Girls Just Wanna Have Guns

by Toni McGee Causey

  His personal cell phone buzzed with a voice mail message. Oddly, it hadn’t rung through with a call, but he’d been in a bad reception area of the town out where Bobbie Faye lived. He dialed in to pick up the message and heard a woman, vaguely familiar, though she sounded like she was running and out of breath.

  “Benoit, it’s Bobbie Faye. I’ve got something for you. It’s important. I can’t call Cam and I don’t know who else to trust. Remember where we hid the mascot senior year? Meet me there. Fast, okay?”

  The message ended and the callback number was blocked.

  That was odd. But then, she’d already been nearly killed on a bridge, in a house and now, if the news was correct, at the silos. Anyone would get a pass for being a little twitchy at that point. They’d been friends too long for him not to hear her out. It was a helluva drive to meet her, and he couldn’t fathom why she’d gone all the way to Baton Rouge after the silos that morning, but he owed it to her to go. Maybe he could talk her into turning herself in. It was the only way she was going to have a chance in hell of getting out of this without life in prison.

  * * *

  From: JT

  To: Simone

  Her phone is still receiving calls, one from Italy—possibly the buyer. SAT position coming in . . . now. Sending coordinates. Find her. Soon. Or you’ll end up answering to Brownie.

  * * *

  * * *

  From: Simone

  To: JT

  Holy shit, no. I’ll find her.

  * * *

  Bobbie Faye ignored her phone, buzzing with messages—they’d have to wait. She knew one was Lori Ann, who’d probably just called to bitch about not being able to hang up on her that morning. One was Nina, but she’d texted Nina back from Trevor’s phone, keeping her updated.

  Trevor had parked the bike and gone through the cabin once—but Bobbie Faye knew how wily her brother could be when he was hiding. While Trevor reloaded their guns from the ample ammo supply Roy kept on top of the refrigerator (Roy’s theory of the universe apparently only contained short thieves), Bobbie Faye rechecked the rooms. Everything in the ramshackle, cluttered camp was pretty much as she remembered it: a dark-paneled “great” room with a kitchen/living area, with bedrooms and bathrooms protruding from that central location like spokes. Roy’s tastes were all bachelor, all the time; he worked off-shore (when he worked) and probably still did some lucrative shady work for Alex, so he blew his money on junk: big-screen TVs, loads of fishing gear, hunting gear, sports gear, DVDs, games. At least she hoped it was his money he was blowing, because if he was involved in anything else quasi-illegal, he was going to have a long stint at the hospital for two broken legs. She circled through the rooms and, satisfied that Roy hadn’t climbed in a closet, buried himself in a floor space, or sat hunched on top of the hot-water heater, Bobbie Faye returned to the kitchen.

  Where whoa.

  Trevor had taken off his ripped, bloody shirt and as he set down the now-loaded gun on the peninsula counter and walked toward her, Lust was doing backflips.

  She had to focus. And not on him. “We should keep moving. Diamonds to find, things to destroy.”

  “I’ve checked—the bridge is out, and they expect it to take hours to repair. Nearest bridge is more than two hours away, and I’ve already got roadblocks there, checking for Sean’s team and anyone else who looks suspicious.” He tapped his spiffy cell phone. “And Emile thinks we’re on our way to New Orleans with information, so he’ll wait there—which means, we have some time. You need a chance to recuperate.”

  He was half-naked and several regions of her body were voting for him to be all-naked and what in the hell was wrong with her? Not three seconds ago, she was worrying about motives and all it took was his abs and the chest and the shoulders and holy fucking geez, the smile, and she was a blathering idiot. He backed her up to the overloaded kitchen counter, the chipped yellow Formica barely peeking out from beneath stacks of garage-sale dishes. She knocked over three pots just trying to sidle away from him; he boxed her in, arms on each side of her, palming the counter.

  “Are you okay?” he asked.

  “Just peachy. Now let me by.”

  “Nope.” He moved a set of knives just out of her reach. “I’m an idiot.” His jaw clenched, shoulders tensed. “Kissing you like that.”

