Can't Let Go

by Gena Showalter

  The notion melted her...until she remembered they had no future.

  Disappointment cut through her.

  No, no. Couldn't be. She was excited for her travels. Would never be like her mother and change her plans and goals for a man. Men came and went, but dreams lasted forever.

  "I've told you about my parents," she said. "Now it's your turn. Tell me..." What? She should probably start easy, so he had no reason to protest, and could quickly get used to sharing his life with her. "What's your middle name? I can't believe I slept with a man without knowing his full name."

  "Walker."

  "Jude Walker Laurent, huh. How adorable."

  One of his shoulders hiked in a shrug. "My mother said I reminded her of my father. Like you, I never really knew him. I saw him around town, but really only knew what she told me. Apparently he was a walker--always walked away from his responsibilities."

  Okay, wow. Ryanne wanted to drop-kick his mother. "You are the most responsible man I've ever met. Therefore, I hereby declare Walker stands for your willingness to walk the extra mile for your friends."

  A twitch of his lips. "Sorry, shortcake, but the expression is go the extra mile."

  "Fine. You're the cock of the walk. Boom! Nailed it."

  Another twitch of his lips followed by a full-blown smile. "I'm sold."

  Proud of herself, she decided to take the conversation to the next level. "Tell me about your wife. How long were you together?"

  He opened and closed his mouth, cleared his throat. "Nine years." With barely a pause he added, "Where's your mom now?"

  Ryanne let the change of subject slide without comment, even though she had to add another blast of hurt to the lockbox in the back of her mind. Here she was, sharing everything, while he gave the bare minimum. The scales were becoming unbalanced.

  "Last time I heard, she had just gotten another divorce and was packing up to leave Colorado." Determined to try again, she asked, "What about your parents? Where's your mom? Your dad? Still living?"

  "Yes, they're both alive," he said. Then, "Do you have any--"

  "Nope. Tell me about your parents."

  Thick silence.

  Oppressive silence.

  "My mom lives in Midland, Texas," he said, and Ryanne wanted to pound her chest like a gorilla. Success! "She spends her days taking care of her family farm, the only thing she's ever really loved. Like your mom, she was once known for getting around. My father has a farm of his own nearby--and a family--but Mother became his side slice so he would help her with crops. I have three older brothers and a sister, and we all have different dads."

  "Are you close to your siblings?"

  Another pause, as if he had to weigh every word he spoke, and her elation drained. "No. All four moved out and never looked back."

  Meaning, they'd never contacted him again? "I'm sorry." Their absences must have felt like rejections. "Have you ever tried to track them down?"

  "They abandoned me. They don't get a second chance."

  Oookay. Jude wasn't the forgiving type. Noted.

  "Besides," he added. "I have Daniel and Brock."

  "You guys met in the army?"

  "Yes."

  She waited, but he said no more. Before she could press, Dorothea's special ringtone filled the room. "All right," she said. "That's Dorothea calling. I think she's going to demand we return to the party."

  "Yeah. Let's return."

  No longer quite so happy to spend time with her, cuddling and chatting?

  Ryanne grabbed a pillow and smacked him in the stomach with it, both aggravated and playful. As he sputtered, she smacked him again. When she tried to smack him a third time, he was ready, the other pillow in hand, the perfect block.

  With a laugh, she launched a full-blown attack, nailing him in the face. Because yes, she fought dirty.

  "What--" Smack. "Hey!" Smack. "Wade!" Smack. "You're going to pay for that." His growl was fierce, but his eyes crackled with good humor.

  I'm helping him! Teaching him how to have fun.

  He swung his pillow at her, knocking her to her back. As she laughed, feathers exploded from a tear, raining through the room.

  "Stop!" she said, giggling after he delivered a third smack. "You're my sex bunny, not my--"

  He stopped, as ordered, his navy blues narrowed and glittering. "Did you say sexy buddy or sex bunny?"

  "Duh. Bunny. You're here for my pleasure and amusement. So, pleasure and amuse me."

  "Dance, monkey, dance, is that it?" He dropped the pillow, ripped hers out of her kung fu grip and tickled her until she begged for mercy. In an effort to escape him, she accidentally kicked his leg, and he winced.

