by S. J. Drum
“It’s the first time that’s ever happened. I swear, I don’t know how I could have—”
“Wait.” Abigail felt utterly confused. What had he done for the first time? Surely not the sex. She paused with her overalls tugged halfway up. “What’re you talking about?”
He stopped pacing, ran a hand over the back of his neck and picked his hat up from where it’d been tossed onto a bale of hay. “The condom. I forgot to wear a condom.” He slapped the hat on his head, giving the bill a hard tug.
Now that he mentioned it, she could feel the evidence of the oversight trickling from her core. She straightened and secured the straps of her overalls over her shoulders before reaching for her socks and boots. “That’s what you’re upset about? That’s it?”
Jed had resumed his pacing; her words brought him to a halt in front of her, his expression incredulous. “That’s it? It’s a pretty big fucking deal, sweetheart. I should have protected you better. I’ve been tested, I’m clean, but I still should have protected you. Is there any chance you could get pregnant?”
He settled his hands on her shoulders, the look in his green eyes so sincere she nearly burst out laughing with relief.
“Why are you smiling? You’re supposed to be yelling at me right now for being such an inconsiderate jerk.”
“I’m on the Pill, Jed. I’m not going to get pregnant. Even if I wasn’t on the Pill, it’s not the right time of the month.” She leaned forward and pressed her lips to his in a quick kiss, then drew back and studied his face. “Are you sure that’s all you’re upset about? You’re not having second thoughts or anything?”
He scowled, dragged her against him and thrust his tongue into her mouth in a claiming kiss. When he pulled back, a fierce possessiveness burned in his eyes. “No regrets. Not a single one. I want you, Abigail. Now that I have you, I’m not letting you go.”
Her heart tripped over his words, the sheer primal tone of possession in his voice. She remembered the small sparks of dominance he’d shown during their lovemaking and feared she was already addicted. A conflict rose inside her and she worked to squash it. Her feminine sensibilities urged her to balk at being dominated, especially during sex. The rest of her…her heart and body begged for more. Whether it was right or wrong, she craved the dangerous edge Jed offered and she trusted him enough to allow her limits to be tested.
“All right, cowboy. Let’s get you inside and check out your hand.” She stepped back, putting space between them. As she led the way toward the house, she glanced over her shoulder at the tall, muscled male following behind her. “And if you tore any of those stitches, I’m thinking a spanking will be a fitting punishment.” She offered him a saucy wink before climbing the porch steps and entering the house, feeling lighter than she had in years.
* * * * *
The past two weeks had been amazing. He and Abigail had spent more time together than apart and Jed couldn’t be happier. Sherrie had called him numerous times in the days following their breakup but he thought he’d finally gotten through to her that it was over.
He parked his truck behind the market and climbed down onto the damp asphalt. The humid summer air smelled heavily of ozone, the sweet scent found only after a thunderstorm. At the last second, he stopped from closing the truck door, leaned inside and pulled out a reusable shopping bag. It wasn’t a trendy color and had no quirky artwork or phrases on it. You could only ask so much of a guy. For some reason, carrying a reusable shopping bag always felt effeminate. A plain, tan canvas bag was the compromise.
After collecting what he needed from the grocery and checking out, he carried his stuffed-to-the-brim canvas bag out onto the sidewalk.
Kinda looks like a feed sack. That’s manly, right?
He was in such a good mood from the night he’d spent with Abigail in his arms, he decided he didn’t care what it looked like.
The usual collection of town gossips—a group of empty nesters with nothing better to do but hang out in front of the deli—was gathered around a man in a green sports jacket and tan slacks. The man had a notepad and pen in one hand and held a picture outstretched in the other. A camera bag dangling from a strap was crossed over his chest.
Definitely not local.
In a small town, it was easy to spot someone who didn’t belong.
Instead of taking the alley back to the parking lot where he’d left his truck, Jed stepped down the sidewalk toward the deli and the group collected outside. As he neared, he heard one of the old women say, “Oh, you must mean Abigail. She owns that awful tattoo parlor.” The gossips crowded the stranger, all peering with squinted eyes at the photo he held.
This can’t be good.
Jed moved closer, pretending to study the laminated menu taped to the front window of the deli. The menu hadn’t changed in ten years and everyone in town already had it memorized but he scrutinized it as if for the first time while listening in on the conversation taking place a few feet away.
“And you said this woman goes by ‘Abigail’?”
“Yes, I’m positive. That’s Abigail Hart.”
“Mmm hmm, no doubt about it,” another woman added.
Having heard enough, Jed edged his way into the circle. “What’s this all about?”
“What’s your name, sir?” The man tucked the picture under his arm and took his pen in hand as if to take notes.
“Jed Weston. What business do you have with Abigail?”
The old women tittered and tsked, staying close to the action, no doubt so they could mentally record every moment of the exchange for later retelling.
The man shuffled his burdens again until he presented a photo of Abigail in which she looked about sixteen. She’d been startlingly thin, her dark hair ending in a dramatic cut just below her jaw. She’d been photographed leaving a police station, her arms wrapped about her middle as if trying to hold herself together. Large, haunted black eyes peered directly at the camera, making it seem as though the teenage version of Abigail was staring out at him.
