I am in love.
Chapter Eight
Cleo
It’s been two days since Garth and Daddy paid me a visit and three days since the shooting, and I have got to say, I am not unhappy with life at all right now.
One thing that I never would have known if not for this whole mess happening and Jericho dragging me to his bar and refusing to let me leave—I am a really good bartender.
I make a mean margarita—a blend that put me on my butt like nobody’s business—and I like the sense of joviality that comes along with making conversation with the crack brigade.
The patrons are usually old men with hours of time on their hands to spend nursing their beers and sharing stories that likely never happened. They’re all tall and rough-looking men that can only be bikers if I am not mistaken.
Not all of them are nice, mind you. I’ve seen Jericho or Josh tossing out enough idiots to admit that, but they’re cool on the whole and seem to like me. Even when I blush at their language and gasp at some of the outrageous things they do and say.
My favorite so far is a husky-voiced, bleach-blonde woman named Gus. She’s crude and cackles when she laughs, but she has a great sense of humor and never fails to whisper the most disgusting things to me when Jericho isn’t looking.
But I digress from what I actually want to say here.
I have spent three days now waiting for Jericho to touch me and have his way with me since the swelling in my knee went down and I lost the crutches and…not a thing.
Not one kiss or inappropriate touch, and I swear on my liver if that man pulls me close and snuggles his erection into my ass one more night only to start snoring in my ear when I get wet and bothered, I will do something bad, real bad to him.
Last night, for example, he pulled the snorefest routine on me and left me so itchy that I actually contemplated turning over and shoving my hand into his underwear.
The wrongness of my thoughts, wondering if he’d be smooth and silky, or hot and too big for my hand, was eating me alive, but I was so tempted I had to stiffen my body and will myself to sleep before I molested him.
This morning, it was the same story. I woke with his wood in my butt crack and a belly full of need that went unsatisfied because the minute I pushed closer and started undulating, the man hopped out of bed like I was giving him fleas and ran to the bathroom.
I am not forward, I think we have established that, but I was worked up enough to stalk to that bathroom door and push it open, only to be stopped dead in my tracks when I was met by all that naked muscle and the sight of him jerking off furiously.
I never thought that would be erotic or arousing, but it was. Oh so arousing. I got wet watching him grasp that thick long stalk of flesh and even hotter when his soapy hand started moving, jerking and squeezing with more force than I would have guessed was comfortable.
I saw the pleasure on his face as he threw his head back, eyes closed, butt tensing as he thrust his hips into his hand and groaned as semen started shooting from that tip.
I just about melted into a puddle of hunger, my sex aching and wet enough to coat my thighs at that point, but I was also hurt and embarrassed, and that spurred me to rush out and close the door quietly.
Why would he need to do that since I have made it clear he can have me again? Heck, I basically told the man after he shoved his fingers in me and got me off that I would not at all protest more.
That got me thinking, and I have come to the realization—as hurtful and crushing as it may be—that maybe, just maybe, Jericho doesn’t want me that way again. Oh, he keeps blathering on about marriage and all that stuff, but for all I know, the man could just be spinning me a story.
It doesn’t make sense, and I cling to that, telling myself that I’m being an idiot. He must want me if he’s been hounding me and saved me and brought me to his home, right?
The nutso in my head says otherwise though. She keeps spouting off about him feeling sorry for me after seeing the way everyone treats me. Why, I may as well be the town imbecile for the way they seem to snicker at my softness and pat me on the head like a good little pet.
Maybe he didn’t like that, and his pity is forcing him to say things he thinks I need to hear?
I don’t want to believe it, but after what I witnessed this morning and the wide berth he gives me whenever I go so much as a foot closer to him, I’m starting to believe he may just be humoring me as a way to keep me here where he deems it safe.
Another thing that has me worried is the very fact that Jericho is unfailingly kind and honorable. That honor itself is the last thing I want, though, because it seems that it may be forcing him to hold onto me for my safety, sort of like the big strong warrior trying to protect that pathetic waif who can’t do much else than blush and act like the retiring schoolmarm.
So, yeah, that’s where I am at this present moment, and I can’t say I like feeling this way. I can’t stand the thought of being duped by him, even if it is just in kindness. In all honesty, I would rather have him telling it to me straight and setting boundaries than to have him calling me “Peaches” and smiling at me, even as he puts distance between us.
I have tried twice to tell the man that I will be perfectly safe at my father’s house, what with the sheriff being his buddy and promising to keep watch over me, but all I got for that was him calling my boss—my daddy’s assistant if you want to know the truth of it—and telling her not to expect me back at work any time soon what with someone shooting at me.
I tried leaving, too. I mean, I’m not a total pushover, but when he caught me and threatened to tie me to the bed and sponge bathe me and feed me like an invalid, I stopped trying.
Now I’m just passing the time, hoping and praying that they can find the car and then the person who shot at me. I even wracked my brain for possible suspects and gave serious thoughts to Marshall, what with me cuckolding him and all, but I soon scrapped that when I thought of him handling a gun.
