Imperfect Rebel

by Patricia Rice

  "All right, hit me," Jared said with a sigh, pulling her into his arms. "Get it out of your system. Then we'll talk."

  She didn't hit him. She collapsed into his arms instead. Burrowed there like some small terrified animal. Heat and strength enveloped her. Hard muscles held her up so she didn't curl into a ball and cry. She just let his stability seep into her and tried not to think about the electric flashes jolting every nerve, screaming a more primal need than fear.

  "The system stinks," she muttered incoherently into a linen-covered shoulder that smelled faintly of male musk. His muscles tightened as he crushed her closer, probably hoping to squeeze her brains out her ears so she would quit thinking. He was right—she couldn't quit thinking. Her brain whirled like a crazed dervish, and she couldn't stop it. "People stink," she added for good measure.

  "I'll buy a stronger deodorant," he said dryly.

  She liked it that he could joke and not go all sloppy sentimental or freeze up at the first sign of her meltdown. She liked it even better that he didn't take advantage of her temporary insanity. "This isn't working, McCloud. I've got to kill Linda."

  "Try calling me Jared, would you?" he asked in exasperation. "I feel like I'm back in school, and I hated school, I might add."

  She eased a palm between them, opening a space before she spasmed out. "I want to go get them—Jared. I don't want them running around out there in the storm."

  "You planning on taking a shotgun?" he asked, unlocking his arms slowly, as if reluctant to do so. She didn't know if that was because he didn't trust her to run for a gun or because he liked holding her.

  "I won't go up to their door. I'll park somewhere off to the side where the kids can see me from their bedroom. Linda will be too stoned to notice." She stood up, shaking herself off as if he'd planted pheromone magnets all over her. She had a plan. Now she needed him out of here.

  Jared stood too. Strange, how he seemed wider and taller every time she looked at him. He was a damned cartoonist, for pity's sake. He couldn't do anything. He needed to go back home where he belonged.

  He loomed bigger than Superman.

  "We'll go get them," he corrected. "You're good, but I don't want you punching Billy-Bob in the balls. That's my job."

  "None of this is your business," she restated wildly. "There's a hurricane coming. Get out of here while you can."

  "Look, Cleo." He grasped her arm and tugged her out the door. A bitter line cut across the bridge of his nose as he headed for the Jeep. "I'm not an incompetent ass, a lazy coward, or any of those other things you think I ought to be. Got that? This is me, not your ex or your father or whoever else did you wrong before. I'm doing what I think is right, and you have no say in it. Period. I'm willing to listen to your advice when I think you know more than I do, but right now, you're running on fear and you're not thinking straight, so I'm taking over."

  Well, guess that told her. Cleo stared at him in incredulity, unable to think of a single thing she could say to cut him down from whatever tree limb he'd climbed out on. Well, hell, it was his life. Who was she to tell him what to do with it?

  She shrugged and strode toward the Jeep. "Whatever you say, cowboy. Let's get out of here."

  The gusty rain burst into a steady downpour as the Jeep navigated the narrow treacherous road to Linda's. Cleo dug her nails into her palms and tried not to let her teeth chatter. She wished she believed Linda and friend had the sense to run for shelter, but she knew they wouldn't. They were floating on clouds by now, secluded in their own little world and not seeing anything but the empty insides of their skulls. She wished she could wipe out her memory of living the same jackass existence.

  Jared parked the Jeep behind a thicket of wax myrtle and palmettos. They could see the back corner of Linda's shack through a small hole in the hedge, but Cleo had no idea if the kids could see them. They would just have to watch for activity.

  Rain blurred the windows, and the palms out by the beach whipped back and forth in the wind. She thought they were both insane to believe this would work, but desperation caused people to do insane things. She knew that much for fact.

  The heat permeating the car wasn't entirely the result of humidity. Cleo didn't dare look in Jared's direction. She could no longer dismiss him as a cartoon character or another nameless, faceless entity passing through her life. Something very real pulsed between them that she'd rather not admit, but she'd stopped trying to fool herself some time ago.

