She's Gotta Be Mine (A sexy, funny mystery/romance, Cottonmouth Book 1) (Cottonmouth Series)

by Jasmine Haynes

  “Telling you what?”

  He didn’t say. “She’s a user and a manipulator.”

  “And you...fucked her?” She never used that word before in her life. But then, there really wasn’t another word that carried quite the same meaning. She’d never wanted to die the way she wanted to right now, not even when Warren had called at three-thirty in the morning to tell her he was never coming back.

  Nick had given her the most momentous orgasm of her life, because it wasn’t self-induced, because he’d wanted to touch her. She’d felt desire in his body’s tension, in the timbre of his voice, so needy she could have wept for the sound of it. It had been so long since she’d heard anything like it, if ever, felt it deep inside her. There was something so utterly overpowering about an orgasm gifted from someone else. It couldn’t be duplicated, couldn’t be simulated, couldn’t be...

  But Cookie had been there first. As with everything else.

  Cookie Beaumont had Nick. Cookie Beaumont had Warren. Cookie Beaumont had it all. Bobbie wanted to lay down in front of Nick’s car and let him run over her until her head squashed like a pumpkin.

  “Are you in love with her?”

  He grabbed her by the shoulders, shook her. “Are you listening to me? I fucked her. That’s all there was. I didn’t know she was married. When I found out, I dumped her. She told Jimbo I came on to her, then stood back while he tried to bash my face in with his fists.”

  She plucked his fingers off one by one. He let her. It didn’t matter how it had ended or who had ended it. Cookie had still had him. Mary Alice who? That’s what he’d think about her silly question now. Men never got over Cookie. Nick was tainted. Bobbie still hadn’t gotten to the finish line first.

  And she never would.

  “Move your car.”

  “Talk to me, Bobbie.”

  She wouldn’t. She couldn’t. Warren had made her lose faith in marriage. Nick had just made her lose faith in herself. Her serial-killer days were over.

  Yanking the car door open, she found her keys still in the ignition where she’d left them. “Move. Your. Car. Or I’ll ram it out of my way.”

  * * * * *

  He was a class-A jerk, and he knew it. Nick had moved his car, and now he was following her to make sure she got home okay. Especially in her state.

  Christ. What an idiot he’d been. She told him Cookie had stolen her husband, then he went on and on about how he fucked the woman. Mr. Insensitive.

  And what was all that shit about doing her with her husband standing only a few yards away? He would have gone all the way, too, if Cookie Beaumont hadn’t driven up and almost caught them in flagrante delicto in her headlights.

  Jealousy. It turned the best of men into jerks. And he hadn’t been the best of men in the first place.

  He wanted to beat his head against the steering wheel. He couldn’t have screwed up more.

  He remembered Bobbie’s face in the dome light as she threw herself into her car. Pale cheeks, shimmering eyes, trembling lips. He’d known from the beginning she was on the rebound from a really big hurt. He just didn’t know how bad it was. But that was no damn excuse for making her come up against a tree while her husband waited for his lover in the moonlight.

  Shit. She’d known Warren the Ass had been waiting for someone. She hadn’t been surprised it was Cookie. What had she really been looking for when she’d driven out there? The orgasm was incidental.

  Women. He’d never figure them out. But one thing was sure. Cookie Beaumont was working another patsy.

  He wondered how long it would be before she told Warren Spivey the old sob story about Jimbo beating her.

  * * * * *

  Warren couldn’t come. In fact, he couldn’t even get a full erection no matter how hard Cookie sucked him. Oh God.

  She’d called him two hours ago, said they had to meet, but not at the fishing lodge and not at his office. Out by the lake.

  He knew why. She wanted an answer. He couldn’t pretend she didn’t want him to rescue her from her husband in the most final way possible.

  “What’s the matter, Warren?”

  “Long day.” Bad day. Tired. Have a headache. How many excuses had he used with Roberta for just this same lack of performance?

  “Don’t you love me any more?”

  Why did women think sex and love were synonymous? How many times had Roberta said the same thing? He didn’t make love to her—i.e., he didn’t love her. Hell, things were miles different with Roberta. This had nothing to do with his feelings for Cookie. It had to do with her husband.