  Oh, crap! She sobered instantly, saying, "I'm so sorry."

  "Don't worry about it." His tone was stiff. So was his body, for that matter.

  Having none of that, she crawled down the bed. When she reached his feet, tension radiated from him. Still she removed the sleeve over his prosthesis, then the prosthesis itself, following the same steps he'd taken the night they'd showered together.

  "What are you doing?" he asked, looking over her shoulder.

  Unable to meet her eyes? "I'm doing exactly what it looks like. Forgetting all about the party and concentrating on my temporary man." She began massaging his leg. She'd done a little research about the best way to help an amputee. Massage could reduce swelling and pain, increase circulation in scar tissue, and lessen muscle stiffness and spasms.

  Hissing, he jolted upright and pulled from her grip.

  "Did I hurt you?" she asked softly.

  He pinched the bridge of his nose. "No, I just--"

  "Now don't you go telling me you're embarrassed." Determined to continue, she deftly but firmly placed his thigh atop her lap. "I've seen this part of you before."

  "Yes, but...it's ugly, and you didn't get up close and personal before."

  The rawness of his tone hurt her. "Your wound speaks of bravery and courage. You could have died, but you fought to live. How could I ever find it ugly?"

  He remained stiff, and it was clear he didn't believe her. She wasn't going to push the issue. Not yet.

  You had to learn to crawl before you could walk. She'd take this one step at a time.

  As she kneaded his muscles, she decided not to ask about his tattoos, either. The next topic would be easy, fun. "We need to name the kittens."

  His tongue slid over his straight, white teeth. "If you plan on finding homes for them, let their new families name them."

  "I do want to find them homes, but I can't keep referring to them by numbers."

  "Trust me, you can. If you name them, you'll get attached. You'll end up with eight cats, and everyone in town will call you by your new nickname--Crazy Cat Lady."

  She sputtered. "Yeah, well, I can't keep them." And she wasn't sad about it. Her heart wasn't leaking acid at the thought of saying goodbye. Really. "I'll be too busy traveling the globe to raise them."

  "Give them generic names, then, like Hairy, Furry or Patches."

  Or she could name them after something she loved, because they deserved the best, not for any other reason. "Have you met Lincoln West? He's engaged to Jessie Kay Dillon."

  "I did a job for him," Jude said, brow furrowing. "Security at his engagement party. Why?"

  That's right. One of West's ex-girlfriends had tried to kill Jessie Kay. "He created some of my favorite video games. Alice in Zombieland, Angels of the Dark, and Lords of the Underworld."

  "You play video games?"

  "No. I win video games, but only on my days off. I plan to play more while I'm traveling." And she couldn't wait! "Lords of the Underworld is my ultimate go-to. Demon-possessed immortal warriors are on a quest to find and destroy Pandora's box. I think I'll name the kittens after them."

  "You want to name kittens after demon-possessed men?"

  "Why not? Rumor is, all cats are spawned in hell. Besides, the Lords love them some pussies."

  He nearly choked on his
tongue. "The woman who never curses did not just use the P-word."

  She smiled at him, all innocence. "Pussycat is not a curse word."

  At first, he simply blinked up at her. Then, his mouth curved at the corners as he returned her smile, causing her heart to skip a treacherous beat. "You can play before your travels. Just install video-game stations at the bar. Pay to play."

  Whoa. Mind blown. "That's freaking brilliant, Jude."

  "My ideas usually are. Speaking of the bar, how's it doing, now that all the changes are in place? Are you spending more than you're making?"

  "If I continue to rent out the bar throughout the week, I'll recoup my losses before I leave for Rome."

  For some reason, his smile faded. He glanced at a wristwatch he wasn't wearing. "We should return to the party before Dorothea calls again."

  No way. She wasn't ready to part with him. And she wasn't sure how he would treat her in public--wasn't ready to find out. What if he ignored her? What if he didn't want to hold her hand? What if he did want to hold her hand? Crap! Could she handle PDA? "You wouldn't strip until I answered a question for you, and I'm not letting you dress until you answer a question for me."

  A heavy sigh. "All right. Lay it on me."

  Double crap! What was she supposed to ask him? Oh! I know! "How would you describe me to someone who's never met me?"

