Can't Get Enough (The Original Heartbreakers Book 6)

by Gena Showalter

  This man.

  All or nothing.

  “I was wrong before,” she said, lifting her chin. “I don’t think I love you. I know I do.” She’d only wanted to shield herself from possible hurt, she realized. But she’d told him she trusted him, and so she would trust him with her most valuable possession Her heart. “I’m begging you to give me chance to prove it. Nothing you tell me will send me fleeing.”

  A muscle jumped in his jaw. He balled his fists, tension radiating from him. His chest rose and fell in quick succession as he seemed to brace for battle.

  Unafraid, she stood her ground. But her heart raced at warp speed.

  He took her by the waist and spun her around. She gasped. He kicked her legs apart, and cupped her through her dress. Another gasp escaped her. The aggressive move didn’t scare her. No, it turned her on. Despite her recent orgasms, she ached and throbbed.

  With Brock, she would always want more.

  “Why are we talking?” he said, his tone soft, his warm breath caressing her ear. “I want more of you.”

  She wanted to give, to get lost in the moment, but again, she stood her ground. “Long term is more important than momentary pleasure—no matter how good that momentary pleasure is.”

  He stiffened, released her, and she turned, facing him.

  His eyes smoldered, but not with passion. He radiated fear, and fury. “When I finish talking,” he said, his voice as hard as granite, “you’re going to run.”

  Try me. “Want to know a secret?” she asked.

  He gave a reluctant nod.

  “You’re the best man I know.”

  He went still, not even seeming to breathe as hope and dismay warred in his wintergreens.

  One second passed, then another. An eternity of silence. Then he said, “As a kid, I lied, stole, fought, and cheated. Anything to get my parents’ attention. During one fight, I did a lot of damage to my opponent, almost killed him, because no one had the strength to pull me off him. I broke so many bones in his face he had to have reconstructive surgery. I was arrested, and for once, my dad couldn’t get me out of it. I was given a choice. Settle out of court and join the Army, or go to trial. I joined the Army. Got my life together. Did a whole lot more fighting and all kinds of killing. But I never lied again…until I met you. In our prenup, you expected me to forfeit all rights to our child. In reality, I agreed to let my attorney subtly change the contract language to ensure I could fight for equal rights to our child if ever I so desired.”

  He threw the words at her as if they were weapons. She absorbed every blow, rolling with the punches, until the end. But I never lied again…until I met you.

  Brock, the man she trusted above all others, had purposely misled her? He’d added strings to her no-strings pregnancy? He’d used deception to walk all over her desires and assert his own?

  “Equal rights…like shared custody?” Exactly what she’d hoped to avoid, and one of the reasons she’d considered artificial insemination.

  “Yes,” he said with a nod.

  Anger sparked, burning her chest. Lyndie understood his desire to be part of his child’s life. The fact that he hadn’t talked to her about having a possible change of heart…the fact that he hadn’t given her a chance to get on board or choose another way…

  The man she’d thought had never sought to control—had controlled her.

  “I’m sorry I lied to you,” he croaked, taking a step toward her, “but I’m not sorry I let my attorney convince me there needed to be a way I could become part of the child’s life if ever I so desired.”

  She jumped back, avoiding contact and maintaining distance between them. “I trusted you. You told me I could trust you after you’d already lied to me.”

  “I know.” Another croak.

  Little pieces of her heart were withering to ash. A heart she’d just presented to him on a silver platter. “I have no problem with the things you did as a child, or a teen, or even as an adult serving in the Army. I know the difference between war and domestic violence. Your fear over my reaction to those things? Unnecessary. Though I do understand why you had to tread so carefully with me…at first. We could have gotten past all that, Brock. We could have thrived. What I do not understand, or condone, is your lie about the child. You should have trusted me with the truth so that I could make an informed decision.”

  “You would have turned down my proposal.”

  “Maybe. Maybe not. Now we’ll never know.” She laughed a bitter laugh, hating him as much as she loved him. “I thought you were honest, but this…this manipulation of my decision? It’s unforgiveable. So I guess I was right about one thing, huh? I’ve never really known you.”

