by Lucy Score
Devlin lifted his head and found my breast with his mouth. “I’m going to suck on you while you fuck me,” he said, nuzzling my flesh.
Oh, sweet baby Jesus. I was going to die in the hot springs. I was swamped in sensation. The sunshine on my shoulders, the warm touch of the water, Devlin’s magical mouth sucking and licking my tight, budded nipple. And his cock sliding into me like hot marble. He was a god, an Adonis, and I was the motherfucking goddess of pleasure.
I slid down his cock and rocked my hips. He growled his approval at my breast. I was riding him faster now.
He released my nipple with a pop. “Take it slow, baby.”
But I wasn’t listening. I was in charge of setting the pace, and I wanted to call the shots. I shoved his head against my other breast, the nipple needy and desperate for the wet of his mouth. I used my thighs to lift higher, drop harder on him.
Devlin’s feet scrambled to find purchase under the water against the rock, and when they did, I rode harder. He didn’t fight me. I felt his desperation in the hard pulls of his mouth. His hands aided me, their grip hard enough to bruise, and the thought of his fingerprints on me was dizzying.
“Dev,” I gasped out. Every time he pushed that blunt crown into me, my walls convulsed. I was hanging by a thread.
“Let go, Scarlett. Give it to me,” he ordered, lapping at my nipple. Then he used his teeth. It was like lightning to my core. I shimmered, spiked, and exploded. It wasn’t waves that built and crashed. It was a detonation that relayed through my entire body. He groaned as all those greedy muscles closed around him.
He slammed into me, once, twice, and then held me hostage as he came. His mouth stilled at my breast as his body went rigid. I was with him, wild bolts of release shattering me. I wished that I could feel his seed in me. I wished there was nothing between us. Then our releases could mingle inside me in a sacrifice to the gods of euphoria.
24
Devlin
It was strange to miss someone I’d known only a few weeks and weirder still to do so when she’d left my bed this morning and I’d be in hers tonight. But Scarlett had that kind of effect on me. She’d not only brought me back to life, but she’d started to drag me even further into the world of the living. I couldn’t remember ever feeling this light, this unencumbered.
When I tried to explain it to her, she claimed it was the hot springs. The hot springs were Bootleg’s answer to everything. Cold cured? Hot springs. Little Freddy finally stopped biting at day care? Hot springs. Won the lottery? Hot springs.
But I knew the truth. It was Scarlett Bodine that had me musing about my life on the new deck with a view of the lake and plans for take-out and a bonfire tonight.
My cellphone rang on the table next to my laptop. The dread I felt now whenever the phone rang dissipated when I saw the caller ID. It was hard to face discussions with my parents and our publicist and attorneys when I wasn’t feeling particularly bad about what I’d done to Hayden Ralston. However, my grandmother wasn’t calling to update me on my old life.
“Gran, how are you?”
“Well you certainly sound cheerful,” she said shrewdly.
“I’m sitting on your deck catching up on some emails in the sunshine. What’s not to be cheerful about?”
“Hmm,” she said in her you’re-not-fooling-me tone. “If I didn’t know better, I’d say you found a nice girl.”
I sighed. The Bootleg grapevine obviously had offshoots that extended to Europe.
“I might be enjoying my time with someone,” I hedged.
Gran hooted. “He’s seeing our Scarlett, Estelle.”
“About damn time,” Estelle called in the background.
“Don’t listen to her,” Gran said fondly. “She had her money on y’all getting together a lot earlier. Sometimes you’re too stubborn for your own good.”
“Tell me there wasn’t a pool on me and Scarlett,” I sighed.
“If you want me to lie to you, I will,” she said cheerfully.
I swiped a hand over my beard, not nearly as annoyed as I should have been.
“If it makes Estelle feel better, I was ready earlier than Scarlett was,” I told her.
“That’s my boy,” she said cheerfully.
“Where are you two globe hoppers today?” I asked, changing the subject.