  Jared turned the radio on low. "I don't think the causeway will hold up under too much of this weather," he said. "If they don't come out soon, we'll not make it back to mainland. Are you prepared for that?"

  "I don't have a generator, if that's what you're asking. And the well operates on an electric pump. We'll have to put out pots and barrels to catch rainwater when the electric blows. I have a freezer full of food we'll have to eat before it goes bad. It's better than a snowstorm. At least we won't freeze."

  He sat silent after that, and the image of the two of them trapped in her small house without any other human contact for days rose unbidden between them. He couldn't go back to the beach. It would be inundated.

  A slender figure shot out the back door, fleeing toward the cover of trees behind the shed. Kismet.

  Cleo reached for the door. Jared touched her arm, halting her as another figure stumbled down the back steps.

  "Billy-Bob," Jared muttered under his breath. "I'm gonna break that man of a bad habit." He turned the key in the ignition and shifted the Jeep into gear.

  "Billy-Bob?" She hadn't inquired the last time he'd called Lonnie that.

  Jared didn't answer but gunned the Jeep on an intersecting path between Lonnie and his prey. Since they followed no road, this required a certain rearranging of shrubbery. Cleo held onto the dash and her breath.

  Until she saw a third figure leaping from inside the shed, a hefty stick of kindling in his hands. "Stop, Jared. That's Gene, and he'll kill him!"

  She didn't specify who would kill whom, but Jared hit the brake just as Gene swung his weapon at the back of Lonnie's head.

  They both jumped from the car as the stick connected. Lonnie staggered and Gene looked ready to swing again, until he caught sight of Jared and Cleo breaking through the bushes, shouting. The boy's hesitation gave his target sufficient time to right himself and come after him with a roar.

  Gene took off like buckshot into the bushes, racing after Kismet.

  Cleo heard Jared's curses through the cacophony of wind and rain, but she had only one goal in mind—preventing Lonnie from hurting anyone else, ever again.

  She'd almost reached the stick Gene had dropped before Jared caught her by the waist and hauled her from the ground, kicking and screaming. She clawed at Jared's imprisoning arms as Lonnie glared blearily at them. Maybe she could connect with the bastard's balls if she kicked high enough. Her goal was to reach the monster and rip his head off, but she could take his balls first.

  Apparently a primitive instinct for self-preservation still functioned inside Lonnie's thick head. Avoiding Cleo's flailing feet and Jared's threatening demeanor, he lumbered back toward the relative safety of the dry house, leaving Kismet and Gene to fend for themselves in the threatening weather.

  "Calm down," Jared ordered, slowly lowering Cleo to the ground as the object of her rage disappeared from view. "Will the kids run for your place, or will they double back here?"

  Without rage to motivate her, she couldn't think again. Soaked to the skin, she tried without effect to pull from his grasp, but Jared seemed intent on keeping her from sinking into the mud. She scanned the bushes but could see no sign of either teenager through the driving rain.

  "We won't find them unless they want to be found," she said wearily, giving up her fight against his hold.

  A roar of wind akin to the sound of a tornado rushed through the trees, and Jared simply nodded and steered her back to the car. Stumbling through the mud and debris, dripping wet and miserable, Cleo let him help
her inside without any regard to the upholstery. Just the break from the wind relieved some of the misery, and she could turn her thoughts to the kids caught out in this. They'd be terrified.

  Jared climbed in and shoved a soaking hank of hair from his forehead. The thunder of rain against the roof prohibited conversation.

  He drove slowly, apparently hoping to see the kids through the waterfall of rain and leaves slashing across the windshield. Gene could find the road if he wanted. Kismet was probably hunting for her drawing box. If Cleo knew how to pray, she'd pray they'd be all right. She had to stop thinking.

  "I should have called Maya," she said irrelevantly, in a futile attempt not to think.

  "Phone's out," he reminded her, bending over the wheel to see out the window better. "And what would you say anyway? 'I'm staying out here in a hurricane'? Maybe she'll think you're safely trapped in traffic on the highway back to her."

