by Alison Kent
“Who was talking?”
“Does it matter?”
“Goddamn it, Arwen.” He slammed the bottle across the room, his gaze holding hers as the glass shattered, tinkling against the tile like a sad country song. “Who the fuck was it?”
The room tightened around her, and she moved to keep it at bay, crossing to the table that had been in the Buck Off Bar, to the booth where she’d sat as a girl and dressed her Barbie in the tiny plastic heels that reminded her of her mother’s shoes.
Shoes that didn’t belong in Crow Hill. That were meant for a life in the city. She looked out the window, watched Crush cross the lawn, orange on green, downy white feathers floating in his wake. The circle of life.
But they were talking about Dax’s life. “Is it true? Is Greg Barrett your brother?”
Blood hammered through the veins at his temples. His eyes narrowed in the shadow cast by the brim of his hat. “You gonna answer my question, or what?”
Really? That’s what he wanted to know? “I’m not even sure. I think it was Roma Orleans. Maybe Nan Waters. Why does it matter?”
“Because I want to know who’s telling lies.”
Except it wasn’t a lie. She knew that. His insistence otherwise was one thing, but the women speculating were right. Greg shared the same traits with Darcy as Dax. His coloring was darker, but all three had Wallace Campbell’s eyes, though the colors varied from bright blue to green, and the shape of their smiles was identical.
“How long have you known?”
Finally, he faltered, nudging up the brim of his hat and scrubbing both hands down his face. “A few days.”
She took a deep breath, blew out all of her tension when letting it go. “He told you?”
A nod. “At the hospital.”
“What did you do?”
“Told him he was full of shit and decked him.”
Arwen winced. “Did you tell Darcy?”
“Hell, no. I haven’t told anyone, and I won’t. Not until I know for sure.”
And only one person could verify that. “What did he say?”
He snorted. “Besides owing his education to the old man? An education that should’ve been mine?”
An education he’d turned his back on. “Who’s his mother?”
“Some legal secretary The Campbell met at a conference.”
The Campbell. She didn’t think she’d ever heard anyone but Darcy use the term to refer to their father. “What are you going to do?”
“About what?”
“Finding out if he is who he says he is.”
“Nothing.”
“You don’t think you owe it to Darcy to tell her?”
“Nope.”
“What if she hears the rumors?”
“She’s a big girl.”
“That’s harsh.”
“It is what it is.”
“What if your father never wakes up?”
“Then he never wakes up.”
“And if he dies? Is Greg named in his will?”
“How the hell should I know?” he fairly shouted.
Arwen waited, a clock in her head ticking as she watched Dax’s anger abate. “You seriously don’t want to know the truth?”
He took a deep sighing breath. “Am I going to steal his toothbrush and pay for a DNA test? I barely have enough money to feed the livestock left to my care, not to mention feeding myself, so no. I don’t want to know the truth.”
She didn’t know what to say. How could he live like this, turning his back, not knowing, never wondering, drifting still? She shook her head, hugged herself tighter, glancing out the window to see Crush curled in a ball at the base of her yard’s huge spreading oak.
And yet… She had turned her back on her father, rarely wondering, not knowing, staying selfishly involved in her life in Crow Hill without a word to the man who had suffered an unimaginable loss and yet still done his best by her.
What right did she have to criticize Dax when she was no better a daughter than he was a son?
She was fighting back tears when Dax came up behind her, wrapped his arms around her, lowered his head to nuzzle his cheek to hers. He smelled like beer and wood smoke, like sweat and the sun. Like the Dax that she loved, though right now he was making it hard to remember why.
Right now, she wanted to walk away. She wanted him sober. She wanted to have this conversation from a place where he would remember. She didn’t want the distraction of his body and his hands and his warm breath on her neck.