  “Of course, I love you.”

  Cookie rose from her knees, stepping back while he zipped and buckled. “Something’s wrong. I know it is.”

  “Nothing’s wrong.” Except his entire life.

  Suddenly, she flung herself against him. “He hit me again, Warren. That’s why I called you. I know I shouldn’t have. But I just wanted to taste something good in my life.”

  Had she heard her own pun? He should have been in the moment with her, but somehow, it was as if he stood several feet away, watching. And not caring.

  “Leave him. I’ll protect you.” His voice lacked vehemence.

  Her tears didn’t. She rocked, sobbed, clutched. “It’s no use, Warren. I’ll never be free of him.” She pulled back, tears streaking her cheeks. “You have to help me, Warren, you have to.”

  “You want me to kill him, don’t you?”

  “It’s the only way I’ll be free.” Her fingernails pierced his arm. “It’s the only way we can be together.”

  He’d always felt as if he wore a heavy mantle. Roberta hadn’t been the one to put it there, though for years he’d tried to tell himself she had. He’d donned it the day Cookie left him when he was eighteen.

  He’d searched for her because he’d hoped, he’d prayed that she would help lift the weight from his shoulders, his heart.

  And she would. If he killed her husband for her.

  “I love you. I always have, since we were fourteen, since the first time we made love.” He said the words, but it was if he stood back from them, apart from her. Except for one thing. “I can’t stand him hurting you.”

  For a moment, the hatred threatened to swamp him, choke him, overwhelm him. When he thought about Jimbo’s fists smashing into her beautiful, delicate body, he actually believed himself capable of murder. He stroked the tears dry as best he could, and she leaned her face into his palm, kissing it. Then he locked his arms around her to prevent her from pulling away when she heard what he had to say.

  “I’ll help you leave him. I’ll go to the sheriff for you. And I’ll take care of you forever.” He let out a breath, her hair ruffling against his chin. “But I won’t kill him. I can’t do that.”

  She stilled. Then her muscles bunched. She pushed with amazing strength. He simply couldn’t hold onto her.

  Watching her hand rise, he had plenty of time to duck. Instead, he took the full force of her slap without a flinch.

  “I’ll be sure to leave a note that says you should be the one to identify my body after he’s beaten me to death.”

  Chapter Ten

  Nick had taken what women believed was the typical male approach and stewed in his own thoughts instead of telling Bobbie he’d been a total shit. What women didn’t understand was that these things couldn’t be rushed. If you didn’t think it through first, the whole scenario went to hell.

  Of course, by the time he was ready to face Bobbie, she’d already left for her Monday morning shift at The Cooked Goose. But Nick had never considered himself a coward, and he owed her that apology, and thus he found himself down at the diner. On the outside looking in.

  You had to plan what to say to a woman. And he had. He’d tell her he was wrong for touching her, but he couldn’t regret it. Women liked that, knowing a man had gotten carried away. He’d tell her Cookie hadn’t meant a thing to him, probably didn’t mean a thing to Warren either. That might be false, as far
as her husband was concerned, but worth Nick’s effort.

  The parking spaces in front and the lot beside were full. He’d have an audience, so he’d have to be careful with his phrasing. She’d have to know what he was talking about while everyone else would only wonder. But women liked a little groveling in front of witnesses. It filled that void they were always thinking they had.

  He found her through the plate glass. Smiling. As if nothing important had happened last night. Smiling at Brax as she poured him coffee. Shit.

  Nick yanked open the front door with more force than necessary, the rush of voices and clinking cutlery streaming past him. Then silence. The way heads turned and conversations came to an abrupt halt, you’d think he was a mega celebrity. Or the serial killer they all seemed to believe he was.

  Bobbie kept pouring coffee for the sheriff. Any minute that mug would overflow.

  Every booth and every table was filled to capacity. One seat remained at the counter. Nick took it, wedging himself in between two extra-large bodies. Voices once again roared to life around him.

  Mavis slapped a mug down in front of him and shot hot coffee into it from a foot above. “My, my, twice you grace us with your presence in less than a week. What can it be that you find so interesting down our way?”

