Can’t Get Enough

by Showalter, Gena

  Bright morning light filtered through a bay of windows, highlighting his companion’s wealth of red hair. Irritation rose like a tide. Lately, whenever alcohol lowered his guard, he’d gravitated to redheads, though he’d settled for blondes and brunettes in a pinch. But no, he didn’t need a shrink getting all up in his business to figure out why.

  Since moving to Strawberry Valley, Brock had craved a specific strawberry-blonde with every fiber of his being. Beautiful beyond imagining, Lyndie “Scottie” Scott. She was best friends with Ryanne, Jude’s wife, and Dorothea Porter, Daniel’s wife. Which meant Brock and Scottie were constantly in each other’s orbit.

  They knew a lot about each other because their friends talked and shared too much, even if he and Scottie didn’t. He knew when and where she got hair trimmed and if she caught a cold from the kids in her kindergarten class. He knew she had been seeing a therapist for the past few months and had recently decided to start dating. Not that she’d found a man yet. A prospect that kept Brock up at nights.

  What would he do when she found one?

  Brock had almost asked her out, oh, about a dozen times. But why bother? He’d never had more than a one-night stand. What did he have to offer a woman hoping for something long term? And why ruin a good thing? They were finally on comfortable terms with each other.

  In the past few months, she’d really come out of her shell. She’d stopped sitting as far away as possible from him and started looking him in the eye when they spoke.

  On the flip side, she had started flirting with other men. Just a little. A smile here. A glance there. Nibbling on her plump bottom lip. Saying things like “Aren’t you the cutest thing?” And “You are too adorable for words.” Testing the waters a bit. Preparing for her date, whenever it happened.

  Brock’s hands fisted. He’d tried flirting with her—because he couldn’t not—but she’d smiled at him blankly, as if he’d spoken a foreign language she’d never learned.

  Despite all that, he hungered for her constantly. She’d become the one and only star of his fantasies.

  In his mind, her image claimed center stage, even now. Her waterfall of strawberry-blond hair reached her waist—perfect for winding around his fist. Golden eyes almost too big for her face complemented a delicate nose and rosebud lips the color of cherries.

  She was sweet as pie and endearingly shy until she got to know a person. Always she was a little vulnerable. Okay, a lot vulnerable. Sometimes she reminded him of a porcelain doll: easily breakable.

  One day he feared a strong wind would shatter her into a thousand pieces.

  Her fragility wasn’t exactly a winning attribute. Brock had to be careful with her, and careful wasn’t really in his wheelhouse. Daniel often compared him to a bull in a china shop.

  Why Brock wanted Scottie more than he wanted anything or anyone else, he wasn’t sure.

  For the first few months of their acquaintance, she’d legit feared him, which was understandable. Kind of. He didn’t like being blamed for the crimes of other men. He had enough on his plate. But he had to cut her some slack. Scottie had a traumatic past. A child beaten by her father had grown into a wife beaten by her husband.

  What she hadn’t understood in the beginning? Brock would die before he hurt her. He would die to protect her.

  She didn’t need to know he would also kill to protect her.

  Unfortunately, both the father and the ex were deceased. Brock would have liked a baseball bat and five minutes alone with each man.

  Now the beautiful schoolteacher had trouble trusting men. The bigger the man, the greater her fear, Brock supposed. He happened to be bigger than most. At six foot four, he carried around two hundred fifty pounds of solid muscle.

  But even if Scottie did a one-eighty and invited Brock over for a single night of debauchery, no strings attached, he’d have to say no, right? Couples could say “no-strings-attached” all they wanted, but it never worked. And could he really do everything he’d imagined doing in twelve hours? Twenty-four? Forty-eight?

  No! He’d want a week, at least. Maybe a month. Problem was, at the end of that month, bonds might have formed. He’d seen it happen to both of his friends. What would happen if Brock and Scottie argued? Or grew to dislike each other? Ryanne and Dorothea would side with her, no question, and Jude and Daniel would side with their wives, as they should. Such was the way of life.

  Brock could find himself banned from the group. A circumstance he couldn’t fathom without dying inside. He needed his friends more than water to drink.