She wanted him to face this thing that, if true, would change his life forever. She didn’t want him to look for an escape, because that’s what he was doing. Running. Away from the truth, away from the pain. Running to her, this time, instead of leaving Crow Hill. And if she welcomed him, accepted him…
He was kissing her neck and she couldn’t breathe and she didn’t want to enable his avoidance by giving in. God, she was torn. Was this what it meant to love someone? Offering unconditional support while they found their way?
“Dax—”
He spun her, shook his head, lifted her to sit on the table’s edge. “Don’t talk.”
“We need to talk.”
“I’m done talking. No more. Not today.”
She pressed her lips together. If he wasn’t going to listen, there was nothing for her to say. She needed to get back to the festivities anyway. But he was in her way, his eyes fiery, his mouth grim, his nostrils flaring, his pulse a visible beat in the hollow of his throat.
Her pulse answered, and she fought it back. She didn’t want this. Not here. Not now. If he couldn’t be honest with her, if he couldn’t open up to her, if all he could do was rage against life being something other than what he wanted it to be…
He reached for her foot then, held her gaze as he worked off her boot. He dropped it to the floor, tugged off the other, making it easy to strip her of her jeans. She gave him a look. “I didn’t come in here for this.”
“Doesn’t matter,” he said, hopping on one foot then the other to get rid of his boots, too. “I need to fuck you.”
His words were cold and crass and didn’t consider her at all. It was his need that kept her there. Dax Campbell needed her, and an ache rose from her core to frighten her with its strength.
She was going to get hurt. He didn’t love her. He needed her to give him relief. He was drunk and angry and driven by his cock. He was going to hurt her, and she couldn’t tell him no because she needed him for the same wrong reasons as well as for the ones that were right.
His fly was open, the denim vee spread wide by the thrusting bulge of his cock in his briefs. The shaft was thick, the head engorged, the tip weeping already and making her wet. She lifted her gaze, taking in the strip of golden hair rising above the elastic band to bisect his well-defined abs.
She loved his body hair, coarse on his legs, kissed by the sun on his arms, the silky wedge in the center of his chest, the nest that cushioned his penis and balls and created a wonderfully sticky wet friction when he slid into her and out.
He shrugged off his shirt, tossing it into the booth as he helped her off the table, reaching for her, burying his face in her hair, his fingers nimble at the buttons of her fly, opening her jeans, tugging them down, taking down her panties, too. She wore only her socks, her bra, and her Hellcat Saloon T-shirt, and he stripped the last two away, returned her to the table.
Naked and wet, she waited, hungry, hot, watching his erection spring from his pants as he shed them. Then he moved in, one hand fisting his shaft, the other in the small of her back. She widened the spread of her legs and he dipped his hips, aligning their bodies before driving his cock so deeply inside her he hit bottom.
She leaned back on her hands, dropped her head on her shoulders, and closed her eyes, hurting where his fingers dug into her skin. She didn’t care. She was naked in her kitchen, and he was thick and long and full inside of her, and her nipples were so tightly drawn, the touch of the air made her flinch.
Impaled, she couldn’t move as Dax leaned in, the base of his cock stretching her to the point of pain. She gasped, gasped again as he fingered her clit, pulling up on the hood to expose her, taking a nipple in his mouth and biting down. This time she yelped, her cry echoing in the kitchen and followed by Dax’s very dirty and very earthy laugh.
She hadn’t locked the door, and dozens of people milled in the yard between the saloon and the house, and at any moment someone could walk inside. The thought terrified her, and yet she pulled her heels to her hips on the table and grabbed her ankles, giving Dax better access along with her trust.
He took both, holding her shoulders as he loomed above, his abs contracted, his cock deep, his balls slapping her ass as he thrust. His mouth twisted, pained. His jaw clicked. His temple throbbed. Sweat beaded on his brow and fell to her chest, burning her skin as he pounded and grunted and scraped her raw.
She loved it, the violence, the intensity, the brutal power. Loved knowing how much he held in check. She bucked up against him, the table shaking as they fucked. He laughed again, and she bit off a sharply ordered, “More,” and his laugh grew wicked and low, vibrating through to her core where he stroked.
