by Regina Cole
His throat was thick, but through his tears he breathed the words.
“I love you, Mia.”
Her head lifted and her eyes opened and she smiled. “It’s about damn time you told me. I’ve been waiting for a good twelve hours to hear that now.”
Soft lips touched his, and that’s when he realized he’d been dreaming. But only halfway. He opened his eyes, and silhouetted in a fluorescent glow was Mia, her dark curls just as wild and blood-free as they’d ever been.
Thank fuck for that.
“Mia,” he gasped and tried to wrap his arms around her. “Goddammit!”
“Hey,” she said softly, pressing his arm back down against the bed, “ease up there, biker boy. You’ve been shot, remember? Bullet, shoulder, ring any bells?”
“Shit.” Thoughts of the warehouse came back to Garrett then. The setup, the horror, the fear that he wouldn’t be able to get Mia out, that this would drag on forever if he didn’t get Ford to talk enough. And then, the pain crashed down on him. He closed his eyes, completely unashamed of the tear that leaked from the corner of his eye. “Trent?”
Mia’s hand covered his comfortingly, but he interrupted before she could murmur sympathetic platitudes.
“How am I supposed to go on without him?”
“Easy,” said a familiar voice from across the room. “You’re not.”
Garrett’s lids flew open. “Trent!”
His dark-haired, muscled friend looked like he’d been on the receiving end of a bout of major league batting practice, but he was smiling as much as his swollen jaw would allow. He limped to Garrett’s bedside, clasping his friend’s forearm in a gentle but heartfelt grip.
“What the fuck happened?” Garrett asked, joy at his friend’s survival overtaking him.
“I’ve got the same question for you,” Trent said, wincing as he shifted position. Mia helpfully dragged a chair to Garrett’s bedside, allowing the injured Trent to sit. “They just let me go from upstairs, so I came down here to check on you. I’ve told the police what I knew of the situation, but they wouldn’t tell me anything. I called Quentin and Reg, but they’re both at the station, so I’m pretty clueless. Care to elaborate?”
Garrett laughed. “You’re one of the smartest guys I know, Trent, I would have thought you’d have figured it out by now.”
“I figured it out,” Mia said, lovingly massaging Garrett’s foot. Her tender ministration didn’t last, though. She pinched his toe as she glared at him. “You could have gotten killed.”
“Ow, goddammit! Let me go!”
“I’ve been watching the news while both of you were being worked on. It seems that someone—probably your computer-savvy friend Reg, I’m assuming—set up a wonderful live feed that was operating on every computer in the city of Atlanta’s main police station, the U.S. Department of Justice’s Facebook page and the most popular internet video-streaming service. Looked like the camera was hidden on Garrett’s clothing, so everyone got a front-row seat to Art Ford’s confession. It went viral on Twitter and recordings are all over YouTube.”
Mia released her pinching grip and resumed a gentle rub on Garrett’s other foot. “They’re calling for Arthur Ford Senior’s resignation from the Grantman Corporation, and Congressman Wasserman is already distancing himself from the family.”
“Oh god,” Trent said, shaking his head slowly as a smile spread across his face. “You did it, Garrett. Exactly as you planned.”
Garrett closed his eyes. In the darkness, he saw the woman he’d failed. Priscilla. She’d died because of him, but finally, finally he felt as if he’d done right by her. She seemed to wave goodbye then, and with a heavy breath, he let himself believe that she’d forgiven him.
No, it was more than that. He’d finally forgiven himself.
Another face appeared in front of him, this one both angry and delighted by turns, full of life, laughter and lust. Mia’s face. God, he loved that woman, every infuriating inch of her.
“I think he’s asleep,” Mia whispered. “We should probably let him rest.”
“Don’t you fucking dare leave me, Mia Bartholomew,” Garrett said, opening his eyes. He held out a hand, and she came to his side. Lacing his fingers through hers, he pulled her close. “I mean that, Mia. Don’t leave me. I love you too much to ever let you go.”
She leaned over until they were nose to nose. She let her gaze go half-lidded, staring deep into him as she answered. “You’ll have to pry me off the back of your motorcycle, biker boy. I’m not going any damn where.”
And then he kissed her like there was no tomorrow. Although now, he was pretty certain there were plenty of tomorrows, and every one of them would be with Mia. And that was pretty damn wonderful.
About Regina Cole
Regina Cole, lover of manly muscled arms, chest hair and mini-marshmallows, has been reading romance since her early teens. While she adores a love story of any heat level, she’s been drawn to the erotic side and is loving every minute.
When she’s not frantically pounding away at the keyboard, she can be found fishing with her family, playing with her dogs, trying out strange new recipes or snuggling with her hubby.
Regina 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 Regina Cole
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Indelibly Intimate
Straight from the Heartwith Cindy Jacks
Ellora’s Cave Publishing
www.ellorascave.com
Get On
ISBN 9781419947681
ALL RIGHTS RESERVED
Get On Copyright © 2014 Regina Cole
Edited by Kelli Collins
Cover design by Willo
Cover photography by Syneca and Shutterstock.com
Model Nicke
Electronic book publication April 2014
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