Girls Just Wanna Have Guns

by Toni McGee Causey

  Somewhere far far away, probably on another planet even, she heard the dim racket of her phone ringing once more with Cam’s designated chime. Trevor reached over and slapped the bathroom door shut, muffling the sound. “I’m going to say this one time.” His tone was not without a hint of frustration. He nodded toward the still-ringing phone. “Cam is a good man.”

  It took her brain a moment to fight through the lust. “Huh? What?” And then she registered what he was saying, which was in direct juxtaposition of just how intimate their caresses were becoming. “Okay, that’s about the dumbest wooing strategy I’ve ever heard of.”

  “I’m serious. He’s in love with you,” he said, softly, “and you’re a fool if you don’t see it.”

  They both stopped the caressing as she stared at him, trying to form a sentence, stopping and starting over twice before she could think of something coherent to say. He was wrong about Cam, but there was no point in arguing about it. “I’m beginning to see why you got divorced. You suck at this whole ‘wooing’ thing.”

  “Oh, there will be wooing.” (And her Hormones did the Wave.) “But this is the only time I’m going to say this: you know him, you have a background in common, and he could provide you with a good future, as soon as he gets his head out of his ass—and he will.”

  “We really need to get you a manual. Wooing 101.” His hands slid through her hair, his touch setting every single nerve ending she had on vibrate.

  “I’ve been around longer, I’m hell to live with.” She eased him away and hopped down as he talked. “My job has been to manipulate, infiltrate, and, on occasion, kill. I’m good at it, Sundance. All of it. In fact, very damned good. That’s not ever going to change.”

  “Are you under the impression that I hadn’t figured this out?” She cranked the shower knob on and water spewed out, hitting the chipped tile. She faced him again.

  “I’m just warning you—I don’t care if he’s in the way. Emotionally or physically. Unless you tell me right now that you’re in love”—she lifted her arms up—“with him—what are you doing?”

  “I wonder if there are wooing instructions on the Internet?” He frowned, and she loved that completely confused expression. She so rarely saw it on him. She leaned in a little, letting him in on the plan. “We’re getting naked now.”

  He watched her, with her arms in the air, waiting for him, and the slow, sizzling grin that spread across his face melted her bones. “I can work with naked.” He reached for the hem of her shirt and began sliding it upward and then stopped a second. “But I want more than that.”

  “Then you better get busy.”

  “Are you always going to be this bossy?” he asked, tugging the shirt off and tossing it to the floor.

  “Yep.” She worked the button on his jeans.

  “Good to know.”

  She felt her breath hitch at that and she stilled—he got her. He framed her face with his hands and kissed her and she’d never known that sort of searing heat and tenderness all at the same time. She worked her hands into his now-loose jeans (Hormones: Score!) and cupped his ass as he reached between them, undoing her own jeans, and the feel of him in her palms? Well, she was writing a letter when this was over:

  Dear Sister Mary Margaret:

  Hell is sooooooooooo worth this. I promise. You have no idea.

  Then he shucked her jeans, impatient, and she tugged his off, just as determined, and within seconds, gone was the bra and everything else and he took a minute to scan her, head to toe, and said, “Dear God, thank you.” She nodded at him, in awe; she didn’t think it was entirely right to say holy fucking Jesus, he’s gorgeous—it might seem sacrilegious or something, and if she got struck by lightning right now, she was going to be completely pissed off.

  He pulled her to him, kissing her, skin to skin, body to body, feeling the hard length of him pressing against her and wow. She ran her hands over him as he devoured every inch of her, spending an inordinate amount of time on the inside of her left thigh and then at her center; his mouth was hot and talented and that’s pretty much when she lost her entire mind. And for the first time in her life, she forgot about control, forgot to hold the wall up around her heart, forgot to keep back a little of her self for safety. She forgot to be afraid, forgot where he ended and she began. She’d never flown so free.

  Somewhere in there, she slapped off the water and managed to breathe out “floor.” She wasn’t entirely sure which one of them had opened the bathroom door (there was soooo not enough floor space in there) and how they’d managed to get to the plush living room rug (and when did they turn over that coffee table?) or how they knocked the fishing poles down (all thirty or so of them) or when the fish mounted on the wall fell and broke the lamp—these things skimmed around the edges of her awareness only as Trevor moved them to safety each time while they kissed each other crazy.

