by Jo Davis
“Let me guess—the firemen are cooking the food and bringing the booze.”
“Are you kidding? Cori said Zack suggested he hire a caterer to save everyone the trouble and the guys almost staged a rebellion.”
“I’ll be glad to help them man the grills or whatever they need. Good thing we’re all changing clothes.”
Shea thought of her own shorts and T-shirt in the back of the Escalade and couldn’t wait to get comfortable. A hot July afternoon and peach silk were in no way compatible.
“That’s nice of you. I’m sure Zack will appreciate it.” She tried to picture Forrest dressed down, hanging out with the others, and the image wouldn’t gel. He was a nice man, but as he’d admitted himself, the typecast role of city official tended to stick.
But when they arrived, he jumped right in with enthusiasm, making himself useful to Zack’s firefighter friends who hadn’t been in the wedding party and were already at work. A handful of them glanced at him in amazement, a couple in disgust. Which wasn’t surprising considering what Shane told her about Forrest being so tight with Sugarland’s budget. Apparently the police department wasn’t the only entity feeling the financial squeeze.
In her opinion, blaming Forrest for trying to soften the blow of the economic downturn really wasn’t fair. At least nobody was rude to him, however, and soon the men were cutting up and having a good time.
Satisfied no major disasters loomed on the horizon, Shea retrieved her clothes from the Escalade and went into the house. Upstairs, she peeled off the now-sticky dress with a heartfelt sigh, then pulled on her denim shorts and pink baby-doll shirt. She hung up the dress, slipped on a pair of sandals, and hurried back to the party.
Things were getting into full swing now, guests arriving steadily, already having fun. The stereo was blasting out “Brick House” by the Commodores, getting folks into the proper mood to do the bump and grind on the dance floor. Shea didn’t realize she was tapping her foot and grinning at their antics—until she spotted Tommy and his blond babe among the people gyrating close together. Her arm was around his neck, their foreheads nearly touching.
Shea’s smile fell like a rock.
Abruptly, she turned away, the pain in her chest so real she might’ve been stabbed with an ice pick. She needed to be somewhere else, anywhere she didn’t have to see them, but couldn’t think where. Just then, Zack’s ’67 Mustang appeared—decorated with streamers and shoe polish—sparing her from making a decision. As the guests began to cheer at their arrival, Shea jogged over to meet her friends.
Zack emerged, dressed in jeans and a short-sleeved blue shirt and looking completely besotted. He hurried around to Cori’s side, opened her door, and helped her out. Shea hung back, not wanting to intrude on their first moments home as husband and wife. However, the instant her best friend saw her standing there, she squealed and closed the short distance, grabbing Shea in a big hug.
“I know I told you a dozen times this morning, but I’m so happy for both of you,” Shea said, throat tight.
“Thanks, girlfriend. This might not be my first rodeo, but I know I finally found the right man.”
“That you did. He’s wonderful, sweetie.” And after the horror of Cori’s first marriage and the subsequent dangers, nobody deserved happiness more than Cori and Zack.
“Don’t I know it!” Her friend pulled away and beamed at her. “So, are we ready to rock out, or what?”
Shea laughed. “Just don’t party too hard or you’ll be too tired to enjoy your wedding night.”
“No worries, I plan to save plenty of energy. Why waste a night’s stay at a place as gorgeous as the Opryland Hotel, right?”
“Absolutely.” She knew Cori and Zack were taking off later to stay at the famous hotel, then heading to the airport in the morning to fly to Cape Cod for their honeymoon. Cori had wanted to go to the Caymans but Zack vetoed leaving the country while she was pregnant. “Is Howard locking up the house for you?”
Cori nodded. “He and the other guys are cleaning up tonight. Everything’s in good hands.”
“Super.”
Shea noted Zack hovering behind his new wife, positively vibrating with happiness. She stepped past her friend and wrapped him in a bear hug. “Treat her like a princess, or I’ll think up some horrible punishment. Nurses know all sorts of gross things to do to a person.”