“More,” she said again and he leaned over her, licking at the tip of one breast then the other, sucking at her flesh, holding her nipple with the edges of his teeth. She squirmed, and he moved his hands to her knees, pushing her wide and holding her there while he drove deep.
It still wasn’t enough. She didn’t know what she wanted, what she was looking for, reaching for, what was missing. He was taking her apart and she ached from the assault, craving the pain that kept her from saying words he wasn’t ready for. Words she wasn’t sure she trusted to be the truth.
The only one she trusted was, “More.”
Dax groaned. “You’re killing me here, baby. Killing me.”
“Can you think of a better way to go?”
He made a sound, half groan, half laugh, and it rumbled through her limbs. “Not even for enough money to save my fucking ranch.”
He pulled his cock from her pussy then, worked their shared moisture lower and found the bud of her ass, piercing the tight hole and slowly sliding deep. She kept her knees raised, moved her hands to her clit, holding Dax’s eyes as he gripped the edge of the table at her sides.
Her body shivered, invaded as it was, pinned as she was, and then Dax touched her, splaying one hand on her belly to anchor her, his thumb pressing into her clit and sending her flying. She stiffened, shuddered, collapsed, her eyes rolling toward unconsciousness, tremors rocking her, sweeping through her, and all the while Dax fucking her and fingering her and finishing her off.
And then he was gone, pulling away before lifting her from the table to the floor, flipping her over, pushing her down, entering her ass from behind. He stroked slowly, his rhythm steady, the pressure of his cock no more than she could bear, though all too quickly it wasn’t enough and she wiggled to let him know.
He delivered, holding her hips as he pumped. She reached for her clit, working it as sensation built again, and crying out as she came. The sound sent Dax over and he pulled his cock from her ass, shooting pulses of hot semen along her spine, spilling words that were just as sizzling as his body heat.
It was when he grabbed his shirt from the booth and leaned forward to clean her off that she heard the first crack. She stilled, waited, heard another, and tried to push up. But Dax wasn’t paying attention. He was muttering to himself, wiping her down, and when the third crack came, it was too late.
The table shook beneath them and Dax pulled her back as it shattered, the particleboard top aged and dry and no match for their weight or destructive actions. It was broken, and it could never be put back together, and all she could do was stand there with her ears ringing.
“Wow,” he said, his breath hot against her ear, his heart pounding against her back, and then he added a loud “Shit” and grabbed her by the waist—just as the First Baptist Church’s Dr. Britton crossed in front of her window and kneeled in front of her oak to pet Crush.
She huddled atop Dax’s prone body, staring at the detritus of her childhood, while the man she loved lay snoring and passed out on the floor.
THIRTY-TWO
DAX THOUGHT HE might have to shoot himself. Why the hell he’d thought it a good idea to take Arwen to the Crow Hill Country Club would be a mystery he couldn’t see himself solving before the end of his days. But here they were, and he wasn’t about to back out now, and after the way he’d treated her at the barbecue cook-off, he was damn lucky she’d agreed to go out with him at all.
She looked amazing. A-maz-ing. When she’d met him at her door earlier, he’d forgotten his own name, and couldn’t for the life of him remember hers. He’d smelled oranges and herbs and her skin, been blown away by the way she’d made up her eyes, her lashes thick and dark, some glittery shadow catching the light from her porch, her mouth a deep dark pink he wanted to kiss.
He had no idea what she was doing with him, a cowboy, a bad seed, a black sheep, a dick. Yeah, he knew what folks thought of him, the way he’d run out on his kin and the hell he’d raised without making amends. But Arwen saw beneath that, saw the same truth his boys had known all along. He worked hard and he played hard and loved harder than them all. Where was the crime in that?
Opening his door while a white-coated valet opened Arwen’s, he climbed down and walked to where she waited, stopping to look at her as another valet took off in his truck to park it. Her dress was strapless, a tight-fitting number that hugged her breasts and her waist, then flared into a skirt that made him think of Marilyn Monroe. He wanted to see her walk over a subway air vent, wanted to watch the material billow, see her fight it, get a peek at what she was wearing beneath.
