Buckled Read online

  Great. Now I’ll be stuck with that visual while I fall asleep to the chirp of crickets tonight.

  I return my attention to the bathroom doorway, watching for signs of movement. Where the hell is he? Something doesn’t feel right.

  As I turn away from the window, a hand claps over my mouth. Another wraps around my throat, pressing against my windpipe.

  A chill grips my spine. My eyes throb, and my muffled scream vibrates in my ears.

  I grip the fingers at my airway, scratching at the immovable collar of muscle and bone as my heart thumps out of control.

  “Didn’t realize you like to watch.” Jarret’s southern drawl caresses my ear from behind.

  My nails bite into his skin as oxygen floods in and out of my lungs. He’s not strangling me, but it feels like it. My stomach tenses with cramps, and fear rapidly exhausts my body.

  “It’s more comfortable inside.” He nips at the shell of my ear, his breath hot and terrifyingly calm. “McKenna won’t mind an audience.” A trace of annoyance clips his voice. “She goes out of her way for attention.”

  His shirtless chest presses against my back like a hot slab of concrete. I force my hands to release his arm and twist my hips, reaching for the knife in my waistband.

  He lets go.

  I spin away, stumbling backward and wheezing for air. “Touch me like that again, and I’ll cut off your fingers and shove them up your ass.”

  “How would you do that? Bite them off with your little kitten teeth?”

  “Too much work.” I pull the knife from its sheath and point it at him.

  “No shit.” He rubs his jaw. “Where’d you get that?”

  “The knife store.”

  He stalks forward until the blade touches his chest. I snap my teeth at him, but he presses closer.

  “How did you sneak out of the bathroom?” I hold the weapon steady, dimpling his pectoral with the tip.

  “How did you not know the bathroom connects to the hall? It’s a standard floor plan.” He pushes against the knife, causing blood to well beneath the steel.

  He’s insane. Certifiable.

  “Do you hear voices in your head?” I lift a brow.

  He flashes a dark smile. “You hear them, too?”

  Now he’s just fucking with me.

  “How did you know I was out here?” I edge backward, just a step.

  He stays with me. “How did you know to find me at the gas station?”

  He knew I was there?

  Shit! I suck at this. “I figured you’re the type of guy who buys condoms on his way to a family get together.”

  His smile falls. “You have a killer body, but you need a better workout routine for that mouth. I have something that’ll help with that.”

  “What? A big dick? Too bad you have more of that in your personality than you do in your pants.”

  “You don’t believe that.”

  His gaze lowers to my shirt, and I glance down. Several buttons popped free during the scuffle, and the fabric hangs open and off to the side, with the cup of my transparent bra in full view. And there’s my nipple, hard and swollen and right out there for the world to see.

  “Dammit.” I yank the flaps of the shirt together, mortified.

  “It’s unfortunate.”

  “What?”

  “How fucking beautiful you are, all fiery and worked-up with your teeth bared and nipples begging to be bruised. Can’t remember the last time I was this hard.”

  I keep my eyes on his, refusing to acknowledge him with a glance at his groin. The brunette inside didn’t have any issues making him hard. Doesn’t exactly make me feel like a special snowflake.

  “Doesn’t matter what my dick thinks.” He crosses his arms, and the movement flexes his biceps. “I don’t fuck reporters.”

  “Oh well, good, because I don’t fuck assholes.”

  He grins. I expect a vulgar retort about butt sex, but he leaves it alone.

  “Sure you don’t want to come in?” He nods at the window. “If your story includes details about my cock, you need to get the size right.”

  “Hmmm.” I tap the flat side of the blade against my chin. “I just remembered. I have to be somewhere slash I’d rather scoop out my eyes with a rusty spoon.”

  I breeze past him and head toward the street with as much dignity as I can muster with a gaping shirt, no shoes, and a knife dangling from my hand.

  “Maybe Quinn.”

  I pause at the call of his voice and glance over my shoulder.

  “If you’re thinking about harassing McKenna for information about my family, don’t bother.” He prowls to the front porch and rests a hand on the door handle. “In case you failed to notice, I don’t come here for conversation.”

