Can't Let Go--A Bad Boy Romance

by Gena Showalter

  A pang sliced and diced her chest. She took a step toward the door, stopped. Took another step, stopped. Resist!

  “Tell me something, Jude. If I were a schoolteacher like Lyndie, would you have wanted a long-term relationship with me rather than a short-term affair?” Stuff, stuff. “You hate bars, and I get it. I do. But deep down you don’t think I’m worthy of your affection, and that I don’t get,” she said, feeling as if she were being stabbed in the heart over and over again. “Just...go away!” Stuff, stuff. STUFF. “Please.”

  Another pause before he rasped, “At least tell me if Belle and the kittens miss me.”

  Meow. Meow. Meow.

  “I don’t know,” she grated. “They haven’t said.”

  Finally, silence. Then, the heavy thud of footsteps as he walked away.

  Part of her wanted to race out the door and shout, “I’ll give you one more chance. Don’t blow it this time.” Truth was, some couples worked, some didn’t. She and Jude had had two shots to be together, and they’d failed miserably. One more chance wasn’t going to do either of them any favors.

  Stuff, click, shove.

  The next day, Glen Baker texted her. He’d gotten her number, even though she hadn’t given it to him. He offered an apology for the bar, as well as his behavior when Jude interrupted them at the engagement party, and asked if there was anything he could do to help.

  Jude should take lessons: how to treat a woman you want to date.

  In the nicest way possible, she told Glen thanks but no thanks. She wasn’t in the mood for masculine company. Men sucked.

  The romance ban was back!

  Even the arson investigator had failed her. He had combed through video feed, and ruled the fire an accident. Apparently a patron lit a cigarette at the counter. Sutter informed him that smoking was prohibited, and the customer dropped the cigarette in the nearest trash can. Within minutes, flames erupted.

  It was all a little too neat and tidy for Ryanne’s peace of mind. Who was the patron who’d lit up? He’d worn a hat, shielding his identity from the cameras. And Sutter couldn’t remember his face, because, at the same time he’d told the patron about the bar’s nonsmoking policy, he’d dealt with two other patrons who’d come close to fist-fighting over a girl.

  An elaborate setup? Or was Ryanne simply looking for ways to blame Dushku?

  At least insurance would pay for the building’s repairs, which had just begun. Since the construction workers would be clocking out at six, Ryanne had decided to open the bar at seven. Well, the patio outside the bar, anyway, since her liquor license permitted her to sell alcohol there. She would erect a tent just behind the patio, where patrons could dance. Sutter and her waitress would work the crowd, selling boxed snacks and pops, ensuring everyone had fun. To provide music, Power Trip would play on a makeshift dais Brock was currently building.

  Jude had done nothing to help.

  Lockbox!

  But come on. What did she expect? She’d pushed him away at every turn.

  He shouldn’t have given up so easily.

  Easily? He’d visited her every single day.

  Yeah, but he should have busted down the door. Something!

  Ugh. Mixed signals alert. Make up your mind, mi querida. Do you want him to fight for you or stay away?

  She...didn’t know.

  Another knock sounded at her door, sending the kittens into a chorus of meows.

  “Sorry, guys, but it’s not Jude.” She stole a quick glance at the mirror over the desk. Hair brushed—check. Cheeks rosy—check. Blush could do wonders for ashen skin. And yet, none of her makeup had been able to hide the dark circles under her eyes.

  Did it matter? She had no one to impress.

  Clothes in place—check. A skintight T-shirt, ripped jeans and combat boots.

  When the door opened, Dorothea and Lyndie soared inside, beauty and sexiness personified.

  After years of hating her body, Dorothea had finally decided to embrace the lushness of her curves. A bright red dress hugged her from shoulders to just below her knees, making her look like a ’50s pinup.

  Lyndie usually wore oversize cardigans and khakis—basically feed sacks—hoping to deter masculine appreciation right from the start. Tonight the strawberry blonde wore an outfit similar to Ryanne’s: tight enough to guess her religion.

