by Shayla Black
“Serious enough to fight for her.”
Logan sighed. “I was afraid you were going to say that. Your shit can’t affect the team.”
“I won’t bring it to work if Bryant doesn’t. But there’s already no love lost between us.”
“Yeah, you really pissed him off during that first mission in Mexico.”
“He wasn’t listening, and I didn’t have the patience to stand around while he dithered and flapped his jaws. The fact that I was right and he hasn’t gotten over it isn’t my problem.”
Logan sat back at his desk, arms crossed over his chest. “Jesus, you remind me of my brother.”
Which was probably why he and Hunter butted heads. “Yeah?”
“He married Kata the night he met her, did you know that? He took one look at her, and he knew.”
No shit? A few weeks ago, One-Mile wouldn’t have understood. Today, he got it. “They happy?”
“Fucking as in love as I’ve ever seen. I knew with my wife right away, too. But we met in high school, and things got fucked up. I lost her for a few years. When we met up again, she was engaged to another guy.”
Until now, Logan had never shared anything personal, but One-Mile wasn’t too thick to grasp that the man was delivering some message.
“How long did that last after you found her again?”
“Not long.” Logan tapped his thumb on his desk, clearly pondering his next words. “Especially after the asshole watched me go down on Tara…and I made sure he knew she enjoyed the hell out of it.”
One-Mile grinned. “Damn, you shit-stirrer.”
Logan shrugged. “We all gotta be good at something…”
“So…you get where I’m coming from with Brea?”
“That you don’t give a shit about her relationship with Cutter? Yeah, but think hard. Is it really worth starting a shit storm if she’s just a fuck? Or a way for you to provoke Cutter?”
“She’s not.” Even the intimation irritated One-Mile. “And I wouldn’t put the time or effort into scheming something to piss off the Boy Scout when a simple fuck you would do.”
“Fair enough.” Logan stood. “That’s not why I called you in here. I need the rest of your reports on the latest Mexico trip. We all hate paperwork, but we have to keep our documentation squeaky clean so Uncle Sam doesn’t shut us down.”
“It’s done. I’ll email the shit now.”
“Good. Then get your ass out of my office and send Cutter in so I can have a nice, long chat with him about being prompt and thorough with his.”
What was Edgington saying? “How long?”
“Probably long enough for you to go to Brea’s rescue.”
He’d never seen any of his bosses as potential bros. He worked for them. They gave orders, and he completed the dirtiest of the dirty missions on their behalf. End of story. But Logan was proving that he was all right. “Thanks, man.”
As he turned and reached for the door, his boss called after him, “You’re welcome. But if you make work ugly, I’ll make your life hell.”
That didn’t scare One-Mile. He twisted around long enough to salute Logan, then hauled ass out of the office and headed to Sunset.
Mid-August was still hotter than fuck, and he wished he had some idea what was wrong with Brea’s van, but he had a few hours to figure it out. Since he and machinery usually got along just fine, he hoped it wouldn’t be too tough.
When he arrived at the church, a fiftyish woman who identified herself as Mrs. Collins poked her head out…but didn’t shake his hand. No surprise. He probably looked big and violent to her sheltered suburban eyes. He didn’t give her his name, just said he’d come to fix the van for Brea. The woman nodded and disappeared inside.
About thirty minutes later, he figured out the vehicle was overheating and the likely culprit was a faulty water pump. He managed to run one down and get it installed way before the sun set. Then he knocked and let himself in the church’s back door.
“Yes?” Mrs. Collins eyed him and his tattoos like he was the devil and if she let him too close, his sin might rub off on her.
But she was probably someone Brea knew and respected, so One-Mile made nice. “The van is fixed. Do you have a piece of paper so I can leave Brea a note?”
He’d rather text her, but she’d never given him her number. Sure, he had it. Finding her digits hadn’t been hard. But he wanted her to choose to tell him.
“This way.”