“I think her brothers would probably beat you to the draw,” he said, making a face. “Anyway, she’s safe with me.”
“I know, I’m just teasing. Go see to your guests, you two!”
With a wave, the blissful couple joined the crowd, accepting more well-wishes. Watching the festivities, she felt an almost unbearable wave of loneliness wash over her, despite her effort to stave it off. Weddings ran a close second to Christmas as far as leaving a person’s emotions stripped bare. At least during the holidays she had Shane to remind her she had someone to love and be loved by in return.
“Shea?”
She started, and spun to see Tommy standing less than two feet away. So close she detected his earthy cologne and a hint of sweat. So potently male he made her head swim.
His smile was uncertain, his blond hair artfully mussed like he’d just rolled out of bed. After a long, leisurely bout of sex.
“Um, hello.” Great going, idiot. That’s sure to impress him.
She stared at him, startled. Did she want to impress him?
“Hey,” he said softly, tucking his hands into the pockets of his cargo shorts. “Having a good time?”
The picture of him plastered to Breast Enhancement Barbie a short while ago beat her like a sledgehammer. Damned if she’d let on how much it hurt.
“Oh, sure.” The words weighed heavy on her tongue. Because despite her best efforts, the best part of her day was standing right in front of her. “Are you and your girlfriend enjoying yourselves?”
“Who, Daisy?” He paused, cocking his head. “We’re having a blast.”
“Daisy? As in Daisy Duke?” She snorted, unable to keep the green monster from her tone. “Where’d you meet her, the Waterin’ Hole?”
“We’ve been buddies since high school.” The corners of his mouth lifted. “And that’s Officer Daisy Callahan. She works with your brother.”
She latched on to the term “buddies” like a lifeline. Holy Moses. Who would’ve thought the woman built like a brick shithouse and worthy of the cover of Vogue was a cop? Not to mention a friend of Tommy’s. Way to make a total fool of yourself, Shea.
“I . . . well, that’s nice,” she said, fumbling for something to say. “She doesn’t look much like a police officer.”
“Don’t let her appearance fool you. She’s tough as boot leather and has the temper of Satan.”
“Charming.”
“Actually, she can be when she sets her mind to it.”
Shea did not want to discuss Daisy’s charms, or Tommy’s knowledge of them. “I’ll take your word for it.”
Tommy smirked. “Oh, don’t take mine. See for yourself.” He flicked a hand toward the edge of the dance floor, where Daisy was sidled against Forrest as though stuck to him with Velcro. She giggled animatedly at something he said, and ran a long, manicured nail down the front of his shirt. Poor Forrest looked ready to burst into flames.
Worse was the knowledge that Daisy’s flirtation with the man didn’t bother her at all.
“Oh, I get it.” Fisting one hand on her hip, she glared at Tommy. “You brought your friend along to run interference.”
He grinned at her, completely unrepentant. “I’d say that makes you a quicker study than your so-called date, wouldn’t you? Tell me something. Why would you waste another second of this perfect day on a jerk who’s so easily distracted by another woman’s attentions?”
“I don’t believe it,” she said, incredulous. “That’s so underhanded.”
And sort of . . . wonderful.
“All’s fair, as they say.”
“Well, Forrest isn’t goin
g to fall for your machinations.”
“Forrest who?” His expression revealed only mild curiosity.
“He’s Forrest Prescott, the city manager.”
“Thought he looked familiar,” he said, unimpressed. “Anyway, seems like he already has fallen for my scheme.”
“What?”
Sure enough, Forrest and Daisy were on the dance floor, working up a sweat to an upbeat Madonna song. Shea crossed her arms over her chest, unsure whether to be relieved or annoyed. She looked at Tommy, trying to appear unfazed by the whole conversation.
“So? Doesn’t mean anything.”
“You’re not nearly as upset by your sweetie’s defection as you should be if you were serious about him.”
“He’s not my sweetie—he’s a friend.” Dammit! And damn him for appearing so frigging happy about it. She clamped her mouth shut.