  And then they were on the rug, tangled and rolling (and there went the DVD tower, oops) (and holy crap, all the knickknacks on the bookshelves were toast—and anyone who thought putting on a condom was easy had not been dodging a bunch of Elvis paraphernalia). But there was nothing in the world that she wanted more than this. Need pulsed from her core, radiating outward, hungry for him. All of him. He worked his way down and then back up her body and he paused there as she moved to take him in; she gazed at him watching her, and saw him wanting, needing in return. Not just the physical. But her. Needing her. And she realized that’s what that expression was that he’d had when she fell over the railing. She knew he could see a reflection of that same feeling in her, and he skimmed a finger along her lips, drawing out the suspense until she thought she’d snap in half from the tension.

  “I will beat you senseless if you make me wait,” she said, wiggling beneath him.

  “I think that’s the same thing you said when we were waiting for the chili cheese dogs,” he teased, smiling against her lips as he moved just enough to taunt her into madness. She squirmed, and he touched her, bracing on one elbow as he skimmed his other hand between them. She was hot and wet as he slicked his fingers into her, toying with her, playing, pushing her to the edge of sanity, and felt the pressure inside her build, heat and pressure and need until she writhed and begged.

  “Trevor?”

  “Hmmm?” His lazy growl belied his own taut body.

  “Need,” she ground out as his fingers pressed into her.

  “This?”

  “You.” She tangled her fingers in his hair. “Just you.”

  “It’s about damned time,” he said, and then he kissed her, rough and hard, as he thrust inside her and she arched, shocked, filled with him, with mind-bendy goodness. He moved then, and took her with him over the edge and the world stopped; there was just him, just the feel of him and his blue eyes on her as everything else simply ceased to exist.

  Aiden watched Mollie saunter back to the car, a feline grin lighting up her face and he knew she’d scored.

  “So?” Sean asked as she climbed in the backseat. “Are you going to make me wait all fuckin’ day?”

  “They’re right friendly here,” Mollie answered. “Seems there’s a cabin down a bit, b’longs to the brother, but he don’t let on.”

  “Not fuckin’ helpful, with a bridge out.”

  “Sure,” she said, the smile evident in her voice. “But there is a barge that’ll ferry us, for the right price.”

  Trevor carried her into the shower, which was probably a necessity since she could barely walk. The fact that he was fairly proud of that fact made her want to smack him, except that might be counterproductive because then he might not be as . . . vigorous next time. Except she discovered he had an entire arsenal of vigorous, including the slow, delicious, suspend-Bobbie-Faye-against-the-shower-wall version, which blew her mind. Vigorous was her new favorite word. She sort of came back from nirvana a while later when he had her leaning against him, her back to his chest, and he worked the shampoo through her hair.

  “Um, hi,�
�� she said, sheepish.

  “Welcome back.”

  “How long have I been . . . drifting?”

  “Oh, not long. Couple of stars imploded, they changed the name of the continents, nothing big.”

  She faced him as he helped rinse her hair. “Proud of yourself, aren’t you?”

  “Hey,” he held his hands up, all you asked for it, and said, “you mocked the wooing.”

  “Are you always going to be this smug?”

  “Every. Single. Chance. I. Get.”

  “I’d complain, but I’m thinking this is going to work in my favor.”

  “Very smart woman.”

  She relaxed into him, the warm shower water washing over them both, and she was a little stunned that she was happy he understood her so well, when just that morning it had freaked her out. But he did know her well—something he’d gotten from more than mere observation—because God knows, other people in her life, who’d known her for years, didn’t get her. She wished she was as up-to-speed on his past, though. A frame of reference, a—wait.

  She stiffened. The photos. Point of reference. She thought she knew what V’rai had wanted her to see.