  “Scottie.” He took another step forward, even reached for her, and she took another step back. “I’m sorry.”

  “Don’t,” she snapped.

  “I couldn’t bring myself to marry anyone else, but I couldn’t not marry. I would have lost control of my father’s company.”

  “Excuses.” For emphasis, she waved her arm through the air. “Again, you should have had the balls to talk to me.”

  “I’m sorry,” he repeated, his tone now hollow.

  “James and my father used to apologize to me too.”

  I’m sorry I hit you, but you shouldn’t have angered me.

  I’m sorry you got hurt, but you had no right to question my whereabouts.

  I’m sorry my temper got the better of me, but you needed to learn a proper lesson.

  Brock flinched as if she’d hit him. In a way, she had.

  Remorse swung through her mind like a wrecking ball, but she ignored it. Tears filled her eyes and poured down her cheeks. “I’m going home. You need to stay somewhere else tonight.”

  Yet again, he reached for her. “Scottie—”

  “No. You’ve said enough. We both have. For tonight we’re done. As for tomorrow… I don’t… I just don’t know.”

  “You said you wouldn’t run.”

  “Guess you’re not the only liar in this room.” Bitterness dripped from her tone. “Goodbye, Brock.”

  “Scottie, please.”

  Feeling all kinds of broken, she slipped on her shoes, stepped around him, and walked out of the office.

  Chapter Nineteen

  As Lyndie disappeared beyond the door, Brock roared with all the fear and rage and violence trapped inside him. He swiped his arm across the desk, sending everything atop it flying to the floor. Glass shattered. Papers scattered.

  He should stay put and give Lyndie the space she’d requested, should let her cool down. He’d hurt her enough for one night. And not because of a past steeped in violence but because of a lie.

  He’d kept telling himself to shut up. Instead, he’d dropped truth bomb after truth bomb with zero finesse. And he’d done it as destructively as possible, as if daring Lyndie to leave him.

  He couldn’t soothe her with gifts or charm her into forgiving him. He couldn’t make her see his side of things with a heartfelt conversation. This was no simple misunderstanding.

  She was right. He’d fought to win her trust while standing on a lie. He’d taken away her right to choose the best path for herself. He’d acted like a coward.

  Hating himself, he picked up his shirt and yanked the material overhead. He’d made so many mistakes with Lyndie. He should have talked to her about his uncertainty long before now. He should have told her about his past, trusting she would be able to separate the violence he’d meted in the Army from the violence meted by her father and ex. All his worry—all for nothing, just as she’d said.

  He’d lied to her, tricked her—truth was truth and there was no prettying this up. Not anymore. He’d taken away her choice, and now he’d lost her.

  He was bleeding inside, hemorrhaging fast, but he wasn’t giving up. He would never give up. Lyndie meant too much to him.

  Lyndie meant everything, and it was time to prove it with action.

  Flooded by urgency, Brock sprinted out o
f the office. Along the way, he spotted Lyndie’s purse on the floor. So. She couldn’t have left the bar. She had no car keys.

  He searched the Scratching Post but found no sign of her.

  Desperate, he caught Jude’s attention. His friend still manned the bar.

  Lyndie, Brock mouthed.

  After the number of overseas missions they’d successfully completed together, they could communicate with only a few hand signals.

  Jude pointed outside and motioned: Hurry.

  Brock sprinted outside as if his feet were on fire. Time wasn’t on his side. He didn’t deserve a second chance, but he was going to beg for one anyway, and spend the rest of his life making up for his deceit. He would do anything to make this right.

  Moonlight spilled over the parking lot. A patron of the bar was three rows ahead, making his way to a truck. Potential audience or not, Brock would proceed. And okay, yes, he realized now he’d made a huge tactical error when he’d initiated a heart-wrenching conversation with Lyndie with in a public place. He should have waited until they returned home.

  What was done was done. He could only move forward.

  There! He spotted her at the entrance to the back alley where Ryanne liked to park. His heart thundered in his chest as he picked up speed.