Mrs. Collins led him down a blessedly air-conditioned hallway that ended in a small office with white walls bare of everything except a cross. In the middle of the room sat a painfully neat desk. A plaque squatted front and center that read Reverend Jasper P. Bell.
She retrieved a sheet of paper from the nearby printer and a pen from the top drawer. “There you go.”
Mrs. Collins hovered awkwardly, watching him like she worried he might steal something. He tried not to roll his eyes. The truth was, he’d saved pretty much every penny Uncle Sam had ever paid him. Between that, his lucrative post-Marine contracts, and the money his granddad had left him, he’d managed to sock away a couple million dollars. He had zero interest in swiping the preacher’s stapler.
“Thanks. How’s the reverend doing since his surgery?”
Mrs. Collins looked surprised. “Brea told you about that?”
“Yeah.” But he hadn’t heard anything new in almost a week.
“Oh. Well, Reverend Bell is recovering nicely, thank you. Do you, um…know Brea?” Clearly, that possibility surprised her.
“We’ve met.”
The woman relaxed. “Isn’t she a doll? She’s done an amazing job taking care of her father and keeping the church activities running while he’s out.”
That didn’t surprise One-Mile. “Do you work here?”
“I just volunteer. I teach third-grade math at the elementary school down the street. But since Jasper’s surgery, I’ve tried to step in and help more.”
Probably because she wanted to be more than Jasper’s parishioner. One-Mile could tell by the way her eyes lit up when she talked about the man.
Whatever. He’d rather hear about the preacher’s pretty daughter. But—wild guess—probing Mrs. Collins about Brea’s sex life with Cutter would get him booted from here.
Instead, he leaned over the desk, jotted a quick note explaining how he’d fixed the vehicle. Then he invited her to come by his place to pick up the plastic container she’d delivered her cookies in and stay for a round of pool…or whatever she wanted. “I’m sure she appreciates you. Got an envelope?”
He didn’t need Mrs. Collins snooping.
“One minute.” She disappeared around the corner and returned with a crisp white envelope.
He tucked the paper inside, sealed it, jotted Brea’s name on the front, and left it on the desk. Then he nodded at Mrs. Collins and headed home, wondering when—or if—he’d see Brea.
Given her schedule, One-Mile didn’t really expect any company soon.
But a couple of hours later, he was kicking back with a beer, eyeing the pool table where he’d taught her how to play so he could shamelessly rub up against her, when someone started pounding on his front door. He doubted Brea was the one demanding entry with a fist…which meant she probably hadn’t been the one who read his note.
But he had a good idea who had.
Shit.
After racking his pool cue, he headed across the house and yanked the door open. Sure enough, Cutter Bryant stood on the other side, foaming mad, like a chihuahua with rabies.
“Damn it, I thought I’d taken the trash to the curb, but here you are…”
Cutter bared his teeth and shoved him back. At the unexpected push, One-Mile stumbled until he found his footing. Bryant marched in and slammed the door, then hurled his wadded-up note at his chest. One-Mile caught it reflexively.
“Listen to me, asshole. I’m only going to say this once more. Keep the fuck away from Brea. Stop talking to her, stop pursuing her, and
stop writing trash like that to manipulate her into coming here so you can hook up with her.”
Who the fuck did Cutter think he was, opening her mail, then barging into his house to start shit? Normally, he would beat the hell out of the asswipe…but that wouldn’t win him any gold stars with Brea.
“Or what, you’ll bore me to death?” He feigned a yawn. “I’ve already heard this speech, and I hate reruns. So get the fuck out.”
Cutter didn’t move. “You act big and bad, like you don’t give a shit about anything. But I see through you. You’re a gaping, know-it-all sphincter. And an insecure bully. Deep down, I think you feel powerless. Did your mommy not love you enough as a kid, Walker?”
Bryant couldn’t know a damn thing about his mother, but it was still a low fucking blow, and it took all of One-Mile’s restraint not to unleash his fury on the cockroach.
