by Amy Faye
Nineteen
Dave
It was harder to stop thrashing than I thought. I could feel the desire to keep hitting, to hammer on this guy’s skull until it was just mush.
He looks up at me. I don’t recognize him, but I recognize the neighborhood as well as anywhere else in this town. It’s not big enough to have escaped me my whole life.
“Where’s the kid?”
He looks up at me with wild eyes and blood streaming down his nose. I don’t think I broke it, because it’s not swelling that bad yet, but he definitely broke a blood vessel. Or perhaps I did, depending on your perspective. As far as I’m concerned, the minute that Laura decided she was scared and alone, he did it to himself.
The guy on the ground looked confused for a minute. “What? The kid? Who the fuck…”
I hit him again. “The kid. The one you or your buddies took.”
“Okay, I’ll talk,” he said.
I hit him again. “Don’t tell me you’re going to talk. Get talking.”
“Fuck, the red house.”
I look over, drag the guy up by his collar and point. “That house?”
“Yeah. Please, just stop hitting me.”
“You hurt that boy, and you’re going to find out who you messed with. Are we clear?”
He looks like he just pissed himself. I let the guy drop onto the ground. He doesn’t make a move to follow me, so I don’t make this life any harder than it needs to be.
I move towards the house. Check behind me. He still hasn’t moved. I should’ve checked him for a weapon, but the fact is that I didn’t think about it. There was a lot going on at the time. These guys didn’t think about much, either, though. So on the whole, I didn’t get nearly as screwed up as it could have.
The door’s still sitting open. There’s a kid standing in it, maybe eighteen. Maybe not. I guess he saw what happened to his friend because he bolts immediately out of the door, deeper into the house. I let him go.
“Charlie?”
“Mr. Collins?”
That’s his voice, for sure.
“Come on out here. Your mom’s worried about you.”
There’s a minute where I’m waiting for something to happen. The number one thing that I’m expecting, hopefully, is for him to come out of the room. When he doesn’t, I’m frustrated, but not surprised.
After all, the whole plan probably relied on his not being able to get out. Which means that it was never going to be ‘fine’ without me. I curse silently to myself and step into the house further.
Nobody in the front room. It stinks of light beer; it’s a distinctly American smell, and not one that I’m terribly familiar with. Even less after all this time out of the country.
“Anyone who doesn’t want to get their ass kicked should leave now,” I call in.
I can’t help laughing when an eight year old kid comes out with his hands up and runs past. It’s a short, barking thing. I don’t watch him beyond the doorstep.
“I don’t want to hurt you,” I call in. “Just let the boy go, and we all go home.”
“Fuck you,” someone shouts out. It’s from further in, I know that much.
I check my pocket. There’s a knife there. A knife I’m hoping not to use. I pull it out of the leather sheath regardless, and press the blade edge-side in against my leg. My arm stays pinned to my side.
“Alright, if that’s how we’re going to play it, I’m coming in.”
There’s a floorboard underneath my foot that creaks. Damn Michigan raised floors. If this was just laid down on foundation, it would be fine, but they just have to have their basements. I cringe and wait for something to change. Nothing does. They’re in there and apparently they’re worried enough about me that they intend to stay.
I have a system. It’s a simple one, but if you want to clear a building, you can’t go without. You won’t be able to be certain that it’s complete. It’s impossible to. In my case, it’s right to left. Two doors on the right, two doors on the left.
The closer door on the right eases open. It doesn’t make a sound until it bumps into the bathroom sink. The room is empty. If someone wanted to hide in here, I don’t think they could. There’s no cabinet below the sink, the shower curtain is partway clear and pulled back, and the sink with it’s pedestal stand takes up the close corner. No way.
The far room on the right is a bedroom. A thousand places someone could hide if they were clever. I take the whole thing in with a glance and then I close the door and move on to the next room. If I keep an eye out for door movement, then I’ll be able to react quickly.
I opened the far left door. Right to left. There was an instant where I had to put my full attention on the room. There’s nobody immediately visible in here, either. A noise from the front door snapped my attention in that direction. A petite figure, visible through the front glass. Laura.
I checked the door behind me again. Still closed. There was just one left. I took a breath and flattened my arm against my side and readied myself for whatever the trouble was, and then turned the knob and threw the door open. Which, as it happened, was exactly what they’d been waiting for.
Twenty
Laura
When I stepped through the door, my first thought was that I needed to get Charlie, get out, and figure out what to do from there, maybe, as a distant third step. Seeing a large man framed by the textured glass, in the middle of the hall, meant that either I was doomed to fail, or that someone else was already working on it.
Against my better judgment, I stepped into the room. My courage was rewarded, and at the same time, punished. Dave was there. The hand further from me was cocked back like he was holding it against his hip. The hand closer to me reached for the door handle. Between them, his white shirt had a bright red stain.
Was he hurt? Had he gotten himself hurt? I swallowed hard. I don’t know what I would do with myself if he got himself seriously hurt while he was looking out for me, and my son.