  He turned the car down the drive. A palmetto lay across the path, and he steered the Jeep around it. The wheels sucked mud but successfully pulled back to the shell drive again.

  Cleo stifled her natural inclination to laugh derisively at his assumption. "Maya knows me better. My self-destructive tendencies have been evident since childhood."

  A transformer exploded somewhere in the distance, and the automatic security light over the house flickered. Cleo drew in a breath and willed herself not to search too obviously for some trace of the kids.

  "Flashlights and battery radio?" Jared asked.

  "I own a hardware store. What do you think?"

  He looked grim as he steered the Jeep as close to the house as he could. Maybe the kids were already inside. Their path through the woods was shorter than the road. "I think you ought to stock weather radios, is what I think."

  A blast of blustery air rushed in when Cleo opened the car door. She cupped her hand around her ear as if listening to her own private radio. "The forecast is for rain and wind throughout the night. Evacuate all outlying areas."

  He slammed out of the Jeep and came around to get her before she blew away. "Smart ass. I'm the comedian around here."

  Her ten-ton burden lightened perceptibly when Jared wrapped his arm around her, sheltering her from the wind. Surrendering to the inevitable, Cleo allowed him to guide her toward the house. The tall palms bent to the ground, the wind threatened to whip their wet clothes from their backs, but Jared's strength pinned her firmly to the uncertain ground they trod.

  A shout from the distance brought them both to a halt. They swung in unison and scoured the woods for the source.

  "We've got company." Jared's comment was the only dry spot on the island as two bedraggled figures raced from the cover of trees.

  Chapter 21

  The electric lines blew out not long after the kids sauntered off to the back room for the change of clothing they kept there. Cleo switched on her battery-operated radio to see if they still had time to reach the mainland.

  She ignored Jared as he returned to the Jeep to retrieve his suitcase so he could change. The kids were safe. He could go now. She didn't want him here. She could deal with Gene and Kismet. She couldn't deal with an active volcano—and she could tell Jared was rapidly approaching that state. She hadn't forgotten that much about the male psyche.

  The radio reported the causeway, as well as the main highway into town, closed. So much for that fantasy. She snapped it off and wished she'd had the sense to call Maya. Matty would worry.

  Jared blew in with the wind, creating a daunting awareness of her own drenched clothing. Puddles soaked the floor beneath her feet, but that wasn't the reason for her self-consciousness. She thought her overheating skin ought to steam the cold damp cotton of her clothes while she watched her unwelcome guest stripping off his shirt and shoes. She was thankful the lights had blown.

  "You can hang your wet things in the bathroom," she said with what she hoped was a dry tone. She thought her voice shook a little.

  As Jared bent to shove off his shoe, he glanced up at her from beneath a fall of wet hair. "I'm giving you first dibs on a hot shower, unless you want to share one?"

  She knew this wouldn't work. She wanted to wrap the tablecloth around her so he couldn't see the way her shirt was plastered to her skin, revealing the aching swell of her breasts. He was too damned observant not to have noticed, hence the shower suggestion. Wrapping her invisible dignity around her, she stalked past him, toward her room. "Wells operate on electricity, remember. No shower."

  It was going to be a long night.

  * * *

  "Spaghetti from a kerosene stove never tasted so good." Jared lazily threw a stick of kindling onto the fire and leaned back against the cushion Cleo had thrown on the floor for him. Although anticipation hummed somewhere just below his skin, he liked the restful hominess of the warm fire, a full stomach, and a woman at his side.

  Not exactly at his side. She'd relegated him to the floor. But she was within reach, and that was all that mattered. This was a far cry better than the lonely house on the beach, even with the howl of wind and crash of surf to keep him company.

  "And you're a connoisseur of kerosene cooking," she said with sarcasm, dropping onto the sagging couch after checking on the kids.

  "Learn to take compliments. It was delicious. Are they sleeping?"

  "Like babes. Living in terror is exhausting."