“Are you too much of a pussy to throw a punch? Is that why you’re trying to hurt my feewings?” he snarked.
“Fuck you. Stay away from Brea. I mean it.”
“You act like I’m going to hurt her. I fixed the van to help her. So get off my ass and get the hell out of my house.”
Cutter didn’t budge. “I’m serious. If you keep after Brea, you’ll ruin her.”
Dramatic much? “For what? I just want to get to know her.”
The Boy Scout scoffed. “You want to take her to bed.”
Of course he did. One-Mile refused to lie. But he wanted more than Brea’s body. Still, he didn’t owe Bryant any sort of answer. He’d only be giving the bastard more ammo.
“You think you have me all figured out. I’m the player who wants to sex up your girlfriend and break her heart. But you don’t know a thing about me, asshole.” He gave Cutter a shove backward. “And you’re no fucking good for her yourself. You were too busy banging some girl you met in a bar the night before to be there for Brea when her dad collapsed. So I stepped in, you cheating douchebag. Get over it.”
“I’ve explained that day to Brea. We’re square, so where I was is none of your business.”
Bullshit. Cutter was taking advantage of her goodness and spewing lies to cover his ass while he stepped out on her. Why should she settle for that, especially when One-Mile was more than happy to appreciate her—and only her?
“You’re a selfish fucking prick for hanging on to her when you won’t be faithful. What about her happiness? Her future? Or have you even thought past your dick?”
Cutter’s jaw hardened as he spotted Brea’s clean plastic container on the table in his foyer and snatched it up. “I don’t have to justify myself to you. She’s my concern, and I’ll take care of her—always. But Brea is off-limits to you.” He pointed a finger in One-Mile’s face. “And if you step one more toe over the line, I swear I’ll fucking kill you.”
“Try it. We’ll see who winds up dead.”
Saturday, August 16
“Brea!” her father called across the house from his recliner.
“Coming, Daddy.” She hustled into the living room with his cup of coffee, a piece of dry, multigrain toast, and his morning medicine, then set everything on the table beside him. “Eat up and take your pills.”
She was surprised to see that he’d showered and shaved already, but not at all shocked by his sour expression. “Capsules of nonsense from a snake-oil salesman.”
“No, medicine prescribed by one of the best heart surgeons in the state,” Brea corrected. “Please take it. We don’t want to put your heart at risk again.”
She couldn’t. The news that he had collapsed and that she’d nearly lost him had devastated her. Though Pierce following her shopping that day had rattled Brea, she thanked God he’d been there. She had been in no shape to drive herself to the hospital.
Daddy grumbled but sighed with resignation. “Fine. When you’re done with your last client, I need you to run by the church and pick up my mail. If you get there by five, Tom will be meeting with the new youth group. Sit in on that session so you can tell me how he’s doing. Then if you can head out to the Richards’ farm… Apparently, Josette is having female surgery on Monday, and she’s asked for someone from the church to pray with them.”
“Tom should do it. That’s his job, Daddy.” And he’d let her know on the way home from the Rutherfords’ place the other night that he’d appreciate her taking a step back.
Her father scowled. “He gives a decent sermon, but he hasn’t learned how to compassionately connect with the community. You have. You know and love all these people. And you’ve got that gift of making everyone feel special.”
Brea appreciated that but… “I have to work all day. If I sit through the youth meeting, then go to the Richards’ farm for an hour or two, when will I eat? Plus, I’d planned to grocery shop and do some laundry tonight.”
Well, she should…but she found herself resisting the urge to seek out Pierce instead. She’d heard nothing from him since he’d tried to teach her to play pool. Admittedly, she was a little disappointed. It was foolish, but she’d hoped he might ask her on a date.
Is he really the dinner-and-a-movie type?
She needed to clear him from her head. Seeking Pierce out, even to thank him with cookies, had been impulsive, reckless, and desperate—three things she’d never been with a man. But he filled her with such exciting, unexpected feelings. Forgetting him was impossible.
