by Jenna Jacob
“No. I was fourteen,” he replied indignantly.
It was Sawyer’s turn to choke, but thankfully it wasn’t on his coffee. “Damn. You started young.”
“Who was your first?” Colton asked.
All the laughter drained from Sawyer’s face. “Sara.”
“You mean you were a virgin when you married her?”
Brea’s heart sputtered and stalled. Married? He was married? Where the hell was Mrs. Grayson? Did she know about the skanky triplets from the hot tub?
To her horror, Brea realized she was no better than the bikini-clad skanks. She’d been close to sleeping with a married man last night.
“No! You asked who was my first,” Sawyer defended.
“You’re… You have a wife?” Brea sputtered while anger rose inside her like an island-eating tsunami.
“I did. I’m divorced.”
His reply sent her caustic surge rolling back out to sea, yet the ground beneath her felt deeply eroded. Sawyer had survived the dreaded Big D. The second most terrifying curveball life could ever throw. The first, of course, being never finding your soul mate among the masses.
“I’m sorry.” Brea reached across the table and softly cupped his hand.
“No need to be sorry, darlin’.” He flashed her a smile that didn’t quite reach his eyes. “It was a miserable existence. I’m much happier single.”
After several long seconds of awkward silence, he glanced at his watch and stood. “I need to get to work. I’ll drop by this evening and make sure you’re doing all right.”
Brea followed Sawyer as he headed toward the door. She was about to tell him he didn’t need to bother, but the need to keep testing her resolve had her biting her tongue.
“Thanks. If you’d like to stay for dinner, I’d be happy to cook again.”
“You don’t need to seduce me with your mouthwatering cooking. You’re mouthwatering enough for me.”
A thrilling rush rose up from her toes, but Brea shoved it back down. Instead of picking up the gauntlet and tossing it back at Sawyer, she simply smiled.
“All I’m offering is food.”
He issued a barely perceptible nod before settling his mouth close to her ear. “Doesn’t matter. I’m going to be thinking about you in sexy lingerie and cheeseburgers the rest of the day. Or…you could get rid of Colton and I’ll call in sick.”
So far, she’d passed her test with flying colors. But Sawyer’s persistence was wearing her down. Brea had to find her spine or risk scoring a big fat F.
“No need for that. Colton’s already here to take care of the window.”
“Have a good day, Sawyer,” her friend called from the kitchen.
Yeah…what my overprotective, pseudo big brother just said.
“I’ll see you after work.” He smiled.
After Sawyer left, Brea hurried back to the kitchen. She didn’t want to stand at the window watching him, like an abandoned puppy, as he walked away. Painting on a happy smile purely for Colton’s benefit, she sat down and sipped her coffee.
“Don’t pretend to be farting rainbows and unicorns on my account. Talk to me.”
Her smile melted when she saw the concern on Colton’s face. “What do you want to talk about?”
“About your relationship with Sawyer. You do know he’s not the settling-down or take-relationships-seriously kind of guy, right?”
“I might be a special kind of snowflake, but I’m not stupid.” Brea waved off his concern. “I love you dearly. But I don’t need a daddy or a lecture. What I need are the holes in the wall patched, a new pane of glass, and Emmett’s gun—or at least all his ammo confiscated. If that crazy old fart decides to pepper this place with buckshot again, I’m going that shove his gun where the sun don’t shine.”
“You’re changing the subject.”
“Damn right I am. I want five minutes of not talking, thinking, or fantasizing about Sawyer. All right?”
“Fuck!” Colton closed his eyes and exhaled a long, heavy sigh.
“What?”
“You’re already that obsessed with him? That’s not good, Brea.”
“I’m not acting on it, am I?”
She wasn’t. At least not that very second…well, not too much.
“Only because Emmett blew a hole through the window last night, and only because Sawyer left for work. What are you planning to feed him for dinner…muff pie?”
“Nope. I can’t. I don’t have any hair down there.”
Colton groaned and slapped a palm to his forehead. “Dammit, Brea. You’re like my little sister. I did not need that visual.”