That made me laugh so hard Oak and Smiley gave me strange looks all morning and Josh kept trying to feel my head to take my temperature.
I just don’t get it.
“Hey, Peaches, lunchtime.”
I shake myself out of my thoughts and smile at Jericho as he frowns, coming out from behind the bar to the booth way in the back corner.
“You okay?”
“Fine, just bored I guess,” I mumble, sliding into the opposite side and pulling my burger closer.
The man feeds me the most decadent things: juicy steak big enough to feed two, which I ate—all of it; slathered pork chops; and buttered mashed potatoes that no doubt put a pound on my rear end after the way I attacked it.
Burgers are new, and I moan my delight as I bite into the hunk of cow and juices pour out of it and down my chin.
“Good?”
“Mmm,” I say around the napkin, wiping at my chin with a blush.
“So, you seem, sad,” he ventures, looking none too pleased.
The man watches me like a hawk. Why am I not surprised that he sees my mood? One thing about trying not to internalize things and actually have a facial expression is that I am an open book. I’m not sure I like it, but heck, it beats the way I was just days ago.
“Oh, I don’t know. I kind of miss my job and my house I guess.”
Lying is a sin, but I want to at least give him an opening to let me go. I need to go before I do something silly—like tell him I more than like him. I have what I keep telling myself is my first crush but suspect is actually my first shot at love. Of course, I know that this could just be a result of his being my first. All girls fall for their first, right?
“Peaches, we’ve discussed this already.”
“No. No, we haven’t. You laid out the law as you call it, and I just caved as I do with everyone else, Jericho. I…I want to go home.”
Lying is a sin.
His face goes hard and I hear his jaw crack when he glares at me, making my heart thump and squeeze
with the urge to back track and assure him that I want what he wants.
I won’t though, because sometime between yelling at Daddy and seeing Jericho scare the bejeezus out of Garth, I made the decision never to be that girl again. I want to be nice and all things good, but I also want happiness, and for that reason, I will stop buckling to please others—even Jericho.
“Well, that’s too damn bad since here you will stay.”
“Why? Because we’re getting married and having three kids and living happily ever after, Mr. Soldier Man?” I scoff. “I have news for you, Evans, you never asked me if that’s what I wanted, and from where I’m sitting, I am none too pleased with that picture. We aren’t even compatible! What makes you think I want to marry you?”
Lying is a sin, Cleo Ducaine, how many times must I remind you?
My barb hit, and I see him jerk before tossing his burger down and rising without a word.
“Oak.”
“Got her boss.”
I feel like ten shades of cow dung when he just walks away with a stiff back and slams out of the bar, leaving me alone with no appetite, a tight chest, and tears that I refuse to let anyone see.
“Now that was mean, little lady. Especially considering none of that horse shit you just spouted was true,” King says, falling down into the booth to glare at me.
“Go away, King. Please.”
The burger I liked so much starts churning in my gut, and I feel my throat convulse when he stares at me intently and shakes his head.
“You’re a coward.”
“I know. Now go away.”
“Why can’t you just give the poor asshole a chance? He adores you, risked his life for you, and has bent over backward to make you happy here, and you are nothing but sulky and gloomy all damn day.”
His accusations hit me deep inside, and I employ my old mask, as I stiffen my spine and replace my look with one that is bland and not at all inviting.
Just that quick, I feel old Cleo roar on back, and for once, I thank my stars that I still have that mantle to fall back on.
“I can’t stay here forever and just stop living my life, King. I have a job I like, one they will not hold forever, and a home that needs repair. Playing house with Jericho may be a nice little distraction from life for a while, but how long will that last? That shooting was more than likely just some idiot being a thug, a onetime random occurrence that’s been blown all out of proportion as far as I can see. I need to stop pretending that this can go anywhere and get back to what I know and like.”
His lips twitch at my little speech, delivered in my most calm and collected voice, and I have the urge to lean over and slap him when he starts clapping and bows with a flourish.
“Bravo, little mouse. Your performance, while completely flawless, was about as convincing as Oprah declining bread. Now, why don’t you tell brother King just what it is that has you pulling back and trying to hurt Jericho enough to let you go, so I can help this situation along. As much as I like watching that dick flounder and fumble his way around with a hard-on of epic proportions, it’s getting a little old watching you both moon when the other isn’t looking.”
Lord, help me.
“I do not want to talk to you. Go away.”
“Nope.”
“Fine.”
I rise with a shake of my head and walk away, ignoring his grunt and the chicken noises that follow me. I know I’m a coward, but I can’t help it. Jericho is the first thing I have ever wanted enough to betray myself or Daddy for, and it terrifies me to think that all this is him being kind and a martyr to the honor he can’t hide.
Retreating up the stairs, I unlock the door and relock it behind me, going for the guest bedroom and the solace of rest and maybe some time to think and lick my wounds.
***
Jericho
The minute I slam into my truck and clench the wheel, I feel like the world’s biggest asshole. Groaning, I rest my head back against the seat and let the anger and hurt fade away to a place deep enough that I can think without saying things that I can’t take back.