  “I know I’ve said this before,” Ryanne began, “but I apologize for unleashing my drama at your engagement party.”

  Dorothea hugged her before gripping her forearms and shaking her. “Party shmarty. The fire wasn’t your fault and—this is probably horrible to admit, but—it gave me an excuse to leave, which I’d wanted to do before the party even started.”

  Ryanne threw her arms around the girl, hugging her close. “Dang, I love you. And I’m sorry for my behavior lately, too.” She hadn’t just lashed out at Jude. She’d lashed out at everyone.

  “I love you, too. And don’t worry. I remember my drama with Daniel. I wasn’t always the sweetest truffle in the box.”

  Lyndie wrapped one arm around Ryanne and the other around Dorothea. “You guys love me, too. I know, I know. Now, tell us what’s going on with Jude, Rye.”

  Dorothea nodded with gusto. “Don’t think we haven’t noticed how many times he’s come to your door. I wasn’t sure if I should call the police or give him a key.”

  Desperate for help, she finally admitted what had happened, how Jude had smiled as flames ate her bar. “He said I brought him back to life. But how could he feel that way about me and smile while I lost everything?”

  “Okay, here’s the reality of your situation.” Dorothea led everyone to the bed. Kittens immediately jumped into their laps. “You own a bar, and his family was killed by a drunk driver who’d just left a bar. During the fire, he had an instinctual reaction, probably transferred his hate for whatever bar the drunk driver left onto the Scratching Post. It happened in the heat of the moment—oh, crap, sorry for going there—when he didn’t have time to process his emotions. Did you know he’s been at the Scratching Post every day since? As soon as the investigators gave him the go-ahead, he began working with the construction crews to fix the damage—on his own dime.”

  What! She’d checked on the bar every day. How had she missed him? Why hadn’t he said anything to her about what he was doing?

  Because you refused to speak with him, dummy.

  “For that matter,” Lyndie said, her tone gentle, so gentle, “if his emotions are only just now coming back to life, everything he feels is new to him and must confuse him.”

  That...made sense. Dang it, her friends were right. Jude was dealing with his past traumas to the best of his ability. Meanwhile, Ryanne was punishing him for a reaction he’d had no control over. After he’d taken a chance on a relationship with her, and despite his hatred for her profession.

  Still, her hurt sharpened, nearly cutting its way out of the lockbox. She blinked back tears and focused on Belle, petting her soft fur.

  Dorothea and Lyndie cooed at the kittens, laughed at their antics. Praise God above, her feline army no longer looked like a rat army. Their ears had finally popped out. They were walking, running and had even begun to climb.

  Ultimately, Ryanne had decided to stick to plan and name the adorable crew after Lincoln West’s Lords of the Underworld video game, rather than selecting generic names as Jude suggested. The sweeties had too much personality, and like the Lords, they were feisty. So, the members of her feline family were now called William, Anya, Lucien, Cameo, Strider, Torin and Paris.

  “I think I’ve fallen in love with Torin and William.” Lyndie cuddled both males against her chest. “They’re the most mischievous of the bunch.”

  So true. “They’ll be ready for a new home in a few weeks, after they’ve been neutered.” And oh, crap, Jude
might have been maybe possibly...right. Ryanne wanted to scoop up every kitten and shout, Mine!

  But she wouldn’t. She could share her bounty with her friends. In fact, she’d already promised Anya and Strider to Dorothea.

  Yesterday, when Dorothea’s pit bulls, Adonis and Echo, had scented the cats and come barreling through the door, Ryanne expected a blood bath. Instead, the canines treated the kittens with tenderness and concern, licking their faces and allowing the cuties to crawl all over them.

  Ryanne checked the water and food bowls, making sure everything was in order. “You guys ready to go?” She hadn’t wanted her friends to attend the festivities, because really, the entire night was a huge eff you to Dushku. Or Douche Canoe, as she now called him. What if he threw a mantrum?

  The bastardo had come to see her again, daring to approach with a smile, as if he were an innocent Sunday-school teacher. He’d explained that, with all her recent troubles, she should be happy to take twenty-five thousand dollars less than his original offer.