  My heart feels like it’s shrinking.

  “Get lost. That’s my final warning.” He enters the house and shuts the door behind him.

  A sharp stitch of pain pulls through my insides, and I gulp air like I just got kicked in the gut. Self-disparaging thoughts slosh around in my skull, hazy and irrational. I can’t swallow, because a lump has taken up residence in my throat.

  This is what rejection feels like. It’s nothing new, but this time it’s misplaced and borderline manic. I don’t know this guy. I have no claim on him. Yet I’m clutching the knife like I’m seconds from running into that house and cockblocking his good time.

  The thought of him banging that woman makes my chest hurt.

  He’s under my skin, and I need to shake him off. Right now. This isn’t who I am. I don’t obsess over men. I don’t swoon or buckle in the presence of washboard abs and flirty smiles. I’m not even tempted to look.

  Until him.

  A shadow passes through the glow of light on the side yard, and a second later, a shade lowers over the bedroom window, shutting me out.

  I return the knife to its sheath and straighten my spine. A hard swallow dislodges the knot in my throat, and a good mental spanking forces my feet to the car.

  He did the right thing by coming outside and confronting me. I shouldn’t have spied on his intimate moment.

  I screwed up, but that doesn’t mean I’m giving up.

  In the car, I start the engine and cue up a motivational song on my phone.

  As Hell On Heels by Pistol Annies thumps through the old speakers, I roll down the window and hit the gas.

  Tomorrow’s a new day, and there’s strength in that.

  Tomorrow, I’ll have my shit together when I show up at Julep Ranch.

  Tomorrow, he won’t be able to turn me away.

  After a hot shower, I recline on the back porch with Jake and Conor and glide my fingers through the damp hanks of my hair. It’s been a long day, and the silence between us hangs as heavily as the shadows over the field.

  Restlessness penetrates my veins in surging fits, and the pasta from dinner sits uncomfortably in my stomach. I’m sure the leftovers were fine, but all I tasted was the dour mood in the air.

  We killed Levi Tibbs tonight.

  That’s a damn good reason to celebrate, but none of us are feeling victorious. Conor seems lost in memory, no doubt mourning the night that bastard raped her.

  I suspect Jake is brooding for the same reason I am.

  For six years, we dreamed of drawing out Levi’s demise and bathing in his blood. He deserved a more prolonged and gruesome end than what we gave him.

  We decided against it for Conor’s sake. Not that she isn’t strong enough to handle violence and gore. Christ, the things she’s survived would make a psychopath cry.

  Nevertheless, Jake and I refused to expose her to more senseless depravity. She wanted to witness Levi’s death, so we made it quick and efficient. I guess old habits die hard, because we can’t give up our need to shelter her.

  She curls up on the outdoor couch with Jake, burrowed against his side beneath the mantle of his arm. They look good together. Always have. But they seem stronger than ever now, their connection more balanced and immut
able.

  Despite the relapses she still has from her trauma, I know they’re happy. The thought loosens some of the tension in my chest, but we won’t know true happiness until we get Lorne back.

  Without interrupting their quiet reflection, I collect the dinner dishes and step inside the house.

  After I load the dishwasher, I head to the front door to spend the remainder of the night tinkering around in the stable. My project list is never-ending, and while most of the tasks are mundane, I love working with my hands.

  Hard work is healing. Not in a magical way. It doesn’t erase wounds. But it returns me to the person I was before—healthy and uncomplicated, focused and unjaded.

  Outside, I hop off the front porch and stroll toward the stable in the dark. And stop.

  What the almighty fuck?

  Maybe Quinn steps out of a beat-up sedan and hurries toward me like a woman on a mission.

  Oh, fuck no. This broad has the audacity to trespass on the ranch after I told her to get lost? Her ass will be glowing red-hot by the time I’m done with her.

  I plant my feet in a wide stance and join my hands behind my back as she closes the distance.

