by S. J. Drum
Lucy didn’t answer, didn’t have time before he was off ranting once again, his words becoming more nonsensical the longer he went on. She would have liked to smack the damn gun right out of his hand but the idiot had his finger resting over the trigger and it was only a matter of luck that he hadn’t shot her yet.
His face dripping with sweat and twisted by lunacy and rage made the whole experience easier to bear somehow, as if the hellish heat of the house was allowing the man’s outside to finally match his twisted inside.
Ross had the face of a cover model and the body to match, which accounted for his ability to lull everyone he met into a false sense of security. After all, how could evil be so lovely? No one imagines the monster in their closet as a handsome being with perfect lips. Lips that are perfect until threats are spat from between them. No one imagines a monster with beautiful, long-fingered hands that are a pleasure to hold but a terror to feel wrapped around your throat leaving matching bruises to mar your skin.
She watched, tense, waiting for her moment. Then it came.
Ross shoved the gun in his back pocket and grabbed the hem of his shirt. Melting in the feted heat, he was going to remove his shirt and give Lucy the chance she needed.
The tail of his shirt was lifted to reveal carved abs and the perfect bellybutton Lucy had once adored. The sight would have given her pause if she didn’t know a rotten, black core lay hidden beneath his perfect surface.
When he’d pulled his shirt up to shoulder height and began to jerk it over his head, she sprang. With legs gone numb from holding the same position for so long, she lurched to her feet and threw herself at him, glad, for once, for the extra weight she carried. Before he could free himself from the confines of his half-removed shirt, Lucy rammed her shoulder into his exposed side and heard a crunch, hoping she’d broken one or two of his ribs, as they tumbled to the ground.
Her advantage didn’t last long before Ross freed himself from the confines of his shirt, ripping it over his head to expose steel-blue eyes clouded with madness and a snarl on the lips she’d at one time found sensual.
Ross screamed a terrible howl of hatred as he drew back his fist.
Lucy, barely managing to twist aside, felt his fist clip the side of her jaw instead of the center of her face like he’d intended. It still hurt like hell.
“I loved you,” he snarled, his hands forcing her flat on her back with a punishing grip. “Did you think I’d let you go? That you could walk away from me and let someone else have what belongs to me?”
“I don’t belong to you!” Lucy screamed.
Surprise registered on his face quickly followed by a sinister smile. “I like this new feisty version of you. It’ll make what comes next so much more fun.”
“Fuck you,” Lucy spat, the words ending with a grunt of pain as Ross backhanded her. He wasn’t one to pull his punches and the strength behind the blow snapped her head to the right, sending a bolt of pain through her neck and down her spine.
He pressed one wide-spanning hand to the base of her throat and began fumbling, tearing at her shorts with the other. She wasn’t going to let this happen. Not this time. She’d had enough of being Ross’ punching bag and fuck doll.
The sweltering heat of the house combined with their struggling had caused their skin to become slick with sweat. The hand at the base of her throat slid, the grip unsure. Their bodies were drenched to the point of being slippery which, as gross as it felt, allowed Lucy the tiny bit of leverage she needed to twist in his grasp until she was belly down. She struggled to her knees, bucking his weight off her back. She was almost free.
Ross cursed and grabbed for her, catching her around the knees as she tried to scramble to her feet. When her chin smacked the unfinished floor boards, a sound like thunder filled the room and she thought she felt the floor vibrating. Either she was having a heatstroke or the bastard had given her one hell of a concussion and she was hallucinating.
Lucy was flipped to her back as the front door crashed open. She imagined she heard Dalton’s voice calling her name. She didn’t turn her head to look. No, her gaze was locked on Ross and the gun he’d reclaimed from his back pocket and once again had leveled on her. He didn’t seem to notice the shouting or bodies crowding into the room, reaffirming her idea she was hallucinating the whole event.
This is it. Ross is going to kill me. And just when I started wanting to really live…
In what seemed like minutes, though was probably closer to fractions of a second, a huge black-booted foot connected with the side of Ross’ head the same instant a flash of light and deafening boom exploded from the gun in his hand. Pain unlike anything she’d ever felt unleashed a torrent of agony inside Lucy’s chest.
Again, she imagined she heard Dalton’s voice calling her name. For one wonderful moment, she even saw a blurry vision of his face staring down at her. The image of Dalton, no matter how fuzzy and improbable, gave her hope as she slipped into a world of merciful unconsciousness.