  Saying she’d been enraged was like saying the ocean was merely a teardrop.

  She’d turned him down, and he’d stormed off.

  I might be down, but I’m not broken.

  Broken...

  The word echoed in her head. Once, Jude had considered himself broken. Did he still?

  “I’m ready.” Lyndie tugged at the hem of her short skirt. “I think. Maybe I should change?”

  Dorothea tapped the schoolteacher on top of her head. “You’re more than ready. You’re smoking!” The color drained from her cheeks. “I mean, smoking in a good way, not in a bar-burning way.” She hung her head. “I keep referencing the worst night of your life. I’m sorry, Ryanne.”

  “Don’t be ridiculous.” Ryanne waved a hand through the air. “She does look smoking.”

  The pair beamed at her, and she forced herself to return their smiles, despite her growing dismay.

  The thought of these wonderful women in any kind of danger sickened her, but both had insisted.

  Would Jude show up? How would she react if he did?

  Better question: How would she react if he didn’t?

  * * *

  JUDE REMAINED IN the shadows and tried not to stare at Ryanne as she served beer and moonshine to a small crowd gathered on the patio in back of the Scratching Post. He tried—and failed.

  Strategically placed halogens lit up the night and spilled over her. Raven locks flowed down her back, a glorious fall of ebony silk. As she spoke with a patron, her bloodred lips curled up, unveiling a smile that didn’t reach her eyes. The white shirt she wore, so innocent and sweet, clashed with the wildness he’d twice stoked in her.

  There were dark circles under her eyes. Obviously she hadn’t been sleeping, hadn’t recovered emotionally from the bad hand she’d been dealt. Guilt beleaguered him.

  He should have been with her, exhausting her with sex so that she had to sleep. But she’d made it clear she wanted nothing to do with him. And he couldn’t blame her. For a moment, he’d been happy, thinking he’d seen the last of the Scratching Post.

  Too screwed in the head for a woman like Ryanne.

  He’d hoped the time apart would numb him and help him figure out his next step, but still he ached to hold her in his arms. Today, tomorrow...forever? No. Hell, no. He ached to taste her, and touch her, to hear her cries of abandon, until she left for Rome, that was all.

  Fool! Already he missed her more than he missed his leg. Her, not just sex. He missed her wit and her laugh. Her care and concern. Her sass.

  Damn, he missed her sass.

  How would he cope when she was an ocean away?

  Three days ago, he’d driven into the city and gotten a strawberry tattooed on his wrist. Now he carried a constant reminder of her—memories were better than nothing.

  Tonight, a leather cuff hid the strawberry. He had no desire to answer questions about it.

  His phone buzzed, but he didn’t have to check the screen to know who had sent the message. Carrie had remained in contact with him, curious about his new life. She’d even invited him to return to Midland to rejoin their family.

  He glanced at Ryanne, noticed a brittle aura and flinched. Maybe going back to Texas wasn’t such a bad idea.

  Of course, he’d have to wait until Dushku moved on, or died...with help. The urge to use the skills Uncle Sam taught him had almost proven irresistible. Also, he had to finish repairs inside the bar. He’d removed and replaced damaged wood from the wall and floors, but needed to finish the new staircase.

  When Jude had noticed the grab bars in Ryanne’s personal bathroom, he’d dropped to his knees, overcome by different emotions. Even before he’d agreed to date her, she’d made arrangements for him to comfortably use her shower.

  If he wasn’t careful, he was going to break her sweet heart more than he already had. How could he live with himself then?

  Her gaze scanned the parking lot. Searching for someone? She bypassed him, only to zoom back. Between one second and the next, he felt as if a train hit him. Awareness fizzed in his veins, as potent as any drug. Then torment twisted her features. Then her expression blanked.

  He nearly dropped to his knees in supplication. Don’t ice me out, shortcake.

  Had she gone numb, like him?

  The idea of white-hot Ryanne Wade trapped in a deep freeze wrecked him.

  A customer snapped long-nailed fingers in Ryanne’s face, breaking the hold she had on him.