  Without missing a beat, he said, "Every man's fantasy come to sizzling life." His head canted to the side, his gaze returning to her...and heating. "How would you describe me?"

  "Hold up. Give me a minute to process what you just said." Every man's fantasy come to sizzling life? Pleasure washed through her, warming her, and she savored the sensation. Was that really how he saw her?

  She didn't care about being every man's fantasy, only cared about being his--and the notion suddenly scared her.

  "Well?" he prompted. "You've had your minute."

  Deep breath in...out. "I would say you are so irresistible, you're able to tempt the untemptable, and you're more addictive than my moonshine." Crap! She shouldn't have mentioned alcohol. "I mean, more addictive than kitten kisses."

  "Am I, then?" In a flash, he grabbed her hips and yanked her forward, forcing her to straddle his lap. His erection bobbed between them, hard and thick and long. "I'm going to need a little proof."

  Purring, aroused beyond belief, she braced her weight on her knees, leaned over and rubbed her puckered nipples against his chest. "Judging by your shaft-o-meter, I'm guessing you're good to go without proof."

  "With you, I'm always good to go." He cupped her bottom, squeezed. "I'm even willing to--" His cell phone made an odd noise.

  A second later, her phone buzzed. A text had just come in.

  "Ignore it," she said, rolling her hips. Contact! She sucked in a breath, and he issued another curse.

  "The message, whatever it is, is about the bar," he said, his tone grave. "You have special ringtones for your friends, I have a special ringtone for the security feed at the Scratching Post."

  Poo on a stick! Sobering quickly, Ryanne hopped off the bed. After throwing Jude his phone, she checked the screen of her own...and her knees threatened to give out.

  No. No, no, no.

  Absolute, total chaos. Screaming patrons raced for the front door while an alarm screeched. Why? What the heck had happened? Then she noticed the flames flickering over the counter where drinks were usually served.

  "Jude," she gasped out.

  He grabbed his phone and watched the feed, the color draining from his cheeks.

  "Why haven't the sprinklers kicked on?" he demanded.

  "I don't know. I don't know! But we need to leave. Now."

  CHAPTER FIFTEEN

  ON THE MAD dash to the Scratching Post, Jude called Daniel to explain the situation. There was no reason to phone 911. With the security system they'd installed, emergency crews had been notified the moment the fire alarm sounded.

  Adrenaline surged through his veins as if he were hooked to an IV. His muscles felt bigger, his bones stronger, like steel. His heart galloped toward a finish line he couldn't see.

  Ryanne sat in the passenger seat of his truck, as still as a statue. He'd wanted her to stay behind, this woman who'd shared dark pieces of her past, giving him a glimpse of the little girl she used to be, with dark, wavy hair and a mischievous gleam in her eyes. A gleam that slowly faded as loved ones had let her down and moved on, and adults had betrayed her trust. If she were hurt today...

  When Jude noticed a fire just outside the town square, multiple fire trucks already on-site, he hung up on Daniel.

  What was the likelihood of two fires happening on the same night? Not high.

  Over the years, Jude had seen firsthand how terrorists operated. He suspected Dushku had set this fire first in order to keep the firemen busy. Too busy to deal with a second blaze.

  Bastard!

  One way or another, Ryanne was going to be hurt today. If not physically, then mentally or emotionally. Hell, even financially.

  Already pale and waxen, she pressed a hand over her mouth and cried, "Belle and the kittens."

  "I haven't forgotten. They are my first priority." Belle could probably escape through a window, if one had been left open, or even through the bar, but she wouldn't be able to carry out all of her babies.

  Panic waited at the periphery of his thoughts, but years of situational training and actual combat helped keep it at bay. Act now, react later.

  "Call Vandercamp," he said. "Let him know we're going to need him at the scene with medical supplies. Just in case."

  She obeyed, and ended the conversation with, "Get there as fast as you can, Brett."

  Jude glanced in the rearview mirror. Despite breaking speed records, Daniel and Brock had already caught up with him, and now remained on his six.

  "If the bar burns down, I'll lose my livelihood, home and every memento I have of Earl." Never had Ryanne's voice sounded so hollow. "All in a single night."