“Aha! Then you won’t mind dancing with me. It’s only fair, seeing as how my date deserted me for yours.”
She hesitated. God, she needed to give in to him like she needed another ten pounds on her hips.
Cocky, beautiful son of a bitch.
“One dance.”
The sly catlike expression of satisfaction on his face almost melted her panties. “Uh-uh. No stipulations except enjoying yourself. Come on!”
Grabbing her hand, he pulled her into the throng and spun her to face him before she could protest further. He made it appear easy, just to throw caution to the wind and let loose. To move to the music with fluid grace, uninhibited, every lean sinew flexing as though making love.
Like liquid, molten sex.
“I’m not that great a dancer,” she said, raising her voice to be heard above the music. Trying to match his graceful moves, she felt like a dork.
One strong arm snaked around her waist, pulled their hips together. He rocked against her, his unmistakable hardness pressing into her belly. “Believe me, you’re doing fine.”
Her cheeks blazed. She wasn’t some simpering virgin—far from it—but the man caught her off guard at every turn. And Tommy was a man, not a boy. No doubt whatsoever, if there ever had been.
As they moved, the friction of their bodies setting her on a slow burn, she watched his face. Studied the nuances. There was no trace of the young, carefree charmer in evidence now. In his place was a man she’d never seen before. A man completely confident of his intentions, his crystal eyes dark with desire. One who made her blood quicken, her soul cry out to answer his unspoken challenge, to be his.
The fast song ended, abruptly snapping her from the spell. Thinking to make a quick getaway, she stepped back, but he caught her hand.
“This next one, too. Please?”
The soft, pretty opening to “My Wish” by Rascal Flatts began, one of her favorite songs. She paused for a couple of beats and, apparently taking her hesitation as a yes, he enveloped her in his arms. Began to sway gently, big hands spread over her back, chin resting on top of her head. In spite of her qualms, she felt herself melt in to him, soaking up his strength.
Warm. Intoxicating. Incredible.
Like coming home.
“God, it feels so good to finally hold you,” he whispered into her hair.
She didn’t answer. Couldn’t, not when her senses, every barrier she’d erected between them, were under toe-curling assault. Searching for the right response, she lifted her head to meet his gaze.
Instead, his lips brushed hers. A sensual glide that wasn’t a tentative question, but a warning. Electrifying her to the core.
His fingers brushed down her cheek. “Pretty baby.”
And he claimed her mouth then, kissed her like a man kisses a woman when he means business. When he wants her no matter the cost, above all others. Whatever it takes.
His tongue tangled with hers and she whimpered, unable to help herself. He tasted so good and she wanted to slide under his skin, stay there forever. Wrapped up in him. The party, the guests, vanished as the kiss went on and on. It might as well have been the two of them locked in their own world, free of doubts and unwanted baggage. For the first time in more than a decade she felt protected and safe.
But she’d been wrong before.
The memory was a bucket of ice water dousing her ardor. Reality intruded, along with fear. Cold, familiar companions who never failed to remind her what happened to stupid girls who dreamed too much.
She gave Tommy’s chest a forceful shove, and he stumbled backward, blinking at her in a daze. Confused, emotions frazzled, she shook her head and in reflex, wiped her mouth with trembling fingers. “I—I’m sorry. I—I’d better go . . . check on Forrest.” Which was precisely the wrong thing to say.
Hurt flared bright, then cooled as his eyes went flat. “You do that, baby. And when you figure out that stingy, pencil-pushin’ sack of shit can’t give you what you need? Call me.”
Then he did something he’d never done before—turned and left her standing there, gaping at his retreating back.
His absence, his anger, left a horrible ragged hole where passion and the rightness of being in his arms had been moments ago. She longed to call him back, or go after him, but didn’t know if he’d accept her apology. Besides, what could she say, really?
He might listen to the truth and even understand, but she wasn’t ready to tell it. Might never be.
Ducking her head, she jogged blindly for the house, praying nobody noticed the tears dripping off her chin.
This wouldn’t do. At fucking all.