A rage built inside Jed. “Where did you get that?”
“It’s public record. A copy of a picture taken by the Jeffersonville Daily staff. I’m doing a follow-up story on this woman.” He tapped the picture. “She witnessed a murder about ten years ago.” He leaned in as though telling a great secret. “She saw her father kill her mother. She disappeared after the trial and I’ve recently been informed of her father’s death in prison. I’m trying to find out what she’s doing now, where she’s been. It’s a great human interest story.”
Jed seethed, wondering what he could do to make sure Abbey never had to deal with this jackass.
“Apparently she’s changed her name since the incident,” the reporter added, looking rather smug with his detective work.
“What was her name before?” one of the women interrupted.
“Ashley Dearhart.”
A couple of the women gasped, one clutched at her chest and another fluttered a wrinkled hand in front of her perspiring face. “I remember hearing about that family on the news. I never knew Miss Hart was one of them.”
Jed’d had enough. “Did it occur to you she went through the trouble of changing her name because she didn’t want to be found? Maybe she wants to separate herself from that awful time in her life?”
The reporter seemed to sense the tension rolling off Jed. The man straightened his shoulders but ruined the effect by backing up a step at the same time. “Look, man, I just want to get the story. I’m not out to do her any harm.”
Jed stepped into the man’s space. “This story is already doing harm.” He gestured at the overly interested group of women closing in on them like hawks on prey.
Whispers began, then escalated among the gossiping women. One elbowed another and so on around the circle until the ringleader spoke up. “There she is. That’s her, that’s Abigail Hart, right over there.” She pointed across the street to the post office.
“Shit.” Jed shouldered his way ar
ound the reporter. Abigail looked up and noticed him, giving him a bright smile as he crossed the street toward her.
She’d reached the bottom of the post office steps when he hopped onto the sidewalk. He must have been close enough to her for her to make out his expression because the smile slipped off her face as if it’d melted in the sun. He stepped in front of her to block her view of the group across the street. She leaned to the side, straining to see around him.
Jed transferred his overstuffed grocery bag to his right hand and, with his left, spun her around, caged her in next to him with his arm across her back and started guiding her down the street toward his truck.
“Ashley Dearhart! Miss Dearhart! I’d like a word with you.”
Abigail froze, turning to stone beneath his touch. The sound of the reporter’s fast-falling footsteps drew nearer as Jed felt Abigail slip further away, though she remained standing next to him.
Chapter Nine
Son of a bitch. This can’t be happening.
Abigail squeezed her eyes shut, trying to focus on Jed’s solid strength standing protectively beside her but her mind kept zeroing in on the two words she’d hoped to never hear out of a stranger’s mouth. Ashley Dearhart.
Jed leaned over and pressed his lips against her ear. “You don’t have to deal with this. I’ll keep him occupied while you run to my truck. It’s parked behind the market.”
His offer was tempting. As usual, she’d left her car in the lot beside the shop a few blocks away. It’d be so easy to let Jed run interference while she fled to safety.
“Miss Dearhart, I have a few questions I’d like to ask you.” The reporter stood in front of her now, pen and paper in hand.
A primitive growl emerged from Jed. She’d have to defuse the situation before he ended up spending the night in county lockup for beating the hell out of this persistent reporter.
Abigail drew in a fortifying breath, fighting against the heart-dropping, stomach-flipping feeling about to consume her. Maybe it was time to stop running. She placed a restraining hand on Jed’s taut stomach. “Don’t. I’ve got this.”
Apparently sensing her grudging acceptance, the reporter jumped right in. “How did you feel when you learned of your father’s death? I understand he died during a prison riot, killed by another prisoner.”
She stared at his stupid sports coat—it was about ninety fucking degrees outside—and his tan pants and artfully arranged bedhead hair. “Well, I guess I felt pissed off.”
The reporter’s bushy brows rose toward his hairline. “You were angry at the other inmate for killing your father?”
“Hell no. I’m pissed my father got off so easily. He made my life hell for sixteen years, murdered my mother, and then he was handed a get-out-of-jail-free card after only ten years?” She shook her head, hands fisted at her sides. “No, dying was too easy for him. He should’ve suffered for the entire sentence. That’s how I feel about it.”
The smarmy man’s mouth hung agape and she had the insane urge to tap his chin and knock his jaw closed.
He seemed to regroup. “Did you ever visit him while he was incarcerated?”
She snorted. “What the hell do you think?”
Jed did a restless shuffle and pulled her a little tighter against his side. “We about done here?”
The reporter flipped through his notepad, scanning words and discarding questions until he came to one which apparently satisfied him. “Do you think your upbringing affected your decision to live an alternative lifestyle?”
“Alternative lifestyle?”
He gestured to the shoulder cap tattoos bared by her tank top, the tats tracking down her arms and peeking above the neckline of her shirt. Heat flushed her cheeks. She’d never seen how she made her living as an “alternative lifestyle”. She liked creating permanent art through tattoos and she made a decent living doing it. Really didn’t go any deeper than that. The smarmy little shit staring at her now with judgment in his eyes made her bristle.
