by Anne Marsh
Think. I need a plan.
My inner Damsel in Distress is praying for a miracle and a white knight, my inner hussy is all no freaking way, and my bad ass side seems to have gone on vacation or perhaps she’s run for help. All I can do is stall for more time because I don’t think I really want to find out why he’s here. “What do you want, Thad?”
He flashes me his crooked smile. Once upon a time, I thought that smile charming, which just goes to show that appearances are deceiving. His answer does nothing to reassure me, either.
“We’ve gone over this before. You need to come back with me.”
“So you do have a warrant?” I’m betting that’s a no. And it’s interesting, too, because if he could, he’d get one just to rub my face in it.
“Not yet,” he spat. “But I will. And it doesn’t matter anyhow. You’re going back with me, Sarah Jo.”
His thumb, stroking the barrel of his gun, makes a compelling case. Warrant or no warrant, he holds all the cards right now, and my options are decidedly limited. Problem is, the fire camp isn’t exactly teeming with life right now. The hotshots are all out in the field, eating dinner, or in town getting their fun on. And even if I scream, how do I know any big, burly guys in the vicinity correctly interpret my desperate screech as call 911 and send an army of vengeful giants armed for bear as opposed to ooh itsy bitsy spider sighting? (they’ve stopped running to the rescue after a few false alarms). I’m on my own here, and while that’s usually how I prefer my life, I’d like to make an exception tonight.
“You’ve got to pay the piper, Sarah Jo,” he says as if we’re discussing a five-dollar bet or a dare and not my life. Because I suspect he’s all in. He wants me to pay, and he’s not going to shortchange his revenge.
I take a shot at the truth. “I did nothing wrong.”
“You shouldn’t have run and tattled,” he accuses. “You said things.”
“Nobody believed me.” This is, most unfortunately, also the truth.
“Maybe. Maybe not. Eventually, someone might. You should have been on my side.”
There’s zero reason for me to side with him, but I don’t thinking pointing that out would be prudent. Instead, I go for wishful thinking. “I’m not going anywhere with you.”
In answer, he unhooks a pair of handcuffs from his utility belt. “You’re not the one in charge here. I am. Turn around and face the wall. Put your hands behind you.”
I let Pick do things to me last night. Sensual, playful, demanding things. He turned me inside out and reduced me to a quivering, compliant puddle. I still haven’t quite figured out how I feel about that, but I know this is wrong. Giving up control to Thad isn’t some kind of dirty game, and I don’t trust him.
Not like I trust Pick.
I take a deep breath (because if it’s my last one, I want to make it a good one) and flip him off.
“What the hell is wrong with you? You want me to shoot you?”
Absolutely not. I back the hell up, but he’s already coming for me. At least he shoves the gun back into its holster, so he’s either given up on shooting me or he’s decided to do it by hand. And then he lunges, fists shooting toward my face, and I retreat as fast and as far as I can. Of course, it’s not enough. His fist clips my jaw, sending me crashing to the floor. Pain blazes across my cheek, but I’m not dead and this is no time to stop. I scramble up.
He shakes his head, hooks his leg around mine, and yanks. I promptly end up back on the floor.
“Gotcha.” I can hear the smile in his voice as he pins me down with his weight. If I can just get him off, I can make the door . . . I buck, trying to knock him off balance, but he rolls me easily, jamming a knee into the small of my back. Then he pulls back hard on my arms, and my back bows helplessly.
“Stop fighting,” he demands, “and you’ll be happier.”
Is he freaking crazy? I mean, the answer, obviously, is yes, but what makes him think I’ll just give in now and let him do whatever it is that he’s planning? Because I don’t think he’s about to give me a free vacation to some lovely tropical destination with unlimited margaritas.
“Bite me.” He’s bigger and better trained, and apparently that whole thing about people performing superhuman feats because of adrenaline-fueled desperation? That’s not happening here. I end up stuck on the floor, panting as I gaze longingly at the enormous tin cans of tomatoes so tantalizingly close. I totally bet I could bash Thad’s head in with one of those if he would just hold still.