“We’re enjoying the late afternoon sun and some tea at a rooftop restaurant in Malta in our new hats,” my grandmother announced.
The corners of my mouth lifted, picturing Gran and Estelle tearing up the island nation with their antics. “How did you end up living this life, Gran?”
She laughed. “You mean, how did I escape?”
I laughed ruefully. “Your life looks nothing like Mom and Dad’s.” Or mine.
“And thank God for that. Listen, Devlin, and listen good. You only get a set number of days, a limited number of sunrises and sunsets. And it’s up to you to make sure you’re taking full advantage of them,” Gran announced.
“It’s not like I’ve been wasting my life,” I began defensively. I was in public service. Politics was an honorable pursuit. I wanted to work for my country, serve my people.
“I didn’t say that you were. But I’d look real hard to see if that’s your calling or if you’re just walking the path your father set out for you. Because I can see how you’d confuse one with the other. He’s been grooming you since you were born.”
This was the part of Gran that drove my parents nuts. They loved her, of course, but they didn’t understand her.
“What else would I do with my life if I wasn’t walking that path?”
“If you ask me, I think it’s high time that you figure that out. I’ll say this because I love you. I didn’t see you happy. Not when you were elected, not when you married that shithead Johanna. I saw you following through on a purpose and setting and meeting goals, but I never once saw you happy.”
That familiar anxiety settled like a block of ice in my gut. I knew now that I hadn’t been happy before, but I’d had a purpose. Sitting here around Bootleg feeling lighter, feeling happy, but not having a purpose wasn’t much—if any—better.
“Maybe not everyone is made to be happy. Maybe some of us have to find other things to feel.”
“That sounds like some kind of bull that your father would spout about duty and honor and service. If you love being a lawmaker, if it makes you feel good—not important, but good—then stick with it. Be that. But I want you to decide, not your parents and sure as hell not that crappy ex-wife of yours.”
“Gran, why did you come to Bootleg?” I asked.
She sighed. “It’s the realest place I’ve ever been,” she said. “It’s not some political epicenter where everyone is constantly scheming. Bootleg lets you know where you stand. People care about you. They’re not just calculating what they can get out of being associated with you.”
I thought about the casseroles and the cards and the neighbors popping in on the Bodines. Hell, Millie Waggle had showed up on my doorstep with a pan of sticky buns for Jonah when word spread that he was Bodine blood. Sure, he was the bastard half-brother no one had ever met before, but he was still family and a Bootlegger by association.
The Bodines had a support net in place in their friends and neighbors.
Who had been there for me when Johanna had left me? Who had stood by me during the ensuing scandal? They’d shipped me off like a pariah and left me to grieve my life on my own. Until Bootleg. Until Scarlett.
My afternoon passed with a few hours of research on court precedents. I packed it in and went for a run along the lakefront trail. My pace was faster than it had been when I first came. I hoped I’d be able to regain what strength and speed I’d lost in another few weeks. And I vowed never to let something level me like that again.
“How was the run?” Jonah asked when I got back to the house, winded and sweaty.
“Not bad,” I said, filling a glass from the tap. “Not bad at all.”
“You
r phone was blowing up,” he said, nodding to where it charged on the counter.
I picked it up and eyed the grilled chicken salad Jonah was assembling. I needed to learn to cook. A quick swipe of the screen and my good mood vanished. I felt a wave of anxiety wash over me just seeing her name.
Johanna hadn’t reached out since my showdown with Ralston. And at that point, she’d left a chilly voicemail telling me she was disappointed that I didn’t seem capable to handle our situation maturely and professionally. The only communication we’d had since had been between our attorneys.
I considered ignoring the text, but that was the chickenshit way out and not the Mona Lisa McNugget kind.
The Bodine brothers wouldn’t hide from their past. Hell, Gibson saw his horrible ex on an almost daily basis. I tapped the message.
Johanna: We need to talk.