“You asked.” She shoved her hands on her hips. “It’s not my fault you can’t handle the answers. Maybe you shouldn’t be asking such personal questions.”
“I’m just trying to save you from being hurt.”
“Don’t. If I fall off the wagon and land cunt-first in a field of hard-ons, I’ll climb out again, when I’m ready, willing, and completely sated. But trust me. My heart will be miles away from the dick field…locked in a lead vault. Feel better now?”
“Not one iota!”
She threw her hands up in the air. “What do you want me to do…superglue my thighs together?”
“Would you?” He sounded far too excited at the prospect.
“No!” she snapped. “Stop. Now. You’re pissing me off. I’m a grown woman.”
He stood and rounded the table before lifting her out of her chair and wrapping her in a tight hug. Obviously thinking he’d change her mind if he changed tactics, Colton was too transparent for his own good.
“I’m not trying to rile you up, sweetheart,” he began. “I just don’t want to see you get hurt again.”
Okay, so maybe it worked. The man was killing her with kindness.
“I don’t either. But I’m not a china doll. Life is full of hurt and disappointment. I can’t live in a plastic bubble until I’m old and gray. I’m going to have to risk a few bumps and bruises.” Brea gave him a tight squeeze before easing out of his grasp. “I’m grateful for your concern, but I have to find my own way down this new road. If I decide to let Sawyer join me for a couple miles, so what? I know he won’t be walking beside me when I reach the end of my journey. Satisfied?”
“How can you be so sure?”
“Because he doesn’t love me, and he doesn’t want me moving in with him.”
“And you know this…how?”
“I asked him.”
Colton gaped. “You asked him?”
“I did. See? This old dog is learning new tricks. Now close your mouth, eat your breakfast, and call the glass company, will ya?”
Though a million questions were swimming in the man’s blue eyes, he did as she’d asked.
After Colton had called in a team of contractors, Brea played hostess, offering iced tea and sandwiches to the crews, and by late afternoon, Barbara’s house looked like new. If Brea hadn’t been present during last night’s destruction, she’d never suspect the place had been blown to hell and back.
After thanking Colton and waving goodbye, she raced upstairs and took a shower. She dried and curled her hair, adding volume and softness to frame her face. After applying a thin layer of makeup, she pulled on a sundress and sandals and added a spritz of perfume. Sawyer had only seen her at her worst. Brea wanted to give him a glimpse of her best.
Back in the kitchen, she pulled a package of pork chops from the fridge, and just as she started mixing a honey-soy-sauce marinade, Ozzie began to bark. When she peered nervously around the corner, she saw neither Bigfoot nor a psycho-rapist was looking in the new window.
Then the doorbell rang.
Glancing at the clock, she saw it was four forty-five. Brea smiled, assuming Sawyer had left work early. She hurried to the door and pulled it open. The smile fell from her face as terror instantly filled her veins when a stocky bald man wearing an evil grin pressed a gun to her chest and forced her backward.
Ozzie’s hackle
s were raised from his neck all the way to his tail as he barked and snarled.
“Put dog away, or I kill it,” the man demanded in a thick Russian accent.
“Down, boy,” Brea quivered the command. But Ozzie didn’t obey.
The Russian thug pointed the gun at the dog.
Brea panicked. As adrenaline pumped through her at the speed of light, she stepped in front of Ozzie. “Wait. Don’t shoot him. Let me put him outside. He doesn’t have to die.”
“Do it.” The man gripped Brea’s hair and Ozzie went berserk.
“No! Down, boy!” Brea yelled.
The scary man yanked her in close to his ugly, too-flat face. “You try to run, I shoot you in the back.”
“I-I understand.”
The gun-wielding thug shoved her away. Brea bent and clutched Ozzie’s collar. Sending up a silent prayer that the beast actually possessed some intelligence, she dragged the still-snarling animal to the front door, instead of the back. The crazed Russian followed her, poking his gun into Brea’s spine.
“Outside, Sawyer. Go outside and be a good boy, Sawyer.”