“There’s a good girl.” Thad’s satisfied voice fills my ear. God. It’s so gross. His erection presses into my lower back. I buck again, but he’s still bigger and stronger. My shoulders burn as he jerks my arms toward him.
The zip-ties tighten around my wrists.
Pick
I need to find Sarah Jo. I don’t know if it’s because I’m desperate to see her, or because I miss her, or just because somehow she’s a part of my life now—a part that matters a whole lot. I’m not a relationship Einstein, but even I know that we’ve got something going on. We may not be labeling shit, but we’re still feeling it.
Okay. I’m feeling it. Who the hell knows what’s going on in Sarah Jo’s head? I spend most of the drive back to fire camp trying to figure it out, but give it up when I run out of road and hit the parking lot. I could drive to Timbuktu and still not find the answers I’m looking for. So I’ll just have to ask.
Words.
Words suck.
I should have swung by the Hallmark store instead of the florist. Tonight could be my lucky night, though. Perhaps when she gets off work, Sarah Jo will be in the mood to play show instead of tell, and she’ll get my message. I glance across at the passenger side seat. So I brought flowers. A dozen red roses because the Internet claims nothing says I love you like red roses. Or a big fucking diamond, but I’m trying to do the woo—not scare my girl off. And while I’m not a flowers kind of guy, I’d like to think I can change for Sarah Jo. Or if I can’t change, I can at least polish up the rough edges a little.
She deserves white picket fences and happily-ever-after. Part of me wants to give her the big-ass diamond and a five-bedroom McMansion in the suburbs. The other, wiser part of me knows I can’t. Sure I’ve got more than enough money to live, but no one gets rich working fire crews, and I’ve always been a simple man with simple tastes. Fire camp has been enough for me.
Until now.
I pull in as quietly as I can because I don’t really want an audience for my flower-toting self. I’d never live it down, and if I crash and burn, I’m gonna need some alone time to lick my wounds. The place seems pretty much deserted, however. There’s a handful of familiar trucks, a couple of beat-up sedans that belong to the cooks, and Sarah Jo’s POS car. The damn grin is back on my face. Just the thought of seeing her, even at the other end of a plate of food, makes me smile.
That’s when I realize that there’s a patrol car tucked in the darkest corner of the makeshift parking lot. Fuck. I don’t need spidey senses to know that something’s wrong. Sarah Jo attracts trouble like nobody’s business, and Thad Hill made his intentions perfectly clear. I’m betting that car belongs to Deputy Douche.
Sarah Jo
Thad drags me to my feet, pulling his gun from its holster and pressing the barrel against my side. “We’re walking out of here.”
I’d like to say Like hell, but he’s won this round. The pain in my face fades some, leaving me clearheaded. He can’t keep me here, not for what he intends. He wants the glory of bringing me in. The pleasure of punishing me for defying him. None of that counts for shit if he can’t get me out the door and into his car. I guess preventing that is my new, best plan.
He gives me a small shake. “You got that?”
“Yeah.” I really, really do.
“Then shut up and start walking.” He wraps an arm around me, dragging me up against his side. The feel of his body touching mine makes me want to gag. I’ve touched him before, although never the way I�
�ve touched Pick, but this is wrong on so many levels. Ironically, though, Thad and I actually want the same thing at this moment. My only chance lies outside, in the four hundred yards of opportunity on the way to his car.
Plus, would he really shoot me? Right outside where everyone can see? He plans on forcing me to go with him, but that requires a degree of cooperation from me, and he’s definitely counting on me being scared.
And on the handcuffs.
When I flex my wrists, the plastic digs into my skin. There’s zero give, so whatever I do next, I do it bound and trussed. I decide it’s probably best if I don’t worry overmuch about that. One step at a time, right?
Thad flips the lock, opens the door, and steps out like he’s got no worries. With the electricity out, the light over the door is out, too, leaving us in the shadows. Plus, most folks are now focused on getting the lights back on—and so they’re not going to worry when a cook doesn’t show up promptly after her break. I could be asleep, trapped in the loo, or any one of a dozen other things.