“You can do that after church tomorrow,” her father insisted. “I know it’s an imposition, but we have a duty to this town. I can’t see to these people myself, and I raised you to think of others first. I need you, baby.”
And there it was, the button he pushed ruthlessly anytime she resisted doing something he asked. It only worked because he was right. She would feel terrible if she put her needs above those around her. “I’ll take care of everything.”
He smiled. “That’s my girl. So Cutter is taking you to breakfast before your first appointment this morning?”
“He is.” And she felt a giddy, guilty excitement at being able to get out of the house and relax for an hour.
“You ought to marry that boy. His daddy was a drunk, and Sweeney was better off without Rod, but Cage and Cutter both turned out to be good boys. Cutter would take care of you, Brea.”
He would, and they would both be miserable. “We’re friends, Daddy. That’s all.”
“So you keep saying.” He sighed. “Then I’ll pray you find a righteous, God-fearing man who makes you happy.”
Brea sighed. Her father didn’t mean to sound either old-fashioned or judgmental, but she wasn’t going to change him. “Thank you.”
A knock put an end to their conversation. Brea hustled to the door and let Mrs. Collins in just as Daddy took his first bite of toast and downed one of his pills. “Good morning.”
After some small talk, Jennifer sat on the ottoman at her father’s feet and smiled when her father grumbled about LSU’s first football game of the season still being another two weeks away. Thankfully, Cutter let himself in a moment later. Brea kissed her father’s cheek and promised to check in before thanking Mrs. Collins for spending the day with him.
Forty minutes later, she found herself picking at her plate, dreading the two shampoo-and-sets on her schedule…and wondering again if Pierce had decided he wasn’t interested in her after all.
“You’ve barely touched your waffle, Bre-bee.”
Brea glanced up at Cutter and forced a smile. “That’s not true. It’s just a lot of food. Want the rest?”
“You know I don’t eat that crap.”
“But how do you choke down six eggs and a half a chicken for breakfast?”
“I’m a growing boy.” He patted his flat stomach, which she knew was all abs. “And I need protein to keep up my strength.”
“You’re plenty strong,” she said with a roll of her eyes. “Thanks again for getting me out of the house this morning.”
“You’re welcome. I figured you needed a break, and Jennifer Collins is all too hap
py to play nursemaid to your dad.”
She swatted his arm. “You make it sound like they’re engaging in hanky-panky.”
Cutter shrugged. “It wouldn’t surprise me. They both lost their spouses years ago, and I think they’re sweet on each other.”
“That hardly means they’re having sex,” Brea insisted in a low hiss. “Daddy had heart surgery less than three weeks ago, and they’re not married.”
“But if they were lovers, you’d forgive him, wouldn’t you? He might be a preacher, but he’s also a man.”
What was Cutter getting at? “That’s for God to judge, not me. But Daddy isn’t the sort to commit carnal sins.”
Her best friend leaned forward, elbows on the table. “You’re twenty-two years old, and your mama died shortly after you were born. Do you really think he’s gone more than two decades without sex because he’s a man of God?”
Brea squirmed. “I try not to think of it at all.”
“Yeah, I try not to think about who’s been ‘comforting’ Mama since my dad ran off decades ago. But I’m telling you now, don’t be shocked if your father is involved with someone. My money is on Mrs. Collins.”
“That’s absurd. She’s just a very kind lady.”
He scoffed and shook his head. “Bre-Bee, when you’re confronted with things you don’t know how to handle, you have a habit of burying your head in the sand. That won’t always work.”
“I don’t like conflict,” she defended. “How does it not upset you?”
“Sometimes it’s a necessary evil.”
Like his job, which she didn’t like much, either. “I guess I should go. Gabrielle Brown is bringing her mama in this morning. They’re both insisting on having a perm. Gabi swears those are coming back in style.”
“She’s got hair down to her ass.”
“Backside,” she corrected. “And you’re right. So it’s going to be a long day.”
“Then let’s get you to work.”