  Lyndie spotted him and stiffened. “Go away, Brock. We’re done talking tonight, remember? Besides, Ryanne will be out any second. She’s driving me home.”

  She said “tonight,” but he feared she meant “forever.” And he doubted Jude would let Ryanne out of the bar any time soon.

  Brock stopped a few feet away from his wife, his breathing shallow. “I know I can’t make up for what I did. Nothing can. What I did was wrong. I should have talked to you about my concerns. But I let the fear of losing you direct my steps. I can’t go back and change it, but I can prove I trust you and tell you about my past. Everything. Every detail. You ask, I’ll answer.”

  Her expression remained closed off, emotionless. “It’s too late, Brock. I no longer trust you.”

  “That’s fair.” He dropped to his knees. Gravel dug into bone, but he didn’t care. “I love you, and I made a mistake. A big one. Huge. One I’ll regret for the rest of my life. You were right. I was a coward. If you give me a second chance, things will be different. I swear it.”

  Tears welled in her eyes, breaking his heart, and she shook her head.

  “Please. The man who lied to you is dead, gone,” he croaked. “A new one has risen in his place. A man willing to beg you for a fresh start. I will never lie to you again. Not a little white lie. Not a lie to save you from hurt feelings. I love you,” he repeated. “I need you. I need you so badly.”

  The color faded from her cheeks, and tremors rocked her on her feet. “You don’t love me. You can’t. Your actions say: I do not love Lyndie Scott.”

  “Lyndie Hudson,” he corrected.

  She closed her eyes and breathed deeply before facing him.

  “You taught me that I’m worth something,” he said, “and I will always—”

  “No, stop.” Absolute torment flashed over her features before she redonned the emotionless mask. “I’m grateful you’re willing to share your past with me now, I really am. And I’m glad you have realized your worth. But this…you… James used to tell he loved me too and that he needed me. I don’t want you to need me, Brock. I want you to be whole without me, and I want to be whole without you. I want to be better together because we want to be better, not because we must. What I don’t want? For us to drag each other down. You said you wanted to soar with me, but this isn’t soaring. Not for either of us.”

  Hope was dying fast, but even still Brock refused to give up. “I think I understand. I need you has a hidden meaning.”

  “That’s right. It says I do not love you, no, I actually love me and the way you make me feel, but the moment you stop making me feel this way, I won’t love the way you make me feel, therefore I will no longer need you. All of which is the opposite of love.”

  “I do love you, Scottie. I choose to put you first. I choose to be with you and no other, through good times and bad. I choose to protect you. Will you choose me?”

  Minutes—seconds?—passed in terrible silence. The tears began to stream down her cheeks, and she wiped them away with a shaky hand. “I don’t know,” she finally whispered.

  For a moment, Brock felt his heartbeat in every part of his body. His temples, the base of his neck, his stomach, even his feet. Every place in between. The beat was erratic—and broken. “I want you to know the fault for this is mine and mine alone. I betrayed us both. You did nothing wrong. Deep down, I think I did what I did because I liked the idea of having a connection to you always. I think I fell in love with you the first moment I saw you, I just didn’t recognize the emotion until too late.”

  “I’m sorry,” she croaked, looking ready to crumble. “You hurt me. Badly. You broke my trust, and I just don’t know how to fix it.”

  Denial roared inside him as she stepped around him once again. Do something!

  What?

  Anything!

  As she drew up short, Brock jumped to his feet and spun, and found Rick Lambert standing only a few feet away. Judging by the pistol-sized lump in his pocket, he’d come armed.

  Protective instincts surged. Protect Lyndie no matter the cost.

  Brock moved in front of his wife, acting as her shield, his hands raised in supposed surrender. “I told you to stay away from my wife,” he said, doing his best to sound reasonable, like they could work this out with a little back-and-forth conversation.

  “And I told you that you weren’t good enough for her.” A trembling Lambert pulled his hand from his pocket, revealing the weapon. A .44 pistol aimed directly at Brock. His eyes were wild, his pupils the size of coins.