It was a long shot, but she hoped that by imprinting his name into Ozzie’s psyche, the animal might go next door. But then again, the Doberman might just tear down the street, forsaking her last minutes of life on his newfound freedom.
Even if—by some miracle—he went next door, Sawyer was probably still at the ranch. It could be minutes or hours before he came home. Instead of a candlelit dinner for two, he’d find Brea’s body—bloodied, beaten, raped, and tortured—on Barbara’s glossy hardwoods.
Oh, god. Help me! Help me, please.
She shut the door and inhaled a ragged breath. “I don’t have a lot of money, but I’ll give you what I’ve got. Just please…take it and leave. Don’t hurt me.”
The man began to laugh. It was a vile, gut-churning, and menacing chuckle. “Hurt you? No. You have my merchandise. Get it for me. Now.”
“Merchandise? What merchandise? I don’t know what you’re—”
He drew his hand back and slapped her hard across the face. “Lying pizda!”
Lights exploded behind her eyes. Pain seared the side of her face. Wobbling as fringes of darkness clouded her vision, Brea bit back a howl of pain and terror as blood, her own, stained her tongue. But nothing could stop the tears spilling down her cheeks.
The vile maniac continued to talk, but only bits and pieces registered through the chaos, panic, and pain thundering through her.
“Don’t lie again. Weed…”
The mention of her ex had Brea jerking her head in the gunman’s direction.
“The gluppy ukoloť called from jail. He tell me you have my merchandise. Get it for me or die.”
Brea swallowed the bile rising up in her throat. Tears continued streaming down her face as a wave of dizziness threated to bend her to her knees.
Weed.
This sack of monkey-spunk was a friend of Weed’s? Whatever gluppy ukoloť meant, it wasn’t close to the names she was inwardly calling the man with the gun and her dickless ex.
You’ll be going down with me, baby!
Brea wanted to scream as the haunting words Weed had spoken in jail rolled through her brain. She’d stupidly believed he’d meant she’d be going to prison with him…not being held at gunpoint by some crazed sociopath. The motherfucker had set her up by telling the lunatic Russian that she had his merchandise…his drugs.
Brea knew that when the prick found out Weed had lied, that she didn’t have his drugs, the bastard would shoot her dead. She was going to die.
Oh, God. Please. I’m not ready to die.
A slow, evil smile curled the scary prick’s lips. “I see in your eyes. You know what I talk about now. Yes?”
With her heart in her throat, Brea’s mind raced like the speeding bullet that would soon pierce her skull. The complete and utter terror coursing through her veins was a living, breathing beast.
Stall… You’ve got to stall this lunatic…somehow!
Brea tried to think of ways to buy some precious time.
If she pretended to look for his stash, it might buy her a few minutes, but she’d only be prolonging the inevitable. She thought of offering the sociopath some milk and cookies…or belting out a song, complete with a few quirky dance steps and gyrating hip thrusts flashed in her brain. It was at that moment Brea knew the promise of impending death had fried the synapses in her brain. She’d gone off her rocker, completely and utterly come unhinged.
There was no way out. This was the end. Fear gripped her to the bone as she sent up a silent prayer for her death to be quick and painless.
“Bring bags. Now!”
“Bags? I-I don’t—”
Shoving the barrel of the gun hard against her cheek, the batshit-crazy meth daddy stole the words from her brain and tongue.
“You bring bags with you…here…yes?”
“Just the ones from…”
The closet! But there weren’t any drugs in them. Brea had opened them…shaken them out for Detective Nickel. Whatever Weed had stolen from this prick had to still be sitting in his closet in Denton.
“Get them. Or I kill you. Then tear place apart with my bare hands.”
Brea had no other option than to give him her empty luggage and pray he’d grant her a sliver of mercy and let her live. But Brea knew the drug lord didn’t give two shits about what she wanted, especially when he discovered Weed had led him on a wild goose chase.
A flash of something over the Russian’s right shoulder caught her attention. She wasn’t sure if it was a leaf or Ozzie’s tail, but something had passed by the new window.
An ember of hope flickered to flame, but Brea kept it hidden behind a neutral expression…well, as neutral as unmitigated terror could be. To keep from glancing back at the window and alerting the drug-demanding Russian, Brea lowered her lashes and held her breath.
