Читать книгу Can't Let Go - Gena Showalter - Страница 8
ОглавлениеJUDE LAURENT IGNORED the delicate hand being offered to him, his mind remaining on high alert. He’d provoked two predators tonight. At some point, both men would return, and they would act out in an attempt to save face.
“I’ll be back tomorrow,” he told Ryanne. “Nine a.m. We’ll go over details and prices then.”
Sputtering, she dropped her arm to her side. “Nine a.m.? No way, no how. I don’t go to bed until four a.m., and I’m never up before noon.”
“Nine a.m., Miss Wade.” When their meeting concluded, he’d have to make a two-hour drive to the city to purchase whatever equipment they’d agreed upon. And, to be perfectly blunt about the matter, he didn’t care if she got her beauty z’s or not. “Not a minute later, or you’ll be on your own with Dushku.”
A cool breeze blew in, caressing strands of inky hair over the delicate rise of her cheek. Motions clipped with irritation, she hooked the strands behind her ear. “Remind me who will be paying whom.”
“Remind me who will be saving whom.”
Now she anchored her fists on her hips, the picture of feminine pique. “Well, this is just freaking perfect, isn’t it. We’re not going to drive each other crazy at all.”
“If you do what I say, when I say, we’ll get along fine, guaranteed.”
She bristled, pricklier than a porcupine. Perhaps she believed he was acting like a hard-ass. Too bad. He wasn’t acting. People could take him or leave him. He didn’t care about that, either.
“How about we split the difference and meet at ten thirty?” Once again she offered him a fine-boned hand. “Deal?”
This time, ignoring her hand proved more difficult. Her nails were square-tipped, painted soft pink and glittered in the moonlight. A surprise. As tough—and sexy—as she was, he expected bloodred or jet-black.
A series of calluses marred the tips of her fingers, and on her wrist was a small but elaborate tattoo. An antique lock without a key, surrounded by emerald ivy, as if her arm had a hidden doorway to paradise.
His wayward gaze traveled over the rest of her, unbidden, as if drawn by an irresistible force. Her hourglass figure sizzled with carnality, and he suspected everyone who’d ever looked at her imagined her stripped naked and spread over a bed. Or any flat surface, really.
He certainly had, and he hated himself for it. Desire Ryanne Wade? No. Hell, no. The twenty-five-year-old single woman was the bane of his existence: a bar owner who threatened his control. But he’d told her the truth. His friends loved her. She was close to Dorothea Mathis, who was engaged to one of his buds, Daniel Porter. She was also close to Lyndie Scott, who was desired by Brock Hudson, Jude’s only other bud.
That made Ryanne Wade a double whammy.
At the end of the day, Jude would do anything for Daniel and Brock, who had served with him overseas, saving his hide more times than he could count. Which was why he’d added their names to the massive tattoo on his chest.
They, along with a rare few others, were the only people who mattered to him.
Jude forced his gaze to lift at last, meeting rich brown eyes so often filled with joy he could no longer understand. Those eyes were framed by curling dark lashes somehow sweet and sultry at once. Long raven hair surrounded a face that belonged in a movie. She had smoky eyes, high cheekbones, a pert nose and pouty red lips.
Beauty, brains and bravery. The whole package.
“Well?” she demanded. “Judging by your silence, I can only guess you’re blown away by my brilliance.”
“I’ll meet you at nine a.m. and not a minute later,” he croaked. Then he backed away, and motioned for her to get her ass inside. Any time she brought her “sassy tone” into a conversation, he had only one option: retreat. That tone twisted him up, and sometimes even hollowed him out.
She stood in place for a long while, different emotions sweeping over her exquisite features. Anger, irritation, frustration, but finally resolve. Decided his services were worth the hassle, after all?
When she trudged into the bar, he followed close on her heels. As he moved, phantom pains shot through the calf he no longer possessed. He should go home, remove his prosthesis and relax for the first time in...never mind. He didn’t know how to relax. He should work, the best distraction from his toxic thoughts.
Ryanne maneuvered through the crowds, being sure to give her hips an extra sway. Witch. Whistles preceded her, and catcalls trailed her.
Jude cursed the circumstances that had brought him here. Ignore her. Ignore everyone. He had work to do, and a very short time to do it.
The Dushku motto: Don’t Bend, Break.