  Fear flash-froze Brock’s blood. Not for himself. He’d been shot before, and he’d survived. He’d hated every second, sure, but if Lyndie were hurt… “Neither one of us wants Lyndie to be injured tonight,” he said, praying he was right. “Let her go inside. Lyndie, go inside right now.”

  Though she radiated fear and her limbs were quaking, she stepped to Brock’s side and stayed put. He tried to stealthily nudge her behind him again—no sudden movements—but she dug in her heels.

  “Mr. Lambert. Rick. Put the gun away. Please.” She took a step forward. “Let’s talk about this. You and me.”

  Between panting breaths, Lambert snapped, “You don’t love him. You can’t.”

  * * *

  Horror, fear, and shock held Lyndie immobile. This was her worst nightmare come to terrifying life. A madman stood in front of her, death on his mind. Her death maybe. Brock’s definitely.

  A voice inside her head screamed, Run! Now!

  In a mere flash of time, her mind uploaded a screenshot of every instance her father had beaten her with his fists or some object meant to inflict greater pain. Every instance James had left her sobbing, broken and bleeding. Every instance she’d been too afraid of the world to leave her house. Every instance she’d cowered in the face of adversity.

  Another part of her screamed, Enough! No more!

  That’s when something inside Lyndie snapped. With a shriek of fury, she launched at Lambert. The few self-defense lessons she’d taken throughout the years and thought she’d forgotten kicked in; she latched onto his wrist, forcing his aim skyward.

  Boom!

  Her ears rang as the shot echoed, but it hardly mattered. She used her free hand to knock the gun out of Lambert’s hand—then she punched him in the throat.

  Strong arms around her yanked her backward. Brock’s arms. Still she fought, quickly gaining her freedom. Probably because he didn’t want to hurt her. As Lambert hunched over, fighting for breath he couldn’t catch, Lyndie kneed him in the nose. Cartilage snapped and blood squirted.

  His howl of agony cut through the night. He stumbled backward, tripped over a rock.

  Lyndie followed him down and, using her kne
es, pinned his shoulders to the ground. Then—she—whaled. Punch, punch, punch. Her knuckles screamed with pain and bone cracked. Who cared? Punch, punch, punch.

  Blood covered Lambert’s face. One of his eyes was already swollen shut. His nose was completely out of place, his lips cut in multiple places. Two of his teeth were missing.

  Once again, strong arms wrapped around her and hefted her off Lambert—who remained on the ground, unmoving. She twisted and threw another punch, this one aimed at Brock. Contact! Still his arms remained around her, locked tight.

  “Let me go,” she snarled.

  “I’m not going to do that, love.” Barely contained fury seethed in his voice. Directed at her—or Lambert? “Lambert isn’t going anywhere, and I have the gun. You’re safe.”

  Panting, she stilled at last. A cacophony of voices suddenly hit her awareness. The bar had emptied out, the patrons surrounding the cars and the action.

  Jude was holding Ryanne back. “Police and paramedics are on their way,” he announced.

  Her gaze met her friend’s, and worry stared back at her. When Lyndie nodded, all I’m good, I’ve got this, Ryanne stopped fighting her husband.

  Was she good? As her adrenaline crashed, tremors rocked her.

  Without any warning, she burst into tears. Turning into Brock, she wrapped her arms around her middle. Soon she began to heave great big sobs, like a little girl who’d finally found hope, who’d finally seen light while standing in the middle of darkness—only to lose it.

  Brock cooed at her and petted her hair, and she let him. She was mad at him, yes. He’d done her wrong, most definitely. But he’d also done something James would never do. He’d been willing to take a bullet for her. He’d put her first, as promised, and protected her until the very end.

  “I’m so proud of you,” he said. “And angry. You put your life in danger. But you were so incredibly brave.”

  Realization: she’d just beaten up a man who threatened her. It was a dream come true! So why wasn’t she jubilant?

  When the police arrived, Brock remained at her side, never letting her go. Lambert was arrested and taken to the hospital. He had violated the protective order, and this time she had a witness. Lyndie was examined, gave the officers her statement, and had to endure having pictures taken of her injuries before the authorities allowed her to leave.