  “Jude? Mr. Laurent?”

  The familiar voice came from behind him. He turned on his heel...found Savannah standing just beyond the tent he’d helped Brock erect only a few hours ago. The skin around one of her eyes sported motley bruises, and there was a hand-shaped blue-black imprint on her neck.

  “I... You said you’d help me,” she whispered, peering down at her feet. “I’m ready to let you.”

  Protective instincts bloomed—he ignored them. He wasn’t sure he could trust her. This could be a trap set by Dushku.

  Tread carefully. “What changed your mind?”

  She wrapped her arms around her middle. “They have my son. Thomas. I dated Filip Dushku, Martin’s son. We moved in together when I got pregnant. Then Filip went to prison, and I gave birth to Thomas in Martin’s home. He... I... Martin took Thomas from me. I willingly went to work for him in exchange for being allowed to see my boy once every morning. Today my sweet little boy slapped me. The things he’s learning at Martin’s hand...” She wiped her tears with a jerky motion. “Filip is supposed to be released in the next year, and I thought I could hold out and he would... Well, it doesn’t matter now.”

  She’d thought Filip would save her, and now, because she’d been with so many other men, she assumed he would wash his hands of her?

  “Even if Filip wanted me,” she said, “I’ll never again want him.” A bitter laugh. “I bet that was Martin’s plan all along. I just... I just want my son. Can you help me? You’re the only person I’ve met who’s stood up to him.”

  She was the boy’s mother? “Why not go to the cops?” Whether Jude could trust her or not, he couldn’t send her away. He had to act.

  “Are you kidding? You think I haven’t gone that route before? Martin is great at paying people off or uncovering enough dirt to blackmail anyone in authority.”

  That, Jude believed without question. “I can set you up in another town while I—”

  “No.” Blond locks whisked against her cheeks as she shook her head. “I’m not leaving without my son.”

  “—investigate your claims,” he finished saying anyway. He had to know with 100 percent surety that the boy belonged to her, that this wasn’t a ploy to harm Dushku by harming his grandson. “Help me find answers. Is your real name Savannah? What’s your last name? Where are you from? Whe
re did you have the boy—what state?”

  “Yes, my real name is Savannah. My last name is White. I’m from Dallas, Texas, and I had Thomas in Martin’s home there. He paid a midwife to help with the delivery. I don’t know her name.”

  Savannah White. Thank the Lord he now had a starting point. “Come with me.” He held out his hand. “If everything you’ve told me checks out, we’ll figure out our next move together.”

  Her mouth opened, closed. Again, she shook her head and took a step back. “I told you, I’m not leaving without my son. I’ll stay with Martin until you believe me. Just...don’t tell anyone what I’ve told you, okay? The fewer people who know, the better chance I’ll survive this. Okay?”

  His arm fell to his side. “I won’t share the details with anyone but the guys who will help me investigate, and Ryanne.” She wanted to help, too.

  “Swear it,” Savannah insisted.

  “I swear. You have my word.”

  Relief added color to her pale cheeks, and she rattled off a number. “One of my...regulars gave me a cell phone.” Disgust and shame spilled from her tone.

  “As soon as I have what I need, I’ll text you, and we’ll plan your exit.”

  “With Thomas.”

  “With Thomas,” he agreed.

  She closed her eyes, a tear sliding down her cheek. Then she faced him, hard mask back in place. “Thank you. And in the spirit of full disclosure, if it comes down to protecting you or my son, or hell, even myself, I’ll be sure to send flowers to your friends.”

  “Understood and accepted.”

  * * *

  SAVANNAH!

  Ryanne caught sight of the blonde. She was talking to Jude, who’d been sulking all evening, ruining Ryanne’s peace of mind. Every time her gaze had found him, she’d struggled to keep the hurt inside the lockbox.

  Now she asked Sutter to take charge and rushed over. By the time she reached Jude’s side, Savannah was gone.

  Argh! She and Jude were alone, nothing between them but shadows.

  “Hello,” he said, all kinds of sadness in his tone.