  And what would happen if Scottie ever learned intimate details about his past, huh? How he’d been a mean little boy, always been in trouble, picking fights, stealing, and only his father’s money had kept him out of juvie. How he’d joined the Army to avoid jail time for assault. How he’d become a bona fide killer in the name of war.

  Scottie would be petrified of him all over again. Other women might be willing to overlook his past, but not her. A few times, he’d heard her say, “Violence is violence” when talking about fights at school.

  So Brock used other women to play pretend. Not exactly original. Ask him if he cared.

  Over the years, one-night stands and booze had become his crutch. He knew it, but again, he didn’t care. For just a little while, he could forget the lives he’d taken on his country’s behalf, forget the friends he’d lost in war zones, forget the sad little boy who’d constantly lashed out because he’d never understood why his mother despised him but adored his POS little brother.

  Brock wasn’t thriving, but he was surviving. Good enough, he supposed.

  Last night’s companion snapped her fingers in front of his face, drawing him from his thoughts. “Earth to Brock.”

  He blinked, shook his head. Letting himself become distracted in the presence of another? Pure foolishness.

  “You say something?” he asked. What was her name, anyway? She must have told him at some point, but… He flipped through his mental files and came up blank. The usual “honey” it is, then.

  “I asked if you were hungry. I’m told I make the best pancakes in town.”

  “Sorry, honey,” he said, keeping his tone gentle. “But I’ve got to go.”

  Disappointment flashed in her dark eyes. “You left your car at the Scratching Post. I’ll drive—”

  “No, thanks.” Never stick around, never encourage. Always leave them wanting more. That way you would become a fond memory rather than a hated regret. “I’m sure you have better things to do.”

  “It’s Sunday. I have the day off. Driving you won’t be any trouble, honest.”

  He had no desire to hurt her feelings, but he also had no desire to prolong their association. “I appreciate the offer, but I prefer to walk.” Besides, at any time he could call Jude or Daniel. His friends could track him through the GPS in his cell phone.

  Her lips pursed and her gaze darted away from him, but she nodded.

  “I’m sorry.” Before he caved just to make her smile again, he strode from the house.

  Outside, cold October wind blustered, his short-sleeve cotton shirt offering little protection. He could imagine the conversation with the woman if he dared go back.

  With her mouth, she would say: Here’s your coat. With her eyes, she would say: I hope you choke on it!

  There at the end, he’d made her feel cheap, hadn’t he? She’d deserved better.

  No two ways about it. Brock sucked as bad as change.

  Ignoring a pang of guilt, he scanned his new surroundings. Fat gray clouds filled the sky, a storm brewing over a small trailer park some of the residents had tried to maintain while others had let go to ruin. Empty beer cans littered multiple lawns. A crumpled pack of cigarettes tumbled across a dirt road.

  Having grown up in an affluent neighborhood in Manhattan, these small-town slices of life continued to fascinate him.

  How had Scottie grown up? In a run-down area like this one or—

  Stop using her nicknam
e. A nickname he had given her and only he used; it was far too intimate. Better yet, stop thinking about her, period. If this kept up, every muscle in his body would harden.

  Too late. Hard—as—a—rock.

  Brock had to get over his obsession with Scott— Lyndie. Might be best to avoid her for a little while. Besides, the less time he spent with her—or any woman—the better. The less a woman got to know the real him, the less likely she was to despise him.

  Always leave them craving more.

  Truth was, something about him was defective. His own mother hadn’t been able to love him. How would anyone else?

  But oh, the thought of being separated from Sc— Lyndie again nearly drove him insane with some dark emotion he couldn’t name. Which he didn’t understand. He usually avoided the prim-and-proper-debutante type his parents considered the Holy Grail.

  Lyndie’s typical outfit? A pair of khakis, a high-neck blouse, and a prudish cardigan sweater he wanted to unbutton with his teeth.

  When it came to this particular debutante, his hang-ups had never really mattered. She walked into a room and he wanted her. She looked his way and he wanted her. She breathed and he wanted her.