It was like watching a slow-motion train wreck, his careful plans derailing and stacking like dominoes. Broken and useless.
No. He’d be the one broken if he failed, and the possibility—certainty—made him shudder. No use thinking about that. Negativity was counterproductive.
He had a commitment to see through, and his own nest to feather. Can’t lose sight of the prize. There’s too much at stake.
Taking deep breaths, he forced himself to calm down as he watched the dejected blond guy leave the dance floor. Relax. One way or another, he’d achieve his goals.
No matter who he had to crush under his heel to see them to fruition.
5
Joseph Hensley puttered in the tiny kitchen, heating a can of chicken noodle soup on the stovetop. Microwaves made your food taste like warmed-over shit, in his opinion. Made the edges weird, like hot rubber. Young-uns were so impatient these days, wantin’ every damned thing yesterday. Never waitin’ for the best in life, always in a rush.
Just like Will. Where in the hell was that boy, anyhow?
Probably off at that highfalutin city job of his, as usual, never mind that it was the weekend. Always runnin’ like the white rabbit in Alice in Wonderland, his nose buried in his stopwatch.
Which was how dumb rodents ended up as roadkill.
He snorted, switching off the burner and moving the pan aside. Will thought he was so smart, but he’d have to live a long fucking time to best his grandpa. Did the boy honestly think Joseph didn’t know the Big Secret? Couldn’t guess why Will never had a gal around, didn’t have friends over for beers and ball games on the television?
Joseph took his soup bowl in shaking hands—goddamn this fucking Parkinson’s disease anyhow—and shuffled to the rickety square table in the breakfast nook. He sat down and dug into the savory broth, shoveling in spoonfuls, hardly aware of the mess he made. Didn’t the boy understand that Joseph wouldn’t hold his . . . orientation against him?
Didn’t he realize he couldn’t keep secrets from a man who’d seen about every stinking, rotten thing the world had to offer? Once upon a time, he’d been like Will—brash, young, nose to the wind. Invincible.
World War II had cured him for good.
Joseph didn’t get everything Will did, but he loved his grandson unconditionally. Always would. He just had to—
The bleating of a cell phone interrupted his thoughts. Seein’ as how he didn’t own one of the damned things, Will must’ve left it at home again. He was s
tarting to see why, too, because the annoying gadget sounded off constantly. Two, three, sometimes four times a day. Which was mighty strange, since nobody ever came by to see Will, and the boy never asked after friends who might’ve called.
Making up his mind, Joseph stood with a grunt and made his way to the couch, where he located the small device trapped between two cushions. By the time he plucked it from its hiding spot, the thing had stopped ringing. But it would start again. It always did.
All he had to do was carry the phone to the table, eat his dinner, and wait. He might be old, but he wasn’t stupid. He hadn’t survived being a tail gunner in the war, decorated with a cedar chest full of medals, by being a pussy. And this, he suspected, might be war of a different kind.
As he figured, the phone shrilled a greeting five minutes later. Eyeing it, he flipped it open and waited. He’d learned the value of patience on the correct end of a B-17 Flying Fortress.
“Hensley?”
“Yep.” No lie there.
“You sound funny.”
“Not feelin’ too good.” Also the truth.
“Whatever,” the man said, sounding as though he was in a hurry. Sweating, maybe. There was a lot of noise in the background. “Have you been getting my messages? I need that next job done in a week, tops. We have to keep things rolling.”
Nothing too alarming there. “Or?”
“Don’t fuck with me, asshole,” the man snarled. “You’re in this up to your balls, same as me.”
He stiffened. “Am I?”
“Damned straight you are, no pun intended.” The stranger barked a nasty laugh at his own joke. “You flake out on me now, you little faggot, and my contact will make you sorely regret messing with the big dogs. Got that?”
“Yep.”
“Next week. Don’t let me down.”
The man hung up and Joseph did the same, dropping the phone onto the table as it shook from his gnarled hand. “Oh, Will. What have you done, boy?”
He stared into the waning light, long after the remnants of his soup had gone cold.