  He swiveled in his seat to watch Bobbie. She was still laughing with Brax, as if she hadn’t noticed his entrance. “Eggs, sunny-side-up. Bacon, extra crispy.”

  Mavis followed the line of his gaze. “I don’t think you came here for my eggs, sport.”

  “On second thought, make ’em over-easy. I hate runny eggs.”

  Mavis huffed. “Men. They can never make up their minds.”

  She plopped the coffee pot back on the burner, shoved his order at the cook, then stacked four waiting plates along her arms. Mavis had steady, beefy arms despite her otherwise scrawny frame.

  He was alone again in a sea of unfriendly faces, some familiar, some not. The guy on his right chewed with his mouth open, sopped his toast in his eggs, and slurped his coffee. The left guy wielded elbows that kept finding their way into Nick’s ribs. And Bobbie didn’t serve the counter.

  He’d had worse ideas than this, like the time he’d convinced Kent, Brax, and Harry to take a joyride in Harry’s dad’s Corvette when they were fifteen. That cherry red beauty had never been the same. Neither had his reputation in Cottonmouth. He’d been down his bad road even before Mary Alice.

  His eggs arrived, and the sound of Bobbie and Brax’s combined laughter was beginning to make his head ache. Christ, how many times had she been over to the sheriff’s table?

  She’d ignored Nick, though she’d been behind the counter to gather orders, fresh pots of coffee, and throw a dirty dish rag in the bin.

  The next trip, when she was forced within two feet of him to fill a cream pitcher, he said, “I have to talk to you.”

  She looked at him as if she’d only just realized he was there. Fumbling in his pocket for his wallet, the guy with unruly elbows did a staccato jab into Nick’s side. Two seats down, a face leaned forward, then another, and silence fell like dominoes down the counter.

  “About what?” Bobbie’s lips creased in a pretty smile, but her eyes remained flat. No endearing twinkle.

  Putting his elbows on the counter, he leaned in, dropping his voice, though he knew it wouldn’t do a damn bit of good. “About last night.”

  She rolled her eyes and left with the pitcher of cream.

  Christ. He was trying to apologize here. And she was playing difficult.

  Back again for another order, she picked up a tray to load. Then she looked at him, and though she didn’t have to pass by him, she did, saying, “It wasn’t important. Just forget about it. I have.”

  What the hell did that mean? She’d forgotten how good it was? Right. He could still feel the press of her sweet tush against his erection.

  But hell, the timing was all wrong. He should have waited until she’d gotten home tonight. Then he could have shown her how he felt, instead of just telling her. Yeah, much better idea. Women liked physical demonstration as well as words.

  He reached into his pocket for ten bucks, threw it on the table. She was back with her tray and her sweet sashay. He started imagining all the ways he’d show her. She turned, her mouth open for another volley, then looked right past him. Her eyes widened as the bell over the front door tinkled.

  What now? Her prick husband? He’d beat the guy to a pulp for what he’d done to her. Nick turned.

  Shit. Jimbo. Wasn’t this a perfect twist to a hellish mistake?

  “Save me a booth, Mavis?” Jimbo’s voice boomed. He didn’t pick up on the silence that had fallen or the eyes that flashed between him and Nick’s position at the counter.

  But Nick sensed the moment he realized something was different. Jimbo’s head tilted like the fox hearing the hare rustle a bush. With a look first at Mavis, then Bobbie, his gaze finally settled on Nick.

  “What the hell are you doing here?”

  Jimbo had big arms and even bigger fists. Arms akimbo, he marched the four stool lengths to Nick’s seat.

  Man, he did not need this. But after his frustrating non-conversation with Bobbie, Jimbo’s tone raked his nerves.

  “What the hell does it look like? I’m having a nice, healthy breakfast.” He smiled, baring his teeth.

  Jimbo’s eyes bulged, and his face flamed an unhealthy shade of red. “You’re not wanted here.”

  All Jimbo had to do was open his eyes, and he’d see what a bitch he’d married. He’d dump her, and everyone would be the better for it. But no, he couldn’t admit the truth to himself and acted like a blowhard instead. It was as sadly pathetic as watching Cookie go down on her knees in front of Bobbie’s husband.