  A flowery, ruffled dress thing hangs by tiny straps off her narrow shoulders, and white flats cover her feet. She looks like she dolled herself up for a tea party with the queen. It’s kind of cute, in a nutty Alice In Wonderland way.

  “Before you get all surly and dickish…” She points a finger at me and pauses a few feet away. “You want to hear what I have to say.”

  “I assure you, I don’t.” I pivot toward the stable and start walking, expecting her to follow.

  “No cowboy hat tonight?”

  “Sun ain’t out.” I measure my strides, outpacing the footfalls behind me.

  “Trevor Pierson,” she says out of the blue. “Grady Clark, Rogan Schroeder, Mike Zarda, Levi Tibbs.”

  A fist clamps around my heart. Thank fuck my back is to her, because I can’t keep the anger from curling my lip. My legs keep moving without falter, but it takes great effort to not give her a reaction.

  How does she know the names of the cocksuckers rotting at the bottom of the ravine?

  A chill creeps over my scalp. What are the chances she shows up on the night of a fresh kill? What if she arrived just a few hours earlier while Jake was strangling Levi? What if she followed us from the shack where we trapped him?

  If she knew we were murderers, she wouldn’t have come here alone. She damn well wouldn’t be hurrying after me in the dark.

  What does she know exactly? That those men are missing? That they were criminal loan sharks, contract killers, and all-around worthless human beings?

  I can’t ask. Not without acknowledging I know them. Levi Tibbs is the exception. But the rest of them? All I can do is pretend to ignore her, as if I have no idea what she’s jabbering on about.

  “I met with your dad.”

  That stops me. My pulse thrashes in my ears as I slowly turn to face her.

  “Why?” I want to roar at her and tell her how dangerous he is. “Stay away from him.”

  She crosses her dainty arms and sniffs. “Aren’t you going to ask me what he said?”

  “No.” I storm away, rub a hand down my face, and spin back. “Where is he?”

  “He lives with a young woman two hours from here. Holed up in northern Texas.”

  Fuck, that’s not far.

  A million questions run on a circuit in my head as I glare at her with unconcealed displeasure. She’s on the cusp of stirring up a hornet’s nest. I can’t let her go until I find out what she knows.

  Since she doesn’t respond to verbal warnings, I’ll have to try a more tactile approach.

  Stepping into her space, I bend my knees and put my scowl in her pretty face. She doesn’t flinch, doesn’t so much as blink. She’s either stupid or remarkably brave.

  I grab a thick tangle of curls on the back of her head and yank hard, forcing her neck at an uncomfortable angle.

  “No!” She scratches at my arm, her eyes aglow with blue flames. “Let go!”

  “Are you concealing a knife beneath this dress?” I bat away her swinging arms. “If you don’t answer, I’ll search for it myself.”

  “No. No knife.” She lifts a knee, aiming for my groin. Too slow.

  I twirl her around by her hair, redirecting every kick, slap, and punch she attempts.

  She’s so lightweight it requires little effort to maneuver her where I want her. She might be taller than Conor by a couple of inches, but they’re built the same. Short, fit, smallish tits, cute. Fun sized.

  I love all shapes and dimensions of the female body, but I prefer Maybe’s physique. While she’s the right size to scoop up and haul around however I please, she’s also sturdy enough to sustain a hard, savage fuck against a barn door.

  What lies between her ears, however, makes her strictly off-limits.

  “Let go of me, you fucking animal!” Her hands return to mine, uselessly trying to uncurl my fingers from her hair. “I mean it! Let go!”

  I sweep a boot under her feet and release her in a single movement that dumps her ass-first in the dirt.

  An oomph escapes her lips, followed by a breathy “Prick.”

  She shoves the dress over her thighs before I catch an enticing glimpse. As she starts to scramble back up, I straddle her hips and force her onto her back with a hand around her throat. Then I squeeze, just enough to scare her without causing pain or constricting airflow.

  A normal woman would fall into hysterics right about now. The instinct is there, quickening her breaths and shining in her overly-bright eyes. But something else eclipses her fight-or-flight response.

  The instant I sense it, my skin shivers, as if a cloud of electricity moves in and crackles the air. Is this what Conor meant when she talked about sparks and fireworks?