Hell. No. I didn’t have anything left to say to her. Had she sent this text a few weeks ago, when I was sitting in a strange town in a dark house, I would have had a litany of topics to discuss. But now? Everything was different. I was different.
I swiped back to the messages and Scarlett’s name popped up on the screen. My heart soared, and I marveled at the difference in my reactions to the two women.
Scarlett: Thinking about you and your sexy face. Also, if you’re not doing anything, I’m stuck under Judge Carwell’s front porch and could use your help. If I call Gibson he’ll never let me live it down.
“Oh, shit.”
Jonah’s head swiveled in my direction. I dialed Scarlett’s number and made a grab for my car keys. “Where’s Judge Carwell’s house?” I asked when she answered.
“Oh, thank God! I thought I was gonna die under this rotted out lumber.”
“I’m on my way as soon as you tell me where you are.”
“I’m on Rum Runner Avenue. Blue house, black shutters. My truck’s out front.”
I heard a weird growling noise in the background. “What’s that?”
“I’ll explain when you get here. Please hurry, and don’t you dare say a word to my brothers.”
“I’ll be there in five.” I hung up and headed toward the door.
“Scarlett emergency?” Jonah asked from the kitchen.
“I’m not allowed to tell you. But if I can’t fix it, I’ll call you,” I said, pushing through the screen door.
25
Scarlett
I was good and stuck. I should have known better than trying to crawl under the damn porch with my damn tool belt on. But the damn cat had gotten out when I planed down the door, and the last thing Carolina Rae Carwell had said before she’d left was “Don’t let the cat out.” If I didn’t find Mr. Fluffers and get him back inside, I’d never get to enjoy Carolina Rae’s cornbread again.
It was a fate worse than death.
Though laying flat in the dirt under a sagging front porch with a hissing cat’s collar hooked in my fingers wasn’t so great either.
“Scarlett?”
I’d never been more relieved in my entire life to hear someone call my name.
“Oh my God, Devlin!”
“Are you hurt?” he asked.
“I’m under the porch, and I have a cat, and my belt’s hooked on something, and I hope you’re not dressed nice because I’m gonna have to ask you to ruin your clothes and belly crawl on in here.”
There was silence. “Dev?” I called.
“I’m here.”
“You’re recording this, aren’t you?”
“Damn right I am.”
I kicked my work boots into the ground. “I’m so glad you’re amused. Now get your ass in here!”
“Yes, ma’am. Here I come.” He was laughing, but I didn’t care.
“Jesus, Scarlett. How am I going to fit?” he said from behind me.
“That’s what she said,” I said miserably.
“Har har. But seriously.”
“Just crawl in closer to the house—that’s the high point—and then see if you can reach over and unhook whatever has me hooked.”
Mr. Fluffers let out a feral snarl.
“Is that a fucking raccoon?” Devlin demanded.
“Yes. I have a rabid raccoon by the dang collar, Devlin,” I said dryly.
“It sounds like something you’d do.”
I heard him crawling in and turned my head. He made it as far as my feet. “I’m about wedged in,” he said.
“You’re not claustrophobic are you?” I asked, belatedly.
“I don’t seem to be.” I felt his hand on my ass.
“Now is not the time for foreplay.”
“I’m not feeling you up. Your chisel is wedged in a floor board and stuck in your belt.”
“I’m going to die here aren’t I?” I wailed. “My skeleton will turn to dust under this porch, and I’ll haunt trick or treaters every year unless they give me some of their candy.”
I felt a sharp tug and then another one, and my belt jiggled loose.
“Got it,” Devlin announced cheerfully.
I yipped. “You’re the most amazing man in the world, Devlin McCallister.”
He slapped me on the ass. Mr. Fluffers hissed.
“Yeah, yeah. I’m amazing. Now how do we get out of here?”
“You’re going to have to back out. And then I think you’re going to have to pull me out.”
He managed it somehow, first crawling out backwards and then dragging me by my ankles. I pushed with one hand and kept a death grip of Fluffers’s collar with the other.