The man made a mistake when he turned that judgmental stare on Jed and the ink on his arms.
She stepped away from Jed’s embrace and edged in front of him. “My parents had absolutely nothing to do with the way I live my life now. They were users, losers, and abusers. Insignificant, fame-chasing asshats like you are why I’ve never accepted any invitations to do talk shows or interviews or the fucking movie of the week. I have nothing in common with the two degenerates responsible for my birth. If you’re looking to draw similarities between us, don’t bother.”
The prick’s mouth hung open again and this time she didn’t curb the urge to tap his chin and close it. She reached right out, gave his weak chin a little slap and felt the reverberation of his teeth snapping together. Turning to Jed, she tried a small smile and laced her fingers through the hand not holding on to his shopping bag.
Jed seemed unable to say anything as he looked at her with what she hoped was admiration and something a bit stronger in his gem-green eyes. Even the gaggle of old, gossiping women was silent as she shouldered past the reporter, pulling Jed behind her.
Normally after a confrontation Abigail would end up going over the scene again and again, imagining all the things she’d thought but hadn’t said, wishing she would have spoken her mind. Now, after having told the reporter and everyone listening exactly what she thought, she wondered if she might have been better off pleading the Fifth.
Too bad. What’s done is done, no use regretting it now.
Lost in thought, she hadn’t realized they’d reached Jed’s truck until she was spun around and pinned against the side by his tall, hard body. He leaned to the side, jerking the passenger door open with the hand also holding his shopping bag, then tossed the bag onto the floor of the cab, taking no notice when the contents spilled out. He placed both hands on either side of her shoulders, caging her in.
The fierce look he gave her made her heart trip and breath quicken.
“You, Abigail Hart, are an amazing woman.”
“I don’t—”
Her words were silenced when Jed’s lips descended upon hers, forceful, claiming. He nipped her lower lip then thrust his tongue inside her mouth in a searing kiss. A repetitive clicking sound signaled the reporter’s use of that damn camera he’d had slung over his shoulder. Either Jed didn’t notice or didn’t care. He withdrew from the kiss enough to meet her eyes. “I love you.” The words were said in a strong voice, with no regard to being overheard. He shook his head and backed up a step before she could speak. “Don’t say anything. You don’t have to say it back.”
Don’t say it back? But she wanted to say it. It’d been on the tip of her tongue since the moment he’d slid inside her for the first time, that day in the barn. “But I want—”
“Later.”
He all but tossed her into the passenger seat of his truck, ignoring the reporter as he edged closer for a better shot.
Abigail kicked a plastic jar of peanut butter out of the way and settled her feet on the floorboard amid the spilled groceries. As soon as he slid behind the wheel, fishing for the keys in his pocket, she leaned across the seat, planted a sloppy kiss on his stubbled cheek and said, “I love you too, you big doofus.”
A grin hitched up the side of his mouth closest to her and the fact she’d been the one to put it there eclipsed the happenings and resulting stress of her encounter with the reporter.
For the first time in her life, Abigail heard truth in the words I love you. She scooted to the middle of the bench seat, straddling the gearshift and tucking herself into his side like a randy teenager. Life was good.
* * * * *
That evening, Jed opened the shop by himself. He often opened Hart’s Ink alone on the days Abigail didn’t have any appointments scheduled until later and she in turn opened by herself when he had no early appointments.
Earlier in the day, he’d taken Abigail back to her apartment and they’d made love—twice—before she shooed him out the door so he wouldn’t
be late meeting his first client.
He held a pair of forceps with his left hand as he inserted a long needle through his client’s trembling lower lip. The girl was all of eighteen—exactly eighteen, being that today was her birthday. Three other young women stood crowded into the small space, apparently for moral support, though their gasps and squeals were more a hindrance than help.
With a steady hand, he lined up one open end of a stainless steel ring with the blunt end of the needle and guided it through the hole, pushing the needle out as the jewelry took its place. He snapped the ball into place and used a piece of sterile gauze to wipe away a drop of blood that’d pooled in the dip of the young woman’s chin. “All done.” He offered her his most reassuring smile. “You were very brave.”
The girl smiled, then winced as it stretched her virgin piercing. The other girls in the room giggled and stared at him as if they’d just met a real-life hero. Unlike some of the professionals in the body art business, he didn’t get off on the fake hero worship or clumsy advances of young women wanting a walk on the wild side.
Jed sat back, pulled his gloves off and tossed them into the trash, then stood and walked out of the room to the reception area. He stopped behind the cash register and waited until the girls figured out he wasn’t going to come back to the room and offer any extra services. After a few minutes of whispers and giggles, they filed out to stand across the counter from him, only one of them still bearing a hopeful and unpracticed seductive expression.
“Twenty-five dollars, please.”
The hopeful girl, wearing too-low jeans with thong straps stretching over her skinny hips above the waistline, stepped forward and put a hand out to stop her friend from opening her purse. She leaned forward, plumping her small breasts onto the glass countertop. “Maybe we can work something out,” she purred, looking up at him from beneath heavily mascaraed lashes.
He couldn’t help it, Jed burst out laughing.