  No way. I don’t believe in that shit. But something strange settles over Maybe’s flushed face, and it affects me, too.

  Tingling currents ignite in my chest and spread through my limbs. A tiny gasp slips from her lips, and her eyes glaze beneath the hood of lashes. Am I cutting her airway?

  No, she’s breathing just fine, albeit shallow and fast. Her fingers rest against mine around her neck, but she doesn’t try to dislodge me. It’s as if I’m enthralling her, as if we’re ensnaring each other.

  She squirms beneath me. Actually rolls her hips to rub against the backs of my thighs. I let my weight rest against her pelvis and bring my face closer to hers, reeled in by an invisible string, drawn to her on a level I don’t understand.

  The scent of her hair reaches my nose. A natural aroma, pure and fresh like earthy moss and open air with notes of mint. Whatever it is, I’m addicted.

  Her untamed mane fans out around her like a golden halo. Huge blue eyes glow in the moonlight, the rest of her features delicate and pixie-like. She might be as ferocious as a lioness, but she looks so damn soft and gentle. Everything inside me clenches to protect her.

  What the hell is happening? There’s attraction. There’s sexual desire. Then there’s this. It’s curiosity and gravity and some kind of illogical magnetism that makes my heart beat with the impulse to claim and possess.

  The thought pisses me off, and I tighten my hand around her throat.

  Her lips part. Her eyes flutter, and she melts beneath my weight. Then she blinks. Her expression closes off, and every inch of her goes taut.

  That’s when it clicks.

  She’s different. So remarkably different from other women.

  Small town girls want marriage, kids, the whole shebang. Throw in the huge estate on ten-thousand acres, and I’m the most eligible bachelor in Sandbank. When they’re with me, they respond to rough play with squealing Ahhhhs, noisy gasps, and arched spines.

  It’s all fake. They kneel, suck, moan, and give me the reactions they think I want, all for a chance to score a ring and a commitment.

  They don’t stand up to me. They never sa
y no. It’s goddamn uninspiring. The exaggerated performance McKenna put on for me last night was just more of the same.

  Unlike the others, however, Maybe Quinn is positively kinky. No pretense about it. In fact, she’s trying her damnedest to hide it from me.

  Her pulse hammers beneath my palm, but she’s muting her gasps and clenching her teeth. She despises me and wants me, and dammit, I’m fucked.

  She’s the one I’ve been waiting for.

  Maybe I’m wrong.

  God, I hope I’m suffering from temporary insanity.

  I hover my face inches from hers, relishing the heave of her chest. “If I lift your dress, I bet I’ll find the wettest cunt in Oklahoma.”

  She rears back a hand and slaps me with enough force to jerk my head to the side.

  Momentarily stunned, I lose my grip on her throat, and she scurries out from beneath me.

  I gotta hand it to her. She knows how to hit. My cheek throbs like a bitch, and I can’t decide if I’m burning with anger or wildly turned on. Both, I think.

  Crawling out of arm’s reach, she leaps to her feet, loses her shoes along the way, and backs up.

  “You should run.” I rise and prowl toward her.

  “You don’t scare me.” She squares her shoulders and stands her ground.

  So bold and beautiful. Resting my eyes on her is deeply satisfying, and I’m gripped with a sudden sense of necessity. An urgency to keep her in my presence. It’s an irrational feeling, but I can’t let it go. It’s already soaked into my bones and become a part of me.

  I want her. Badly.

  But I shouldn’t.

  I can’t.

  Maybe that explains my infatuation. She’s the forbidden fruit. An enemy to my family and everything I’m trying to rebuild.

  That’s all the more reason to keep her close.

  Until I’m certain she’s no longer a threat, I’ll have to watch her like a hawk and prevent her from doing anything stupid. The best way to do that is to bring her into my inner circle and build a foundation of trust.

  Luring her into my bed wouldn’t just scratch this irritating itch. It would form a knot of togetherness between us. And let’s face it. I have a long track record of growing bored with a woman after one night.