Inch by inch, we scooted and dragged ourselves out of my almost-grave until I was face-down in the grass.
I leapt up, hauling the cat by the scruff of his neck. “In your face, Fluffers!”
Devlin bent at the waist and laughed loud and long. As much as I enjoyed hearing him laugh, I wasn’t too thrilled that it was at my expense. I dumped the dirtball cat in the house. I’d pay the Carwell’s for a cat bath if I had to. But that son of bitch wasn’t getting outside again on my watch.
“Just what’s so funny, McCallister?” I demanded, hands on hips and working myself into a heated glare.
He was in gym shorts and a t-shirt that were now smeared with dirt. There wasn’t a laundry detergent on earth that could handle that mess. His beard was caked with it too. He looked like a dirty, sexy redneck, and I freakin’ loved it.
I could only imagine my own mud monster state.
“Baby, you’re something,” he said, finally catching his breath.
“I’m gonna pretend that was meant as a compliment.” He pulled out his cell phone.
“If you try to take one picture, I’m gonna—”
Click.
“Oh, you’re in trouble now.” I threw myself at him, heedless of the clods of dirt I flung when I moved. He caught me mid-flight and spun me around laughing. I didn’t know if it was the spinning or his smile. But the bottom dropped out of my stomach, and I forgot all about being mad. All I wanted was his mouth on mine.
I kissed him hard, and he pulled me in tight against him, still holding me aloft. I hoped my tool belt wasn’t digging in anywhere important.
“Thanks for calling me, Scarlett.”
“Thanks for coming when I called,” I told him.
I heard the clearing of a throat, and Dev and I turned around. Carolina Rae was standing on her tidy little walkway staring at us. Her husband ol’ Judge Carwell was behind her peering over her shoulder.
Devlin let me slide down to the ground. “Hi, Carolina Rae, Judge. Door’s all fixed, but I’ve got bad news for you on your porch. The joists are starting to rot out. I think you’re gonna need a new porch next year,” I was babbling. As progressive as I was, I didn’t usually make out on my clients’ lawns with my... lover.
“Uh-huh,” Carolina Rae said, still staring at us. She was seventy-two but only admitted to sixty-six. “And what were you doing with your tongue down your young man’s throat?” she asked sweetly.
“I... uh...” Words, those little t
raitors, failed me. Even Devlin looked chagrined.
She smiled. “Ah, to be young again. Carry on. But don’t trample my coleus.”
She headed into the house without another word, leaving Judge Carwell outside with us. He was eyeing up Devlin. The front door closed behind Carolina Rae without the hitch it had before I got here. I braced for it.
“Mr. Fluffers!” Carolina Rae screeched.
“Mr. Fluffers had a little adventure,” I explained to Judge Carwell.
He grunted, still eyeing Devlin.
“You the lawyer, son?” he asked gruffly.
Devlin nodded. “Yes sir.”
“Y’all ever think of a judgeship?” he asked. Judge Carwell’s large white moustache twitched beneath his ruddy nose.
Devlin’s eyes widened, and I laughed.
“Still tryin’ to retire, sir?” I asked him sweetly. Judge Carwell ran unopposed every election for the office of county judge. He was so ready to retire he tried to convince June to go to law school.
Mrs. Carwell burst through the front door holding the muddy Mr. Fluffers. “Scarlett Bodine!”
I winced. “Yes ma’am. We’ll take him right over to Pet Paradise,” I promised.
26
Scarlett
“Oh, yeah. Just like that, baby,” I purred.
“You sound like you’re having intercourse.” June’s dry tone broke through my hot oil massage bliss. Lula, my masseuse and friend since junior high school, snorted. Lula was tall and willowy with flawless dark skin and a riot of thick hair. She was drop dead gorgeous, an exotic looking beauty who wore denim and plaid. She was also rolling in dough, having capitalized on the tourism boom that began a few years ago. She bought the withering old Victorian and—with a little help from me—had renovated it into a kitschy, cultured day spa.