  If only the feeling were mutual.

  No, no. Much better this way. If she made a play for him, he would crumble, consequences be damned.

  Mood blackening, he walked a mile, hoping to cool off before he phoned… Daniel. Yeah. Jude worked late nights at the bar and would still be asleep.

  His friend showed up twenty minutes later and passed him a thermos of black coffee.

  “Thanks, man.” Brock sipped the white-hot heavenly brew, the kick of caffeine making him feel human again. Or human-ish.

  “Anytime. Mean that.”

  Daniel looked like he’d just rolled out of bed. His dark hair stuck out in spikes, his gold eyes hooded by heavy lids, and dark stubble shadowed his jaw. Wrinkles littered his shirt and jeans, and he’d stuffed his feet into mismatched slippers, one black, one brown.

  Every single woman in Strawberry Valley had fallen in love with Daniel’s good-ole-boy charm. He’d fallen in love with Dorothea, the sassy, sexy owner of the Strawberry Inn.

  Like Ryanne, Dorothea was now pregnant. A bona fide miracle. Years ago, a terrible accident left her with so many internal scars doctors told her she had a one-in-a-million chance of ever conceiving a child. Maybe divine intervention was responsible. Maybe Daniel’s little soldiers had found a way past enemy lines. Whatever the reason, the delighted couple had managed to beat the odds.

  So of course baby fever was sweeping through town at warp speed. Brock shuddered. Babies were feeble creatures. He’d never held one, never would. His bloodstained hands had no business handling anything so innocent and sweet.

  Once the Porter and Laurent kids were snotty teenagers, Brock would make a mighty fine Uncle B.

  He wondered if Lyndie had been infected. If that was why she wanted to start dating. Brock pressed his tongue to the roof of his mouth. The day he spotted her with some “nice guy” was the day he—

  Nothing. Absolutely nothing.

  “Whose murder are you plotting?” Daniel asked, his tone one hundred percent conversational.

  “Anyone Lyndie might be romantically interested in,” he grumbled. The one-night-stand champion of the world had no right to feel jealous. Seriously, if you stacked Brock’s lovers side by side, one on top of the other, they would block the sun.

  “She told Dorothea she’s interested in finding someone like…me,” his friend admitted. “Tall, dark, and handsome.”

  “Check, check, and mate.” He patted his stubbled cheeks. “I’ve got you beat in every department.” Hey, it wasn’t bragging if it was true.

  “Can’t blame her, really,” Daniel continued as if Brock hadn’t spoken. “I’m pretty sure I’m the inspiration behind thousands of romance novels, and the authors simply changed my name to protect my lack of innocence.”

  Brock snorted. He loved this man more than he’d ever loved a blood relative. Jude too. Their bond had been forged at Ranger school, had solidified on the battlefield, and had only intensified in the years since. Daniel and Jude helped Brock maintain his sanity, supported him without judgment, and genuinely liked him even though they knew him better than anyone.

  “The she-beast has risen.” His mother’s ringtone sounded once again. “The she-beast has risen.”

  Twice in one day? Unprecedented. He ran his tongue over his teeth, his crap mood taking another nosedive. What did she want?

  He finished off the coffee, the liquid turning to acid as soon as it reached his stomach.

  Daniel reached over and patted his shoulder. “I can pull over and get out. Give you a little privacy if you want to speak with her.”

  “Want? Never.” Brock sent the call to voice mail with a hard press of a button.

  Of course, Mother Dearest refused to leave a message. As usual. However, there was no way he’d call her back until he had hours to spare and no potential witnesses. The harpy knew just how to drive him to the edge and tempt him to erupt into his worst self.

  For years he’d wondered why she hated him, why she called him “worthless” and “unlovable,” and why she used to slap him around—why she’d loved his younger brother, Braydon, from moment one. A boy Brock had adored too, despite the sharp-edged envy that had lashed him to the bone.

  Well, a boy he used to adore. At some point Braydon began to treat him as Miranda did.

  Seeking answers, Brock had finally gone to his father. Brent Hudson had never been needlessly cruel, just persistently absent.