  Nick looked at Bobbie then, standing behind the counter, tray clutched to her chest, eyes the size of saucers, as they’d been last night when Cookie drove up. In ways, she was as bad as Jimbo, running after her past, unwilling to let go, even when the truth stared her in the fricking face.

  Maybe she needed somebody to show her.

  He turned back to Jimbo. “By the way, how’s your wife these days? Keeping good tabs on her?”

  Jimbo’s jaw tensed. Bull’s-eye.

  * * * * *

  Holding the tray against her breasts like a shield, Bobbie sidled out the counter opening. Customers, primarily male, rose from their seats and closed in for the fight. Mavis waved frantically at Brax in his booth at the back.

  What on earth did Nick think he was doing, baiting Jimbo that way? Didn’t he remember how much that whole Cookie scene had hurt Bobbie last night? Didn’t he care?

  When Nick had entered the front door of the diner, she’d wanted to cry. Or scream. Or hope. Instead, she’d flirted mercilessly with Brax.

  Then Jimbo walked in.

  Now they were going to fight, about Cookie, for God’s sake. The woman everyone wanted. The bane of Bobbie’s existence. She should have packed her mocha machine and left town last night after Cookie went down on her knees for Warren. Oh God. Now this. Nick battling over the Cookie Monster.

  Run away, little girl. You’ve lost. Big time.

  Jimbo snarled, and an avid light flashed in the spectators’ eyes as if they were at a cockfight. Jimbo put his fists up, his legs settling into fighting stance. “I ever hear you mention my wife again, I’ll knock your block off.”

  Nick rose, taller but less brawny. “You think you can take me, old man?”

  Oh my God. Bobbie made a mad dash to Brax’s aisle. He was just watching, like all the others. She grabbed his arm. “Do something.”

  “Like what?”

  “Pull your gun or something.”

  He put a hand to the butt of his pistol or revolver or whatever it was called. “That’s a little drastic for this situation, don’t you think?”

  Meanwhile, Jimbo went on about how he could take a little asswipe like Nick any day, any place.

  “Mavis will shoot you, if
you let them break so much as a salt shaker,” Bobbie warned.

  “Now that frightens me.” Brax pushed through the throng.

  The sheriff looked first at Jimbo, then leveled a laser-blue look at Nick. “I told you to stop stirring things up.”

  “I didn’t do the stirring. His fists are raised, not mine.”

  Jimbo’s arms flexed, but he didn’t throw the punch.

  “Go home.” Brax’s voice carried through the entire diner. “Cool off.”

  Nick’s lip curled. “Fuck you.” Then he stabbed a finger in Jimbo’s direction. “And fuck him, too.”

  Brax put a hand on Nick’s chest. For a moment, Bobbie thought Nick might actually belt the sheriff. He looked down at the big splayed hand, then up at Brax, at the crowd gathered round him, and finally at Bobbie.

  Something spoke in that fierce gaze. Something he’d come to say, something she hadn’t been willing to listen to. Maybe if she had...too late for maybes now. And Brax had pointed to Nick as the cause of the altercation, not Jimbo, the way he should have. Her hand went up, almost on its own, one cast out to an outcast. Empathy and sympathy rolled off her fingertips.

  Watching her, Nick’s face hardened. He stepped back from Brax, then pushed through the crowd, headed for the door. He passed less than a foot from Jimbo and his fists.

  “Stay away from my wife.”

  Nick stopped, but didn’t bother to turn. “Or what?”

  Suddenly Brax was there between them. “One threat out of either of your mouths, and you’re both going to jail.”

  Nick shot him a fuck-you glance—there was really no other possible way to describe it—then slammed through the door.

  * * * * *

  Bobbie filled the first suitcase. It was time to leave. Past time. She couldn’t fight Cookie Beaumont. She didn’t even want to try anymore.

  Nick’s last glance still haunted her. It had taken her the rest of her shift to realize he thought she pitied him. Maybe she did. Maybe she just understood not being wanted anywhere.