  Twenty-four

  Roy had experience in sweet-talking nurses, so he felt pretty confident about being able to break Lori Ann out of rehab. The trick was finding the right-aged nurse. Someone too young would be too nervous if she were questioned later, and someone too old wasn’t going to buy that he was “security” sent by a judge who wanted to put Lori Ann into protective custody until this Bobbie Faye thing blew over. He’d planned out everything he’d say, how he’d say it, how he’d smile. It seemed that dimples were a big deal, and while he had no idea why, he had two and knew how to put ’em to good use. If that failed, he’d do the stretch and muscle-flex thing—that usually wore down any resistance.

  He looked at the seat next to him at the security badge he’d purchased at the local cop shop on his way to the rehab hospital. It had cost him a few extra minutes, but he’d flash it, and the nurse (assuming he got lucky on the age) would barely glance at the badge; she would probably be checking out his ring finger (he would hold the badge with his left hand) and realize there was no ring, no mark of there ever having been a ring, and for some reason, women seemed to think that meant he was a “catch” and they’d be thinking more about getting him into bed than whether or not he was legitimately a security guard.

  So when he pulled up to the rehab center to find Lori Ann casually sitting on the curb, waiting for him (annoyed, as usual), he was actively disappointed. No reason to hit on the nurses now. Damn, but his sisters worked hard at making his life miserable.

  Lori Ann was a tiny sprite of a thing, barely came up to his shoulders, and her blond hair was fixed perfectly. She looked every bit the former cheerleader she’d been, except for the annoyed part—that part looked like she was going to do a back-flip on someone’s head any moment now. He liked her better when she was drinking. She climbed into his car, slamming the door a little too hard.

  “How’d you get out?”

  She turned and plastered on that you want to do something for me smile that all three siblings shared. “Easy. I told my counselor that if I didn’t get a furlough, I’d have to explain to Bobbie Faye why I wasn’t able to help her, and I would then give her his home address so that she could pay him a visit. I’ve never seen a man race through paperwork so fast.”

  “Wow. I’m gonna have to use that one.”

  “Get your own, that one’s mine.”

  “So what makes you so hot and bothered to help her? You’re still not speaking to her.”

  “I tried calling her back and she didn’t answer. The only time that happens is when she’s being almost-killed. And nobody kills my sister except me.”

  Bobbie Faye wrapped a towel around herself and hurried to her jeans crumpled on the floor. Trevor stepped out of the shower as she retrieved the photos. She glanced over at him and her brain shifted into neutral.

  After a minute, he tapped her on the forehead and she met his gaze.

  “Huh?”

  “Photos?”

  “Oh. Oh! Right. Can’t think when you’re naked.”

  “Good to know,” he said, smiling. “And should I be insulted that you are already over the aftereffects?”

  “I think I really like that whole overachiever thing you’ve got going on,” she said absently, focusing back on what she was seeing. “I think better when I’m—” She suddenly paid attention to what she was saying and looked up to where he waited.

  “Satisfied?” he asked. There was a shadow of something behind his poker expression that pulled her to him, and she put her arms around him.

  “Happy,” she said, and she kissed him. He held her, lingering on that kiss, which trailed to her shoulder. She waved the photos at him. “Hold that thought.”

  He glared at the photos as if they were his enemy. When she raised an eyebrow, he looked from her to the photos and acquiesced. “Damn. You managed to make me forget all about work. That never happens.”

  She beamed. “Maybe that’s my superpower.”

  “I thought blowing things up was your superpower.”

  “Hey! A girl can have two superpowers.” She thwacked him on his bare and oh-so-fine ass.

  “I’m just glad I get the naked one.”

  He kissed her again, and just like that, the heat between them flared, insatiable. If she hadn’t had the damn photos in her hand, she would have forgotten about them for yet another hour. Or ten.

  But she was holding them and she sighed, waving them at him. “We gotta focus.”

  And to do that, they needed to not be nekkid.

  Bobbie Faye had clothes stored at the camp from various trips there in the past. Digging through Roy’s stuff to find jeans to fit Trevor was a challenge—Trevor was Roy’s height, but a lot more muscle—still, they found a pair. The whole domesticity of the action made her smile. Which is when they heard someone pound on the front door . . . and then it creaked open.

