simply wasn't relationship material. But that didn't mean he was a monk, the last eight months notwithstanding.
She pulled her blouse on and glanced around, then slipped her feet into her shoes. Taking the hint, he got up and pulled on his jeans and T-shirt. "Yes?" he asked, noticing the way she was eying him speculatively.