The gun digs into my rib cage, a not-so-subtle reminder that right now he’s very much the one in charge. Have I mentioned how much I hate losing control? It’s not like this is a revelation, but my current lack of choices just reinforces what I’ve known all along. Men suck, being powerless sucks, and sometimes life serves up an enormous bowl of suck and all you can do is wait for a chance to trade up to something better. Which also sucks.
“Nice and easy,” Thad cautions, as if sticking his gun in my ribs hasn’t already made his point. I think he’s just rubbing it in at this point, which fits with what I know about him. He guides me down the porch, all faux solicitousness, and along the edge of the camp, sticking to the shadows and the trees. Well, I didn’t expect him to march me straight down the middle, right? I’ll just have to watch a little more closely for my opportunity.
He monologues like a bad villain, too. It’s all you’re going to be sorry blah fucking blah I’ve got you now. I get it, and yes, I’m sorry. Sorry I ever fell for his charm. Sorry I didn’t do things differently with Mrs. Joan. Sorry I didn’t take a chance on Pick and me. There’s this weird ache in my chest that I can’t even rub because I’m trussed up like a Thanksgiving turkey. It’s not a heart attack, though, or even heartburn. It takes me half the distance to the parking lot to realize the sad truth. It’s heartache, and how stupid is that to only figure out now that I want things with Pick? Things like feelings and emotions and maybe possibly spending a whole lot of time with him? I’m not sure how that would work since we both like to be in charge, but now it looks like I’ll never know. I add that to my list of things that suck.
In a moment, I’m sure I’ll come up with an awesome, super successful plan to get away from Thad, march my butt to the nearest police station and try—again—to get someone to listen to me. The only way to fix that, though, is to deal with Thad, and that means somehow getting away from him. Or I can sell a kidney and lawyer up. Or… I could ask Pick for help. He has ideas. He wants to help. And I think I might be okay with letting him, as long as I can choose the plan and can return the favor some day. I don’t have to make him the boss of me—just take turns standing watch with him. And that seems like another relationship thing, me guarding his back and him guarding mine. It’s like the emotional equivalent of soaping each other’s back in the shower. Some spots are hard to reach or feel better when someone else gets them.
Halfway to the parking lot, I lunge. It’s not my best idea, because he immediately gets an arm around my throat. Two hundred yards has done nothing to change the weight/height ratio between us any—he’s still taller and stronger. Pulling my head into his shoulder, he squeezes until breathing becomes my primary focus. God. In and out, little shallow pants, until he eases up because he’s made his point, and no, apparently he doesn’t want to kill me in the fire camp.
“Don’t,” he snarls. “Be smart about this.”
There’s no answer for that kind of demand, and it doesn’t matter. The boom that shakes the ground around us swallows up anything I might have said. The camp lights up like the Fourth of July, flames shooting into the sky from the direction where we’re headed.
“Flammables shed,” Thad observes. He’s practically cackling, he’s so gleeful. “They really should have had someone watching that.”
He’s crazy. This is a fire camp full of firefighters—not a military compound. The shed was pointed out to me when I first came up here to cook—it’s a definite no smoking zone—and it’s where the hotshots lock up their fusees and flamethrowers. It also houses a small arsenal of drip torches, gas cans, and a dozen different kinds of oil.
“That’s my insurance, right there,” Thad continues, towing me along faster. Behind us, shouts and curses ring out as the hotshots spring into action, everyone running toward the flames and away from Thad and me.
I definitely need help. I’m not getting out of this on my own. Just to prove the point, the parking lot looms up before us and I spot Thad’s patrol car. Once he gets me in that backseat, it’s game over. He’ll drive; I’ll lose. I’ll be nothing more than a footnote in the morning paper.
Scream for help.
Thoughts flash through my head, lightning-bug fast, but none of them prevent the patrol car from getting closer. I don’t want to do it. I don’t like doing it. Asking for help—and trusting someone else to provide it—isn’t how I live. Of course, changing up how I do things—since right now all that’s managed to do is to get me dragged forcibly across a fire camp—is just smart. I realize Pick did a whole lot of offering, while I did my best to push him away except when we were having sex. Then I stuck close, but I’m not sure that counts. He could have given up on me, but he hasn’t. He stuck up for me when Thad made his previous appearances. So it shouldn’t be so hard to ask for his help now, to be smart about this.