  He would sell an organ on the black market, if necessary, to buy her a new home. "Stuff can be replaced. You'll always have your--never mind. I can't believe I was about to tell you the trite things others have said to me. I'm sorry."

  Streaks of black painted the horizon, an obscenity in the sky, and Ryanne whimpered, only strengthening his rage. Dushku had done this.

  Dushku would pay.

  The truck crested the hill, the Scratching Post finally coming into view. Smoke billowed through the windows, and flames crackled along one side of the building. Perhaps most of the structure could be saved?

  He drove off-road, speeding toward the bar, his truck's tires flinging dirt and gravel.

  The patrons had gotten out safely, their cars already out of the lot. Some of the people had stuck around; they either needed medical attention or morbid curiosity had kept them close. A few stragglers were filming the destruction with their phones. Idiots!

  Dushku and his men were there, too, watching...smirking.

  There were no firemen on the premises, as Jude had suspected. If the other fire hadn't been raging in town, they would have beaten him here.

  He parked, grabbed the blanket from the back and jumped out. Knowing Daniel and Brock would protect Ryanne, he wasted no time, sprinting into the building to rescue Belle and the babies. The adrenaline still surging through his veins gave him strength, dulling any flash of pain in his leg.

  "Jude!" Ryanne screamed.

  He ignored her. He had to if he had any chance of success--and survival. Just before breaching the front door, he took a deep breath of air, knowing he had to hold it as long as possible, and wrapped the blanket around the lower half of his face. Already his eyes burned and watered, intense heat making him feel as if he were cooking from the inside out.

  At the moment, the blaze was somewhat contained. A perfect circle crackled around the bar...where bottles of alcohol were stored--directly beneath Ryanne's apartment.

  This had been a targeted strike meant to har
m the owner. The property was simply collateral damage.

  As Jude raced forward, he narrowed his focus--get in, get out. He jumped and dodged, but not quickly enough. Flames lashed his arm, singeing his shirt, leaving a white-hot line of blisters in their wake. He hissed, but didn't slow, taking the stairs three at a time.

  Smoke burned his eyes, his throat. Can't stop. Can't go back without those cats. Light-headed, a bit unsteady, he punched the code in the lock and shouldered his way past the door.

  Soot: everywhere. Temperature: hellish. In the sunroom, an agitated Belle prowled in front of her babies.

  A flurry of movement behind him. Brock flew into the room.

  "Ryanne--" Jude began. The single word scraped his throat raw; he suspected he'd already sustained esophageal burns.

  Between coughing fits, he said, "She's safe with Daniel."

  He hated that his friend was in danger outside of combat, but welcomed the aid. Working together as they'd done a thousand times before, they placed the entire fur family inside a laundry hamper, using wet towels to prevent any more smoke inhalation.

  Brock led the way out, and Jude carried the hamper. By the time they reached the stairs, the blaze had already spread. Half of the banister was engulfed, plus a few of the steps. Too dangerous. If the wood snapped, they'd plummet. They backtracked, returning to the apartment.

  Jude opened the window in the sunroom, and cool night air gusted inside. Droplets of water misted over him, cool and welcome, and he frowned. Why?

  The answer clicked. Two fire trucks had finally arrived. Lights flashed nearby, men in full bodysuits working to douse the fire.

  "Over here," he shouted, but he knew he hadn't been heard over the roar of the flames and firehoses. No matter. A truck's ladder was already extending up to him, thanks to Ryanne, who was pointing in his direction.

  As soon as the edge reached the window, he practically shoved Brock out and handed his friend the hamper. Jude followed him out.

  Just a little farther...almost there...

  His foot hit land, and someone rushed over to hustle him toward a waiting ambulance. Light-headedness had graduated to full-blown swimming, but the second his gaze landed on the smug Dushku--who hadn't moved from his spot among the crowd--he erupted, pushing his way through the masses to get in the old man's face.

  "You think you've won? You have no idea the hell you've unleashed."

  Dushku withdrew a linen square from his pocket and wiped his glasses, as if Jude's presence had dirtied them. "You lost, Mr. Laurent. Accept defeat gracefully, and be thankful you and yours survived. This could have ended much worse."