  Her Hormones squealed as they screeched to a halt, toppling over each other. There was major internal pouting going on, which was just stupid. He wasn’t the kind of man who would want a relationship, and she’d suspected that, so she shouldn’t be so freaking surprised.

  “Let me rephrase,” he said, and she realized he’d been watching her reaction. “It was a stupid rank amateur mistake. I was being selfish. I’m sorry my kissing you at the silo put you in more jeopardy.”

  The low-grade hum she’d felt since she’d first seen him yesterday hadn’t abated, but now the way he looked at her made her feel as if she’d been plugged into an amp and the wattage was going to overload her system. Kissing him anywhere put her in more jeopardy, and she wrapped her arms tightly across her chest. Then her eyes—on their own freaking accord and without getting their permission slip signed—looked at the abs just inches away . . . and then the biceps (good freaking Lord, You did a good job there, thank You) and then the jawline, and she veered her gaze away, trying to maintain some semblance of stoicism, and ended up back at the abs. She may have whimpered a little, because he grinned.

  “You’re having an entire argument in your head right now, aren’t you?”

  “Just admiring how really good you are at”—she swallowed hard as his muscles in his arms tensed—“your job. You know, this whole fake relationship thing—kudos. Impressive marksmanship.”

  “Job?” He frowned. “I thought I made that clear this morning.”

  “How in the hell am I supposed to know that this isn’t just a job to you? You know, seduce the crazy lady, keep her on your side.”

  “Are you out of your flipping mind?”

  “According to the bookies, that would be a yes.”

  He vibrated anger. Tamped down, forced under control. He seared her with a gaze so full of frustration, she could practically hear him counting to ten and then starting over again to keep his calm. “I get it—I’ve worked undercover and you don’t yet know me well enough outside of work to trust what we have. I may fuck up in a hundred different ways, but being clear about how I feel about you isn’t going to be one of them. Think about it: would the Bureau spend the money and the manpower to romance a woman everyone knows is already the kind of person who’d help us if we just asked? Or, worst-case scenario, if we threatened her family?” His expression softened as he waited while that sank in a moment, and Epiphany did a mamba up her spine as he added, “I’m telling you straight up, right now: I want you. So either I’m a lying bastard you can’t trust, that you wouldn’t want to have at your back with a gun, or you’re scared.”

  “There’s a helluva lot of difference between knowing you’d have my back in a gunfight and having”—she pointed between them—“this.”

  The wicked grin made such a sudden reappearance, her knees threatened to abandon all pretense of supporting her body. “Completely scared.”

  “And,” she added, ignoring him, “it’s not exactly like I haven’t cornered the market on the Lying Bastard Collection.”

  “Totally chicken.”

  “And!” she said, thumping him in the arm. “Lying Bastards always make a great case for why they’re telling the truth!”

  “You’re practically growing feathers here, Sundance.”

  He cupped the back of her neck, pressing into her, brushing his lips just barely across her own. She braced her hands against his chest, trying to hold on to her control as her Hormones were all hell, yeah! and fighting their way to the accelerator. He shifted against her just enough to let her feel the length of his body and every single solitary nerve ending said hello, sailor in their best Mae West voice and she may have wigg
led against him. A lot.

  And then he kissed her. Not the tender, sweet, geez-we-just-went-through-a-near-death-experience kind of kiss. No, this was a demanding, melting, possession. The kind of kiss that says, “I want you naked, under me, and you will be damned happy you said yes.”

  She had had no idea a kiss could do that.

  He smiled against her lips. “You’re going to have to pick which side you want to be on. Either you want me, or you don’t, but I didn’t come to play.”

  He watched her, his eyes dark and serious, his thumb tracing the line of her jaw and then oh-so-softly, her lower lip. She felt everything inside her coil and heat and want so damned much, she couldn’t answer, couldn’t form the words past the lump in her throat.

  “Shhhh,” he said, his voice low, gravel pummelling her every nerve. “I want you, Sundance. I want us.”