* * * * *
As Dalton cradled Lucy’s limp body in his arms, he didn’t care that he hadn’t been the one to smash his boot into Ross’ face. He should have been pissed that the pleasure had been stolen from him by one of Dez’s biker buddies but Lucy’s back was dripping a warm flow of blood, coating his arms and filling the air with an awful iron scent. Terror the likes of which he’d never known encompassed Dalton and his vision shrank to a pinpoint, spotlighting the fluttering pulse on Lucy’s neck.
Dez’s work boots came into view beside Lucy’s head. Dalton didn’t look up as he listened to his friend giving the address to someone.
“The subject is incapacitated at the moment. Victim… Fuck, she’s in a bad way. Shot in the shoulder, through and through, extreme blood loss.” Dez’s voice paused. “No, I will not remain on the fucking line. Just get an ambulance here!”
Dalton didn’t want to move Lucy any more than he already had by lifting her into his arms, so he stayed there crouched awkwardly with her cradled against him. “Breathe, darlin’. Just keep breathing. You’re gonna be fine. I’m gonna fix this.”
Her chest rose with fast, shallow breaths which tapered off until they were no longer coming fast. A too-short gasp of air followed by a long period of absolute stillness.
Dalton tore his gaze away from Lucy long enough to pin Dez with his anguished, tear-filled eyes. “What do I do? I can’t lose her. Where’s the fucking ambulance?”
Dez’s face was etched into a mask of determination. He stared at Lucy as if calculating options before speaking with a voice filled by urgency. “Lay her down flat. I know you don’t want to let her go but you have to lay her down. When she stops breathing we’ll have to breathe for her. Do it now, Dalton.”
Dalton reluctantly eased Lucy out of his arms until she lay flat on the bare wooden floor. “When she stops breathing?”
Dez nodded, never looking up from where his gaze was fastened to the brief rise-and-fall movement of Lucy’s chest. Though Dalton’s internal focus remained on Lucy, he quickly took stock of the events unfolding around them.
Ross was on his belly, unconscious, while the tiny Annie perched on his back with that knife of hers held point down against his spine. A bead of blood welled where the tip of the knife pierced his skin. Absently, Dalton imagined the strange, mute woman knew exactly how to slip that small knife between the vertebrae of his spine if the man so much as twitched.
Lucy still drew gasping breaths but Dez had moved to tilt her head and chin, ready to administer the life-breaths Dalton wasn’t trained to give. He vowed to take a CPR class the minute Lucy was well again. He gathered her hand in his, the coolness of her skin despite the heat inside the house sending a shiver through him.
His eyes strayed back to Ross. The man’s head was turned toward them, as if still seeking out Lucy. A perfect boot print covered the exposed side of his face, the eye and cheek already starting to swell. The man who had put that print on his face now had his foot perched on
the back of Ross’ neck, as if crazy Annie and her knife weren’t enough to contain him.
The third of Dez’s four biker buddies paced the room after completing his exploration of the property, making sure no surprises awaited them. The fourth guy had gone out to the end of the long gravel drive to flag down the ambulance.
“Here we go,” Dez whispered, making Dalton’s heart stutter.
Dalton had never felt as helpless as when he watched Dez seal his mouth around Lucy’s pale lips and give her the first of many rescue breaths.
His focus was so intent on Lucy, he didn’t realize the ambulance had arrived until she was loaded onto a stretcher and her limp hand was pulled from his bloody grip. Dez held him back when he would have followed the paramedics as they loaded her into the squad, their movements hurried as they shouted stats and orders back and forth.
“I’ll drive you to the hospital.” When Dalton didn’t answer, Dez gave his shoulders a shove. “Snap out of it! Let’s go.” Dalton wasn’t listening. The ambulance doors had closed, obscuring his view of Lucy, when a new voice joined the others now gathered in front of the incomplete house.
“Fuck you! Do you know who I am? What’s your name? I’ll have your badge! You don’t know who you’re messing with! I want to press charges against all these people. They attacked me!” Ross’ words were slurred, distorted by the swelling.
Rage fired through Dalton when he saw Ross being led through the front door by two men in suits who exuded more authority than the uniformed officers scattered about the scene. Not caring about the repercussions, Dalton stalked toward the man who had tried to take Lucy from him, the man who had made her life a living hell.
The uniformed officers shouted, ordering him to stop his approach, but the suited men simply glanced at each other. They each gave a short nod and moved a half step to the side when Dalton reached them, his arm already cocked back, his hand in a clenched fist.