  Benoit parked behind the Capitol Lakes near the Governor’s Mansion; the heat of the day had chased most of the tourists inside their hotels. Only a tiny smattering of hardy souls dotted the banks of the lake, picnicking a late afternoon meal under the pines and the oaks. The white Greek Revival–styled mansion shone in the sun, the reflection nearly blinding him where its anterior antebellum verandas faced the lake on the bank opposite him.

  Why in the hell would Bobbie Faye choose this spot? Sure, as seniors, it was revered. Several of them had swiped Catholic High’s bear mascot ahead of one particularly vehement rivalry game and tied it up to . . . he looked around . . . that sculpture. And had gotten in huge trouble for it, now that he thought about it. Cam and he got put on probation with the football team for that game (and they lost), Francesca was sent back to live with her dad, Jordan and Jeremiah were grounded so long, they practically needed introductions once they were free again, and Bobbie Faye, whose idea it was, had gotten a week of suspension from school and her trailer was rolled with TP every night for a month. Of course, after a couple of years had passed, the myth had grown—and the way he heard it, they’d stolen a live bear mascot and Bobbie Faye had wrestled it, had lost an arm (which was reattached), but then scared the bear so much, it would only curl up in a fetal position and whimper.

  He saw a flash of movement and recognized her. She’d hidden across the clearing, keeping to a more protected area. Was there some other danger here? What was she being wary of? Surely not him, unless she, too, had heard the rumors of the surveillance footage, but she had to know he’d have talked to her before hauling her in, right? He slowly canvassed the area, and then radioed ten-oh-seven to dispatch, giving his location, and then climbed out of his air-conditioned truck. An . . . oddness, something wrong . . . pricked at the back of his neck. He pulled his gun from his holster, aimed at the ground, ready.

  He could not believe he was having to pull his gun against Bobbie Faye. How
in the hell was he ever going to face himself in the mirror if he killed her? Or worse . . . Cam?

  “Bobbie Faye?” he called as he eased toward the sculpture and remembered that was one of Marie’s. There had been a huge controversy back when it was first installed. The governor had been a state senator then and had pushed it through Congress as “support for a local artist” while neglecting to mention it depicted a couple having sex. It was an instant hit with every high-schooler and still offended all of the church crowd, who tried every four years to have it removed.

  “Bobbie Faye?” he called again. “I’m here to talk, like you asked. No need to hide, chère.”

  “You didn’t bring anybody, right?”

  “No, chère, just me. I need to talk to you. I think someone is trying to frame you.”

  “Someone is,” she said from almost right behind him, and it struck him the instant the bullet did that he’d been had. He slammed forward to the ground, cursing himself for such a stupid mistake. He should have known. He needed to shoot, he needed to stop her, and he tried to lift his gun, but his arm wasn’t working right and then the second bullet hit. She leaned over and peered into his eyes as the world drifted down into blackness.

  Bobbie Faye and Trevor sprinted toward the kitchen—each grabbed a gun off the counter—only to see the front door opening and Cam filling it with six-foot-four-inches worth of pure annoyance. He tossed Bobbie Faye his spare key when she made muffled “how?” and “locked” noises.

  “Twice in one day, Detective,” Trevor said, his voice like finely edged steel. As Cam took a moment to glare at Trevor (only in jeans) and then gaze at her (jeans and a very lacy bra—she hadn’t quite gotten to the shirt yet), Trevor added, “Maybe next time, we’ll have some hors d’oeuvres set out for you. Were you followed?” He went to the front window, nudged the curtain over, and peered out.

  “No. But if I can track you, someone else could, too,” Cam answered without looking at Trevor. Bobbie Faye could see how he catalogued her appearance—the bruises, the cuts, the way she probably looked thoroughly kissed . . . and oh, Lord, there were probably hickeys, though really, at this point, she was one big bruise so how would he know? She shook herself—didn’t matter. If she didn’t know better, didn’t know that he hadn’t wanted to be with her, she would have sworn he looked gut-kicked, but then he rubbed the back of his neck and pinched the bridge of his nose and she knew he was, instead, still fighting a headache. “Get dressed,” Cam snapped, and then realizing how he’d barked it out as an order, he amended, “please.”