  Jared leaned back against the pillow and let the fire warm his socks. The old house creaked and swayed beneath the tumult of wind and rain, but other than the two tall palms, Cleo had no trees threatening the roof over their heads. He tried not to think too hard about his newly restored beach house at the mercy of the tide. He could hear the roar from here.

  The chaos outside seemed somehow diminished by the disturbing vibrations bouncing around inside this small room. If he had any smarts at all, he'd bury his head in a book and pretend he didn't notice. That had always worked in high school. College and career had taught him to let problems slither off his invincible shield of laughter. He could apply that now, but he no longer wanted to.

  He wanted—needed—to pierce Cleo's equally indestructible shield. He had the gut feeling if he let this opportunity slide by, he'd spend the rest of his life slip-sliding away.

  "You know all about the exhaustion of fear?" he asked, not looking at her. Just listening was painful enough. He'd spent a lifetime complaining about his dysfunctional childhood. He knew enough already to understand Cleo's pain outdistanced his whining by miles.

  "Shut up, McCloud."

  He didn't have to look to know she had curled up defensively in the far corner of the couch, beside the kerosene lamp. She would fight him tooth and nail every step of the way, but he thought she was worth the battle. "Are you going to call Social Services when this is over?"

  "I told you before—"

  "I know, I know, but isn't fear of violence a little more destructive than the coldness of a damned group home?" This time, he turned sufficiently to watch her face.

  In the flicker of the lamp, she looked pale and weary, and he thought he ought to be ashamed for driving her harder. But he wanted this battle settled and out of the way so they could move on to the good parts. If he was wrong and there were no good parts, he wouldn't die of it. Not immediately.

  "They put Maya and me in group homes a couple of times." Defenses down, she responded with irritation. "Maya was always doing something weird that freaked people out, like painting walls with roses and dragons, so we got thrown out a lot. Most foster homes don't like teenagers and don't want two at a time if it can be avoided."

  She sank into silence as if this much confession exhausted her. Jared waited patiently. She had reserves she didn't know she possessed, and he counted on them. His patience was rewarded.

  She tilted her head back against the couch and stared at the darkness of the ceiling. "Group homes aren't just about the counselors. They have security guards and sometimes a few jerks who don't know any other way of making a living, alo
ng with the do-gooders."

  He wasn't going to like this, he could tell already. "They hurt you?" he asked harshly, hoping to get it over with all at once.

  She shrugged. "Most of the time, I'm my own worst enemy. I know that now. I didn't then. One creep offered me cigarettes if he could cop a feel. I figured, sure, why not?"

  Jared shuddered and started to rise, but her body language blatantly warned him to back off. "We can warn Kismet," he said.

  She ignored him. "I liked it," she said defensively. "Nobody had touched me since I was a kid. I mixed up touching with feeling. I had no self-respect anyway. What did I know?"

  He was sorry he'd started this. He had the gut awful feeling he knew what came next. Pushing his pillow back from the fire, he reached over the cushion to capture her foot. She swung it restlessly, but he wouldn't let her go. He pressed the curved underside reassuringly with this thumb. "What you did then isn't who you are now."

  "Don't be a dolt, McCloud. We're made up of all these bits of our past. Block on block, we build ourselves. Cop a feel for cigarettes one time, neck a little for a car ride and a movie, what's one step more? By the time I graduated from group homes, I could get drugs or alcohol or cash anytime I wanted. That's how I learned to deal with life."

  He leaned his back against the couch and circled her foot with both hands, massaging, letting her become used to his touch. He knew what she was saying. He hadn't figured her for the type who went into marriage as a virgin. "So group homes taught you a trade. Are you still practicing?"

  "Screw you, McCloud," she said wearily. "And this is about Kismet, not me. I'm telling you I know what it's like. Trying to determine if she's better off with one pervert within the familiar boundaries of home or exposed to different ones on unfamiliar grounds is not a decision I want to make."

  He idly rubbed the slender tendon above her heel. "All right, that's a tough call, and you don't feel qualified to make it. I buy that. What if I make the call? I'm telling you frankly, I'm not letting them go back there." Lay it all out on the table. If she was going to cream him, he might as well have it over now.