  She wanted him to kiss her blind again. She wanted his hands on her, his body pressed against her own. She wanted not to think, because thinking meant deciding; but she already knew Trevor wasn’t the kind of man who’d take choice from her. And he leaned in, whisper-close, his hands sliding into her hair, his fingers soothing against her skin, his body tantalizingly close—but he did not kiss her. He waited, watching the tears she’d held back slide down her cheeks, his thumbs brushing them away. Waiting for her to work through her fear. The next move would have to be hers. He waited. Lifetimes slid by, and still, he waited.

  “I—” she started, and then she heard the front door open. Trevor was already reaching for his gun when she glanced up for that one split second and she yelled, “Down!”

  They hit the floor in unison, Trevor landing on top of Bobbie Faye, his gun ready as a butcher knife thwanged in the kitchen wall right behind where they had been standing.

  Twenty-three

  “You’re not Roy,” a female voice said as Bobbie Faye tilted her head backward to see an upside-down view of Crazy Carmen, the butcher’s daughter who’d tried to cleave Roy in half not all that long ago. The woman was barefoot, which explained why they hadn’t heard her approach.

  “Carmen,” Bobbie Faye said as matter-of-factly as she could to a raving loon, “you’re looking good. Been out of jail long?”

  “Where’s Roy? I’ve been watching this place for weeks and he always sneaks past me.”

  Crazy Carmen—sultry hot, tanned body with curves that would make Marilyn Monroe weep with envy—did not pay attention to the gun Trevor had drawn on her; she did, however, adjust her too-tight knit red dress and then her ample bosom for Trevor’s benefit as he stood and then held a hand out to help Bobbie Faye up. The loss of the weight of his body, his heat, was sudden, and so tangible Bobbie Faye had to blink a moment to process why she felt immediately bereft.

  “Roy’s moved,” she said, stumbling over the words, kick-starting her brain again. “Got a job in—” she searched her memory for a distant locale.

  “Guam,” Trevor supplied.

  “He won’t be back for a couple of years,” Bobbie Faye added.

  Carmen’s gaze swept Trevor’s body from top to bottom and Bobbie Faye found herself suddenly loathing Carmen. Irrationally, vehemently loathing.

  “Who’s the hunk belong to?” Carmen asked her, with that bright smile against that dark Cajun complexion.

  “We were just working that out,” Trevor said from behind Bobbie Faye.

  “Go away, Carmen.”

  “So he’s yours, huh?”

  Yeah, something inside Bobbie Faye said, and something that controlled her muscles—it sure as hell wasn’t Survival Instinct—made her head nod.

  “Lucky girl,” Carmen said, reluctantly backing away. “I’m all about respecting relationships—something your brother needs to learn, by the way.” She gave Trevor the once-over one last time before sashaying out the door.

  Bobbie Faye could practically hear Trevor smiling behind her. “Shut up.”

  It had taken Cam too fucking long to make the phone calls from the sabotaged bridge area in order to track down Brian Thibodeaux in a bar, drunk off his ass, instead of where he was supposed to be: running his barge back and forth across the river. The same river now blocking him from getting to Roy’s camp, where he believed Bobbie Faye may have headed. She, of course, wasn’t answering her phone, and Brian had slurred so badly, Cam wasn’t a hundred percent sure he understood Cam’s instructions. If Brian was completely sober, it would still take him thirty minutes to cross the river, and then another thirty to pick Cam up and cross back. It galled Cam to wait, but it was the barge or drive two hours away, only to have to ride two hours back this direction—and who knew if Bobbie Faye would have moved on to destroy something else in that span of time.

  Bobbie Faye faced Trevor’s pleased-with-himself expression. His deep blue eyes were oh-so-amused. Damned man.

  “What happened to you being the guy who pretty much hated all women—who said that after meeting me, your opinion of them was just getting worse?”

  “I believe someone”—his voice flowed over her senses, warm as whiskey as he leaned in close—“pointed out to me that I had been dating the wrong women.” He took her hand, lacing his strong, battered fingers through hers, grabbed one of his SIGs, and led her to the bathroom.