  Dad, why does Mom hate me?

  I wish I knew, son.

  At least he hadn’t offered a platitude: you’re mistaken, she loves you.

  Now, looking back, Brock remembered the sadness and anger that darkened his father’s eyes. Brent might not have known the reason, but he’d suspected.

  But rather than dealing with Miranda’s favoritism for Braydon and hatred for Brock, Brent continued to ignore it, his wife, and his children, allowing Brock to suffer from her verbal attacks again and again.

  Stupid boy!

  You’re a waste of breath.

  I liked my life better without you in it.

  Only in the past year had Brent reached out, hoping to make amends. No, thanks. Screw me over once, maybe I’ll give you a second chance. Just kidding. We’re done.

  “I didn’t wake you when I called, did I?” Brock asked Daniel, changing the subject.

  Daniel’s grip tightened on the steering wheel, his knuckles bleaching of color. “I’ve been up for hours. When I said Lyndie was interested in dating again—”

  “Which I already knew.”

  “I meant she’s already started. Which you didn’t. She went on a date, like, four months ago and—”

  “What!” The date happened so long ago, and Brock wasn’t told? “Why was I kept in the dark?”

  “Why do you think? Jude and I thought it might be nice if the guy lived and you stayed out of jail.”

  “I would never beat a man to blood and pulp without reason.”

  “And do you feel you have a reason?”

  “Yes,” he grumbled. Lyndie belonged to— No one. “Good call,” he added, still grumbling.

  “Now that you know, I can give you the rest of the deets. So, while she was on this date, a cop pulled her and the guy over. The cop was a friend of her ex’s and bad news. In fact, he’s the one who tried to help shut down the Scratching Post.”

  Yeah, Brock remembered him. Jim Rayburn. “Now in prison for trying to murder Jude and Ryanne.”

  “Before all his legal troubles, he scared the date away and told Lyndie he would be giving her name to a crazy scumbag in Blueberry Hill. He kept his word. Now the crazy scumbag is stalking her.”

  Dark rage seethed in Brock’s chest. Protective instincts soared. At the same time, his guilt returned, and this time there was no ignoring it. When Lyndie needed him most, he’d been dri
nking and screwing. And she had needed him to stand between her and her monsters.

  “Where is she?” he demanded.

  “Still at the Strawberry Inn with Dorothea.”

  “Take me there.”

  Daniel opened his mouth, snapped it closed. Open, closed. Finally he sighed. “First, you need a shower. You smell like beer, sex, and cigarettes. Second, if you go to Lyndie wearing that particular expression, she might die of a heart attack.”

  “She doesn’t have to look at me. I’ll guard her door.” Protecting her was a need. An obsession.

  Since moving to Strawberry Valley, Brock’s wartime nightmares had been replaced with scenes of Lyndie crying for help as her father or husband beat her, her bones breaking, blood flowing like a river.

  He’d wake up feeling as if he’d been in a car accident, his body stiff and sore, his sheets covered in sweat. Even now, at the thought of Lyndie’s painful past, tension turned his muscles to stone.

  “She’s upset,” Daniel added, turning the truck, entering Strawberry Valley’s town square.

  Antique lampposts lined each sidewalk, complementing historic and modern buildings alike. Everything from the sprawling brownstone with a copper awning and multiple gargoyles perched along a balcony, to the metal warehouse with a tin roof, to the whitewashed bungalow and stone chapel with stained glass windows.

  With Halloween seven weeks away—stores were getting a jump start every year—display windows contained a surplus of decorations. Skeletons, a zombie Alice in Wonderland, pumpkins, bats, and ghosts.

  Despite the early-morning hour, Virgil Porter—Daniel’s father—sat outside Style Me Tender salon with Anthony Rodriguez, playing checkers. AKA people watching and gossiping like old cocks in a henhouse.

  Daniel waved to his dad and said, “Instead of going to the inn, why don’t we pick up Jude and have a chat with the stalker?”

  Brock scrubbed a hand over his jaw, fighting the urge to leap out of the truck and run to Lyndie now. Just want to be near her.

  For her sense of well-being…or his own?