“Get bags or get down on knees.”
Hell no! She wasn’t helping this prick kill her execution-style. Fuck that!
“Th-they’re up in m-my room,” she blubbered, wiping her nose with the back of her hand while tears of terror continued falling. “Do you want to come with me or have me bring them down to you?”
“I follow you.”
The image of Sawyer finding her inert body in a puddle of blood crowded her brain. Forcing her trembling legs to move, Brea’s feet scraped the floor as she stepped toward the stairs.
Suddenly, a knock came from the front door.
Brea froze.
When a second knock sounded, she bit back a scream for help.
The gunman lowered his weapon, only to shove it to her ribs as he moved in beside her and angrily snarled, “Don’t answer.”
“I have to. If I don’t, whoever’s out there will just walk right in. It’s what they do in small towns.”
The man scowled. “Answer and tell them to go away. If they don’t…I kill you both.”
As she tried to keep from running to the door, a third knock—louder and more insistent—echoed through the room.
As she gripped her trembling fingers around the knob, the muzzle of the gun gouged her ribs and the Russian hid behind the door beside her.
“You try to run, I shoot you in the back,” the prick vowed with ungodly glee.
Though her means of escape was nestled in her palm, Brea was too petrified to yank the barrier open and run. Fighting back tears, she opened the door a few inches to find Sawyer standing on the porch. She knew this would be the last time she’d ever lay eyes on him. He smiled, but it was like ice. And when he darted a barely perceptible glance to his belt, Brea dropped her gaze to see a gun tucked in the waistband of his jeans.
He knew. Thank god! Sawyer knew she was in trouble.
“Hey, baby. You ready to go see the movie?”
“I’m sorry, but I’m going to have to cancel tonight.” Brea tried but couldn’t hide the terror in her voice. Darting her eyes to the right, she praye
d Sawyer would grasp her rudimentary sign language. He might not be able to decipher that a Russian drug lord was standing beside her with a gun poked in her side, but…then it dawned on her. “I came down with a splitting headache, Jasper.”
Flames of rage flared in his green eyes as he clenched his jaw. “That’s too bad. Neville and Francine will be disappointed.”
Francine. Who the fuck is Francine and why does her name sound so familiar?
Scrambling to sort through terror-soaked brain cells, Brea tried to remember who Francine was and what bearing she had on their encrypted exchange. Suddenly, Jade’s voice clanged through her head, Francine, the town dispatcher.
Oh, thank god. Sawyer’s already called Jasper.
“You’ll let them know I’m sorry for bowing out, won’t you?”
Sawyer nodded as he raised his hand. Extending his fingers as if he intended to stroke her cheek, he snaked his arm around her waist, fast as lightning, and yanked her onto the porch.
In the blink of an eye, everything started moving in slow motion as he shoved her behind him and kicked open the door. The Russian let out a cry of surprise as Sawyer straightened his long, muscular leg, pinning the bastard between the door and the wall.
“He’s got a gun,” Brea cried out in panic.
With a chilling snarl, Ozzie raced under Sawyer’s legs and inside the house. The dog barked viciously at the drug lord before leaping into the air. Teeth barred, Ozzie sank his sharp fangs into the man’s arm that held his gun.
A shot rang out. Brea ducked her head and screamed.
“Sawyer?” she cried as the concussion rang in her ears.
“I’m fine, baby. I’m fine,” he assured before bellowing encouragement to the dog. “Rip his arm off, Ozzie. Good boy! Bite him. Sink those sharp teeth into him!”
The Russian’s high-pitched screams filled the air as the badass wailed like a bitch.
Drawing out his gun, Sawyer pivoted before pressing his back against the doorjamb, then lifted his other leg, keeping the would-be-assassin locked in place.
Unrelenting, Ozzie’s jaws held tight to the prick’s arms while vicious dog growls joined the cacophony of screams and curses. But no amount of noise could mask the thud that resonated through the air when the Russian’s weapon dropped to the hardwoods.