I hate doing the smart thing.
The good thing, though, is that Thad Hill clearly thinks he has me all figured out—and that I’ll go quietly into that good night (or really freaking awful nightmare—you guess which one it’s going to be). Dragging my heels, maybe, but he doesn’t expect me to want to draw attention to myself or to pull in anyone else. Not really. If he had, he’d have knocked me unconscious or figured out a different exit strategy.
Pick’s been on me to change, so here goes nothing. I open my mouth and bellow.
“Pick Revere, get your ass over here now.”
Simple. Clear. Always in control. That’s me.
Okay, so I’m not totally in control of this Thad thing (at all), but I’m bringing Pick in on my terms.
“Fu—” Thad slams a hand over my mouth and picks up the pace… and cue step two in my impromptu break-free-and-live-happily-ever-after plan. I dig my heels into the gravel, go limp as a pissed-off toddler—and bite his hand. Hard.
He tastes every bit as bad as I feared.
Pick
Sarah Jo hollers my name like a drill sergeant barking orders. I’ve learned a few critical lessons during our fuckfests. First, while naked is fun with Sarah Jo and I love making her come, our time spent out of bed is pretty amazing, too. She’s slowly letting me in, and I’ve been careful not to spook her. She’ll let me finger her clit, shove my face into her pussy and eat her until she screams, but opening up her head or letting me in on what she’s thinking doesn’t happen as fast. So I’ve made getting to know her my new mission.
One of the things I’ve learned? Sarah Jo doesn’t like asking for—or accepting—help. She’s a DIY queen when it comes to her life, so her urgent summons is out of character. She’s working tonight and it’s the right time for her to be on her break, but the girls’ impromptu breakroom is empty and dark, the lights out of order. I’m still recovering from my mad sprint over there when a summer’s worth of fusees explode and suddenly we’ve got fire in our own backyard.
Exploding fusees.
Unexpected patrol car.
You see where I’m headed with this?
/> Why I need to see for myself that she’s safe?
After I hold and squeeze her and probably say plenty of stupid shit, she can retreat back to Emotionarctica and I’ll try to respect those boundaries. So I reverse my mad dash and head toward her voice. It’s never a good sign when Sarah Jo asks for help. I think. Because it’s never fucking happened before, and I don’t want to think it’s in any way connected to the sheriff’s cruiser and the explosion.
I tear toward the parking lot, fielding strange looks and what-the-fucks from the guys on my team. Who are all running the other way, toward the fire that needs putting out ASAP. Something smaller goes up, lending another snap, crackle, and boom to the night and drowning out Sarah Jo’s follow-up demand.
Three hundred yards. Two. There.
Thad Hill has definitely paid a return visit, the son-of-a-bitch. I should have followed up and made sure that Hill’s superiors knew exactly what their deputy was up to, but I didn’t. Sarah Jo clearly hadn’t wanted the attention that kind of complaint would get, and I’d gone along with her wishes. I won’t make that mistake again. Safety first, feelings second.
Thad wrestles with Sarah Jo, trying to open his car door and keep her under control. She’s putting up one hell of a fight, making Thad’s job as difficult as possible. It’s probably weird that I want to be the only one she gives a hard time. The only one who’s special. The worry and anger erases that strange feeling.
Fortunately, I have a ready-made target for my aggression. I launch myself at Thad, fists flying. He doesn’t see me coming, which is also satisfying. Sarah Jo has him distracted, which just goes to show that she and I make a good team. If I’m lucky, I’ll be able to convince her to pick my side permanently when all this is over. My fist connects with Thad’s jaw, snapping his head back with a satisfying crack.
Unfortunately, I don’t knock his head off his neck. He drops Sarah Jo—a plus, because she promptly scrambles out of reach. The downside is that this frees up Thad’s hands to pull his gun. Guns always make things messy.