  “So . . .” she flinched a little as she saw her own disheveled, bloody and blue image in the mirror, “you’re telling me you had a complete turnaround in one day when we met? I know you got smacked around pretty bad in a couple of those explosions, but I didn’t think it jostled your brains that much.”

  He didn’t answer; instead, he checked her scrapes and cuts, wetting a washcloth, cleaning off the blood and the grime, just like he’d done at Marie’s yesterday. Most people have a first song or a first dance. They had a first time Trevor checked her injuries. She started to joke about it, but the look in his eye wasn’t anywhere near amused or playful; he grimaced at some of the nastier scratches, and all the while, she could feel him thinking. Weighing what to tell her, and she suddenly understood she needed to let him work out what to say. What to trust her with.

  She slanted a look at his face, his own scraped, bruised jaw, his mouth fixed in a determined line, his own gaze roving over her, looking for more injuries. But all the while, thinking. She laid a hand on his cheek, stopping him, stilling him as he watched her, measuring. She wanted him to tell her. To trust her. How in the world had that happened?

  But just like that, she knew. Knew she wanted his trust.

  She leaned forward, her face tipped to his, and gave him a kiss, and then she turned away, dug in a drawer for a comb. He plucked it from her hand and busied himself for a moment, setting to work on the tangles in her hair, pulling the comb through a bottom section, working his way higher and higher with each pass until she looked a little less like roadkill and maybe even managed to sort of resemble a human again.

  “You’re really good at that.”

  “Three sisters, remember?” He hesitated, pulling the comb through another section. “And the turnaround wasn’t in a day.”

  She thought about that, watching Trevor’s intent expression, remembering their argument from that morning, remembering, too, what he’d said to the other agent about giving notification of his intent to date her. Then it hit her. “From the surveillance?” She’d been having a particularly bad streak of luck at the time they’d met, and an equally foul disposition to go along with it. “You liked me enough from that to want to date me?”

  “Oh, I want to do a helluva lot more than date you.”

  OhdearLord. The grin. She could lose all sense of time and reason from a grin like that. She tried not to blush. “You are insane.”

  “Apparently.” He laughed when she made a face at him in the mirror.

  As he finished detangling her hair, she watched him. Something rang, and she recognized the sound as her phone buried in her purse in the kitchen; that was the ring she’d programmed in for Cam. She grimaced and ignored it—if it was a Stacey emergency, Cam’s m
om or sister would call. Instead, she watched Trevor; he was deep in thought, but not hiding his internal battle from her. He could have. She knew that about him now.

  Finally, he said, “I was never going to have that someone special in my life. I knew it, accepted it, and it was for the best, especially in my line of work.”

  “But you had it before,” she interrupted, referring to the divorce he’d mentioned only once, months ago.

  “No.” His grim expression underlined his point. “Not even close. And it taught me: never again. And then you came along, into my life. You intrigued the hell out of me, but there was no expectation. You were supposed to get the tiara, hand it to me in the parking lot, and I’d have left. At least until the case was over and I could engineer some way to meet you again properly.”

  “So I held a gun on you instead, shot your truck, and you decided, gee, this is the person I’d like to date? I’m a little worried about your standards there, Trevor.”

  He grinned, and something . . . joy? . . . shone in his gaze. “Yeah, well, I really did like your shirt.”

  He was referring to the Shuck Me, Suck Me, Eat Me Raw t-shirt, and she blushed three kinds of red.

  Trevor turned her around, lifted her and set her on the big white faux marble top of the bathroom vanity. He stepped between her legs and she was damned glad she wasn’t actually having to use them to stand up because they’d just sent a resignation letter to her brain: quitting now. Especially since he’d pulled her hips so that she scooted forward and pressed into his hard body. A very toned, half-naked body. (Yes, said Lust. Let’s focus on the important things here.) His hands slid gently up her arms, caressing the curves of her shoulders and then down again as she moved her own hands around to hold his waist, but detoured, mmmmmmmmmmmm, to his abs. Her fingers drifted lightly, and dear God, he got all tense and hot and then his hands were beneath her shirt and her brain hung a “not operational” sign up.