And her hair… God, her hair. Shining like strong coffee in the sun. She’d curled it, swept it back on one side with a flowered clip thing the same color pink as her dress. And her shoes, her legs. They were bare, smooth, gorgeous, her heels as high as railroad spikes, though so narrow he had no idea how she balanced. But balance she did, and walk she did, her ass swinging, her skirt swinging, too, as she came to where he was standing like he’d been rooted to the ground.
“Are you sure about this?” she asked, frowning.
He shifted a bit to adjust his own erect root. “Why do you ask?”
“You’re sweating,” she said, leaning forward to lick his throat in the open collar of his dress shirt.
God-damn. “It’s hot out.”
“Not that kind of sweat, silly.”
Silly, yeah. That was what he was. “I didn’t know there was more than one kind.”
“Sure there is,” she said, hooking her arm through his and turning him toward the door. “There’s baling hay in the sun sweat—”
“We don’t bale our own hay. Hell, we don’t have any hay to bale.”
“Whatever,” she said with a wave of her hand. “There’s slick, sliding sex sweat—”
“Now that sweat I know about,” he said and stopped walking. “I’m all for heading back to your place and working up a good lather.”
“Hey. One-track mind guy. It’s date night, remember?” she asked, and nudged him forward.
“Yeah, but since I’m the one who picks the dates, I don’t see why I can’t change my mind. We can watch Serenity again. I like Captain Mal.”
This time she stopped, forced him to turn and face her, then let go of his arm and took a step away. “Look at me.”
He looked. Head to toe, he looked. His cock looked, too, that one big eye open wide. “Okay.”
She made a sweeping gesture with both hands. “This is for you. I spent hours making this happen.”
He waggled both brows. “Bet I can undo it all in a minute ten.”
Her eyes narrowed into threatening slits. “You won’t be undoing it ever if you don’t feed me Chef Alman’s wasabi ginger rib eye.”
He canted his head to the side, twisted
his mouth. “We can probably get it to go.”
“Dax Campbell, I swear.” She charged, heels tapping, skirt whipping, finger coming for his chest. “If you don’t take me inside right now, you will never get to taste my tits again.”
He shoved his hands in his pockets, swung out his elbow. “Let’s do this.”
Once inside, they were tended to immediately, the maitre d’ seating Arwen then turning to Dax. “Good evening, Mr. Campbell. My sympathies in regards to your father. And nice to have you with us Ms. Poole. Can I have our sommelier make a suggestion from our wine list?”
“No need,” Dax said, holding Arwen’s gaze. “A bottle of Prairie Rotie, please.
“The 2009?”
Uh, good question. “That would be the one.”
“Perfect. I’ll have it sent right over.”
Waiting until they were alone, Arwen gave him a smile. “A wine man. I’m impressed.”
“No reason to be. Darcy told me it’s what the old man drinks when he’s not guzzling Glenlivet.”
She crossed her legs, swung her foot back and forth against his calf. “I would think you’d order something else.”
“And reveal my total ignorance? Not a chance,” he said, glancing around and wondering how fast they could order, how fast they could eat. “This was such a bad idea.”
“Why? Because this is your father’s social club?”
In a nut sac. “I want my hat.”
She reached over, patted his cheek. “Feed me, and then I’ll feed you.”
He groaned. “Takeout. Next time you’re hungry, it’s takeout all the way.”
“You know the best place for takeout in town is the saloon.”
“I’m a big fan of burgers. I can afford burgers.”
She looked at him for a long moment then dropped her gaze to her lap, twisting her hands there as if too nervous to speak. “I have money, Dax.”
Sweet. God, this woman was sweet. “I have money, too. I wouldn’t have brought you here if I didn’t have money. I also have the family tab and a whole lot of sympathy to play on.”
Her eyes widened. “You wouldn’t dare.”