He looked over at me. His expression was serious. And then he pushed the door open, and lunged inside. I could hear a scuffle, but I couldn’t see it. So I did what I could in the situation: I grabbed a beer bottle.
It felt heavy and solid in my hand, and then I hefted it high over my head and moved, ever so slowly, towards the door.
By the time I made it to the hallway, only a few short seconds had passed, but the room was already quiet. I hefted my bottle higher and stepped into the doorway, ready for whatever was going to come at me.
At least, I thought I was. But somehow, I wasn’t expecting what I found.
Dave was on the ground. He had the younger of the two men with his arm twisted into a wicked, painful-looking hold. What surprised me was the third person. I recognized him, a little bit. He was younger still than the guy who still tried to wriggle out from under Dave’s knee.
He was an honor student, as far as I knew, and he did plenty of volunteering at the elementary school. Plenty of volunteering everywhere, as far as I can tell. He had a wild terror in his eyes and a long knife in his hands. He didn’t seem to know what he wanted to do with it, except that he wanted it vaguely near Charlie. Near enough to be menacing, even if I didn’t think he would actually do anything.
“Let him go,” Dave said. He twisted the kid’s arm and he let out a yelp of pain. “Or I’ll break it.”
“Y-you can’t afford that,” the kid said. He looked like a horse about to bolt, more than someone about to commit a murder, but people get weird when they’re panicking. They make bad decisions. “You’d lose all your leverage.”
“No,” Dave said gruffly. He held his knife in his hand, the blade pulled back against his own forearm where it was out of the way, in his free hand. “I really wouldn’t.”
The youngest’s eyes widened even more, if that were even possible. “Just… just let him go, okay? Drop the knife and let my brother go!”
“You first,” Dave said. His eyes narrowed.
“I can�
��t,” the kid answered.
I realized with a sick feeling in my gut that we weren’t going to get anywhere. That this was just going to get worse.
“Give me the knife,” I said softly. “I’ll go, and I’ll take him with me. He’s not going to hurt anyone, if you just give me the knife, okay?”
Tears streaked Charlie’s cheeks, but he was silent. He was so brave. I could feel my own eyes burning, but I had to be strong for him. For everyone. To make sure we all got out of this.
The boy turned to me with wide eyes and seemed to register that I was there for the first time.
“You,” he said. “You shouldn’t be here.”
“Or what?”
“My brothers, they said…”
“Forget what they said,” Dave growled. “Give her the knife, if you don’t want to give it to me. Count of three. You give up the knife and I give up your brother. That sound fair?”
The kid looked from me to his brother and to Dave, and back. The boy on the floor squirmed and moaned. The kid with his knife on Charlie let his hand slip at the same time that he said “Garrett, are you okay?”
Dave cut in before Garrett could answer. “One.”
I watched the whole thing in slow motion, terrified that something was going to go horribly wrong. I held my hand out, the beer bottle still brandished.
“Two.”
The kid looked from his brother to me. His eyes were wide with panic, but he saw a way out of this and he was going to take it.
“Three.”
The blade was heavy in my hand as he put it there, handle first. He moved slowly, probably afraid that he was going to alarm Dave. I worried the same thing.
Something in the corner of my vision moved, and then a voice was low and right by my ear. “Let’s get out of here.”
I started moving first. I think he wanted to be behind me. The last one out. I didn’t waste any time questioning him. This wasn’t the time for questions.
It wasn’t until I was in the car, the doors locked and the engine turned over, that I finally spoke as I slipped it from park into reverse.
“Are you okay, baby?”
“Mom?”
“Tell me, are you okay?”
“I’m okay,” he said. “But can we stop by the house before we do anything?”
I looked in the mirror and he silently pleaded with me not to talk about why. I let out a low breath and put it into drive. “Dave? Talk to me.”
“I’m fine,” he said. Like he meant it. “A little winded, is all.”
“Whose blood is that all over your shirt?”
“Blood?” He looked down and seemed to notice it for the first time. “I guess it’s mine. Maybe I ripped a stitch running all this way.”
“You ran all the way here?”
“It was a pretty good distance,” he said. Then he added, “Just out of the hospital, I mean.”
“You’re an idiot.”
“You’re an idiot.”
He had a point. I don’t usually like to admit it, but this time, I couldn’t deny it. And there was something else that I was being an idiot about, too.
“There’s something I need to tell you. I don’t want you to get mad, but I understand if you do.”
“Okay,” Dave said. He laid his head back and closed his eyes. “I’m still listening.”
“Do you remember senior prom?”
“No,” he said. “Except that it was a bad time.”
“I imagine that you would feel that way,” I said. “You didn’t want to talk about what happened, but you were upset when you came to me.”
“My girlfriend left me. Said she’d been sleeping with Tom.”
“You were a little sauced.”
“I remember that, kind of. Getting drunk, I mean.”
“And you were terribly vulnerable.”
“You’re kidding.”
“I’m not kidding,” I said softly. “And there’s something else.”
His face scrunched up. “You’re not serious.”