It doesn’t feel great to have the woman I adore look at me as if I’m a bug beneath her shoe and tell me she doesn’t want to be with me. I’m a man, one with too much pride for his own good, and I want my girl to want me.
And yet it seems she doesn’t. It’s as if the newness of this bad-boy adventure has lost its shine and she wants to go back to her little cookie-cutter house and the perfectly tidy life she had.
Look, I know that what I have to offer is maybe not what she’s used to. I have a lot of money, something you wouldn’t know just by looking at me, but I will never be the mansion and diamonds type of man. That just isn’t me.
I like beer and barbecues and riding out on the weekends on my bike. I’m never going to change, and I don’t want to, not even for her. Part of me knows that I’m not her type, but hell, I just don’t give a shit.
I’m what she needs though. I will cherish her like no other man will and give her everything of myself in a way I can guarantee she won’t get anywhere else.
To me, that should be enough. She should look at me and be okay with the fact that I don’t ever wear suits or use a linen napkin. She should want me just because I’m me and not look for something that isn’t and never will be there.
Is it unfair of me to rip her whole life out from under her? Yeah, I get that, I do. She likes her job and I’ve taken that away for the meantime. She likes her neat house and her perfect lawn, and if I have my way, she will never see them again.
Maybe she likes running around in a tizzy doing for others all the time, who the hell knows? What I do know is that I won’t stand for seeing her being used.
Maybe I was wrong in thinking that the sex and heat I feel between us would make her fall for me, and maybe I am foolish to still believe that time is all she needs to see that I am the right man for her.
Fuck! Haven’t I suffered blue balls and a pounding dick for days just to let her know that sex isn’t all I want when I look at her? I almost failed myself this morning when I woke to her ass grinding into me and her scent in my nose.
The need to shove her beneath me as I pounded away inside her was so sharp that if I hadn’t run and jacked off in the shower, I would have done some nasty shit to her that she just isn’t ready for.
To make matters worse, she has a habit of moaning in her sleep as if she’s dreaming naughty things that I know can only involve me since I’m the only one she’s been naughty with.
Or will ever be naughty with!
Yeah, okay dick, everyone and the Lord hears you, fucker.
Should I let her go? Should I go back in there and give her an out?
The answer is hell no. For one, there is no way in creation that I will allow her out there with Sheriff Doolittle guarding her. I may as well paint a bull’s-eye on her back and stand back for the animal I’m dreaming of killing to take her out.
For another, I can’t. It may be selfish of me and just…I love her a little already, okay? I’ve never loved, not this deeply, and I can’t let that go now that I have her.
So no. She’ll just have to sniff at me and put that little button nose in the air if that’s the way the wind blows because she is staying. I just need some time, a little luck in finding her shooter, and maybe I can get to a place with her where she’s ready to see that we belong together.
The thought has the ache inside me fading, and I feel myself grin as I come to a decision about what I’m going to do next. Seems the one thing Cleo liked about me was the sex, so that is exactly what I will give her.
Maybe by the time I’ve fucked her senseless, she’ll be too addicted to what I can do to her to ever want to leave me.
A man can try, right?
“Yeah.”
I finally feel good enough to go back into the bar, and I just reach the door when I hear a scream.
Chapter Nine
Cleo
Uncharacteristically for m
e, I fall asleep during the middle of the day when thoughts of my messed-up life and aching heart become too much for me to think about without going crazy.
I need peace and just a moment of sleep that isn’t interrupted by dreams or the nightmares that come when I don’t expect them. Nightmares that involve shadows and fear and bullets that always hit me—every single one.
I don’t know how long I dozed off or what wakes me, but I rouse and groan, sitting up with a head full of an oncoming migraine and no solid plan as to what to do to fix any of this.
I hate that I hurt Jericho’s feelings. That is something I never ever wanted to do. Not after the way he’s helped me and gone out of his way to make me feel worthy and cherished.
Well, Cleo, you failed there, and then some, if you weren’t aiming to insult the man. Would it have killed you to humor him and grit your teeth through the need and emotion you feel for him?
Darn it, I don’t know what to think or how to feel anymore. All I want is one moment of certainty where I am not questioning everything. Being this new me is weird and unsettling, even if I feel good about coming out of myself more and more every day.
But that still doesn’t mean it sits well with me that I made that man feel like less than what he is just to spare myself embarrassment and the risk of rejection.
The knowledge settles lowly, and I wipe the sleep from my eyes and roll to my feet, ready and more than willing to go down there, find Jericho, and apologize. It’s also a fact that I owe him an explanation as to why I said what I did and that I will give it to him no matter how ashamed the telling will make me.
New Cleo isn’t quite brave, but I am not a coward either, and I won’t be one again, not when I can be honest and open and do the right thing.
With that in my mind, I finally feel a little better and get to my feet to do just that. It’s as I’m shuffling toward the door, just passing into the living room, that I feel a breeze and look over to my right where the window is wide open.
THE WATCHERS: 6 Military Romance Bundle Page 22