“What the fuck do you think—“
Dalton slammed his fist into Ross’ mouth, cutting off the vile man’s words. Ross’ head snapped backward and his body lurched to follow. As if nothing had happened, the two suited men each grabbed an elbow and dragged Ross out and around Dalton to an unmarked police car. Ross stumbled along, spitting blood and cursing, but the suits never looked back.
The uniformed officers looked between the suits and Dalton with confusion clear on their faces. Apparently the officers were deferring judgment to the suits. Before they could change their minds and decide to arrest him, Dalton strode to his truck and climbed in the passenger seat.
“Damn, dude, that’s gonna need a few stitches,” Dez swore as he took the driver’s seat and started the engine.
“Like I give a shit if that asshole needs stitches,” Dalton growled.
“Not him, you. His teeth cut the hell out of your hand.” Dez nodded toward Dalton’s hand.
Dalton gave his wounded hand a dispassionate look. All he saw was Lucy’s blood. He felt nothing but the pain of seeing her hurt and the worry she wouldn’t survive. “Dez?”
“Yeah?”
“Thank you for everything you’ve done.”
“Whatever, man. You’re welcome. I just hope she makes it.”
“She has to. Now, shut the fuck up and drive.”
Epilogue
One Year Later
“What do you think?”
Dalton studied his wife as she stood inside Abigail’s studio, bare from the waist up, examining her latest piece of ink. “I think I don’t like seeing my woman in pain. I don’t know why you insist on getting this shit done or why you have to drag me along,” he grumped, only half serious.
Lucy’s plump lips pursed into a sexy pout before opening to release a laugh, the sound of which gave Dalton both a sense of pride and a hard-on. Damn he loved making her laugh.
“Don’t give me that shit, Dalton. You demand to come with me and sit through entire sessions. No one makes you.”
Abigail excused herself, shutting the door behind her as she left and leaving the two of them alone.
Dalton reached for Lucy’s left hand and tugged her forward until she stood between his spread knees. He ran his thumb over the simple band on her ring finger and tilted his head to study her new artwork.
A plume of peacock feathers began at her hip and flowed diagonally across her torso, ending on the opposite shoulder. He restrained himself from tweaking her pert nipples which were temptingly close to his face, instead concentrating on the colorful ink.
“Abbey did an amazing job, darlin’.” And she had. The circular scars speckled over Lucy’s torso from cigarette burns Ross had inflicted upon her were camouflaged by the design, worked into the art so the white circles appeared to be the eyes on the tip of each feather. The largest feather used the scar left over from the gunshot wound to Lucy’s shoulder, drawing attention to the damaged flesh and turning it into something beautiful at the same time.
Dalton helped Lucy into a loose cotton shirt.
“I hate not wearing a bra.”
He grinned at Lucy’s complaint while shoving a cup of her lacy bra into his back pocket so half of it swung free like a victory flag. No one would see his wife’s lovely round breasts swaying beneath the thin fabric of her t-shirt as they walked to his truck, he’d make sure of that. Those babies were for his enjoyment alone, and he intended to devise a creative solution for their lovemaking that would allow him to enjoy her lush body until the new tattoo fully healed.
Dalton tugged Lucy out the door by her hand, loving the feel of her soft fingers entwined with his own rougher ones. “Come on, darlin’. Let’s go home.”
About S.J. Drum
S.J. Drum writes Erotic Romance, Urban Fantasy and, under the pen name Clara LaVeaux, Contemporary Women’s Fiction.
S.J. has a terribly expensive and useless BA in Studio Arts with a minor in Psychology. She has a slight obsession with tattoos and piercings and would probably be covered in them if not for the worry the sight might embarrass her children.
Formerly a zookeeper and veterinary assistant, she now lives with her husband and two small children. When she’s not changing diapers or writing, she enjoys scuba diving, horseback riding, and has been known to make an elephant do a headstand.
S.J. welcomes comments from readers. You can find her website and email addresses on her author bio page at www.ellorascave.com.
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Also by S.J. Drum
Sinful Southern Ink
Ellora’s Cave Publishing
www.ellorascave.com
Sinful Southern Hero
ISBN 9781419948121
ALL RIGHTS RESERVED
Sinful Southern Hero Copyright © 2013 S.J. Drum
Edited by Whitney Mae
Cover design and photography by Syneca
Model(s): Nick and Shannon
Electronic book publication November 2013
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