“I understand if you’re angry,” I said again. “But you didn’t want to talk about it, and by the time I found out, you had already left, and… I mean, you never came back, so…”
“All this time?” He let out a long breath. “I missed all this time?”
“I’m sorry,” I said again. “I know it’s not fair.”
“It’s not about fair. I can’t believe it.”
“I wouldn’t blame you if you left and never came back.”
Dave’s hand reached across the center console and rested on my thigh. Just the feeling of him through all the layers of my fabric set my nerves on edge.
“I’m not going to leave,” he said. His voice was hard, but it still didn’t manage to hide the shakiness in it. “I’m not going to leave ever again, if you’ll have me.”
I put my hand on his and his thumb traced across the back of my palm, and for a moment I felt something welling up in my chest. I eased the car onto our street, before I took Dave back to the hospital.
Then, out of the silence, Charlie spoke up. “What are you guys talking about?”
Walking Disaster
Bad Boy Romance
Amy Faye
Published by Heartthrob Publishing
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Here’s a preview of the sexy love story you’re about to read…
Adam can feel the moment that she gives into him. Her body, suddenly pliable in his arms, like putty. And then she seems to find herself again, out of the blue. She stiffens and pushes back. Not to stop him, per se, but a fire lights inside and her mouth starts to move as well, wrestling for control of the kiss.
He smiles a grin that's full of teeth and scrapes them against her neck, biting down hard enough to pull a gasp from her lips, close to his ears. He shivers hard, the threat of growing arousal that's already well past the point of creeping down his spine.
It runs through him, his cock twitching painfully. He leans into her and his arms wrap around her hips, pulling her closer as his knee slips between her thighs and spreads them. She lets him, he knows. He can feel the heat, pooled at the place where her legs meet, as she presses herself down onto him, trying to take what she wants.
Adam starts to lean, pressing her back into the sofa behind her. She acquiesces. The older man continues to press his advantage, his hand finding her breast and squeezing down on her sensitive nipple. Another gasp, hot and moist, inches from his ear. He lets his eyes close as another shiver of need runs down his spine.
It's been far, far too long. He'd like to take his time, but the fire inside him is burning too hot. There will be time later, to take it slow. To explore every inch of her body with his lips, with his fingertips, with his teeth and his tongue and to show her exactly what he wants from her.
For now, his fingers dig into the soft skin of her hips and pull her down, laying her out as flat as she can be laid out on the seat of the sofa.
Her skirt rides up her hips easily when he pushes it. She's wearing tights that tear easily. He's got the money to replace them, and she doesn't fight him. Her hips press up to meet his exploring fingers. He pushes her panties aside. They're already moistened by her arousal.
His fingers only probe her for a moment before he's working the zipper on his pants, freeing his hardness from the confines of his trousers. Her eyes go a little bit wide and her hips open a little wider, knowing what's going to come next.
There's no gentleness in the way that he takes her, rough and fast in a single swift motion that pushes all the way inside. She gasps and her legs wrap around his hips before she can stop herself.
He pulls back and thrusts again into her, the searing heat and tight grip forcing his eyes to flutter shut. His hands don't slacken, though. His hips move, hard and fast, his thumb between them working as fast as it can on her hard clit.
Linda's hands grab at the air, trying to
find something to grip on, until her hands land on the cushion of the sofa. It wouldn't be the first time that a hole has been torn in it. If he works very hard, then it won't be the last.
Adam can feel the edge approaching. Can feel the temptation building to take what he can, as fast as he can. To wrench every ounce of pleasure. His hips do the thinking for him, his rhythm speeding up, the teasing of his fingers between them moving to match.
Her body tenses around him, her ankles crossed on the other side of his hips and locking him in as deeply as possible. He doesn't need any more permission than that, as his own orgasm rips through him. He can feel her milking him as he cums. His breath comes in short, sharp gasps as the need leaves him.
He's not a teenager any more, he thinks. He may need twenty or thirty minutes before he can go again.
But he's never let that stop him before.
Chapter One
Linda Owens sits at her desk and closes her eyes and tries to ignore the fullness of her bladder. This has always been a big job. There's nothing new about it. She shouldn't be letting herself get this worked up over it, but worked up is exactly what she's getting.
Normally, her clients knew how to hide old girlfriends. They'd just go the hell away. Sure, sometimes they'd pop up as suicides—two bullets in the back of the head, classic suicide.
But the one thing that they sure as hell didn't do, at least not usually, was have those girlfriends just show up on national television, hoping for their five minutes of fame as the woman who used to fuck Adam Quinn.
Well, apparently, Adam Quinn was the exception. Sure, maybe Marilyn and John Kennedy had their thing, but nobody talked about it.
Well, apparently, if Quinn had been in Kennedy's place, there wouldn't be much secret. It creates a bad image. It makes you look like a philanderer to have a thousand ex-girlfriends come out and say, well, sure, we used to play around. What's the big idea anyways?
Then they get passed around until someone manages to get them to say something that isn't positive.