As soon as the family had moved into Blueberry Hill, only minutes from Jude’s home in Strawberry Valley, he’d done background checks on every member. His motto? Can’t Be Too Careful.
Ryanne was in serious danger. Years ago, Dushku moved to a small town in Texas. He offered to buy out every bar, restaurant and liquor store in the area. Soon after, anyone who’d refused to sell suffered a tragic fate. Some were arrested for a crime they swore they’d never committed while others were injured in some kind of accident.
Dushku was never charged.
On edge, Jude counted the number of cameras and lights he would need, and tested the reliability of every lock. Something he’d done several times before, as he’d waited for Brock to finish drinking and say the magic words: take me home. He repeated the process, checking and double-checking his findings. His analysis remained the same. Anyone with a tire iron and a couple minutes to spare could break in without difficulty.
How had Ryanne survived so long?
His gaze sought the beautiful brunette unbidden. She’d settled behind the bar, her attention locked on Daniel and Brock.
Daniel had dark hair, though not as dark as Ryanne’s. His eyes were light brown and there was a slight bump in the center of his nose. That nose had suffered one too many breaks.
Overall, he looked like the soldier he was: rough, tough and solid as a rock.
On the other hand, Brock looked rougher and tougher with multiple piercings and arms sleeved in tatts. His jet-black hair was cut close to his scalp, and a thick five-o’clock shadow darkened his jaw, a complete contrast to the pale green eyes that often reflected skepticism, disdain and warped cheerfulness.
Brock had grown up filthy rich, but as the old saying went, money hadn’t bought him happiness. Just like a lack of money hadn’t been the source of Jude’s problems. Wealth had nothing to do with emotion. Both he and Brock had parents who never should have had children.
Daniel hadn’t been rich or poor, but he’d had the kind of childhood most people only dreamed about. He’d been born and bred in Strawberry Valley, Oklahoma, adored by his parents, cherished for the boy he’d been as well as the man he would become.
He was the reason Jude and Brock had moved to the speck-on-the-map small town. Any time their military unit had gotten stuck in a shit storm, waiting for escape or death—whichever came first—Daniel had spun fairy tales.
Dude. Check it. Strawberry-scented air.
All the peace of a beach without sand in your ass-crack.
Magazine perfect. If there’s heaven on earth, it’s Strawberry Valley.
Unwilling to go back to Georgia, where Jude had been stationed after joining the army, and equally unwilling to return to Texas, where he’d grown up—where beloved and hated memories waited to torment him—he’d moved to Oklahoma with his friends.
Ryanne’s eyes flashed with merriment, and Jude almost smiled. Had anyone ever loved life with such abandon?
Part of him hated her for that abandon.
Damn it! When had his focus slid back to her?
Daniel spotted him and waved him over. “There you are.”
Ryanne smiled with feline satisfaction, as if she’d discovered a particularly juicy secret.
A muscle clenched low in Jude’s gut.
Though he would rather avoid the bar owner until he’d calmed from whatever she continued to do to his emotions, he closed the distance between them.
The scent of strawberries and cream filled his nose, courtesy of Ryanne. Every time he neared her, he was reminded of his favorite dessert, strawberry shortcake, and his mouth watered. When his mouth watered, his teeth gnashed, because a wave of crackling heat always followed, as if—
No. I do not want her.
Daniel patted him on the shoulder. “Ryanne said you’d taken off.”
“Ryanne isn’t always aware of her surroundings,” he replied, flicking her a cool glance. “She’s usually too busy flirting with customers.”
She puckered those red, red lips and flipped her glorious fall of hair over her shoulder. “If I can convince just one more man to buy another penny beer, I might be able to afford that solid gold bi-deet I’ve been wanting. Fingers crossed!”
Brock snorted at her—purposeful?—mispronunciation of bidet. “What are you doing here, anyway, my man?” he asked Jude. “I thought you were staying home tonight.”
“Changed my mind.” More and more, he’d had trouble avoiding the Scratching Post, knowing Dushku could strike at Ryanne at any moment. “LPH will be taking over security here.”
“Well, it’s about time,” Daniel said with a nod.
Ryanne batted her lashes at Jude. “Can I get you another water with lemon, Mr. Laurent?” Her voice was sugar sweet, but strangely, also as mean as a rattler.
“And let you charge me another two fifty for roughly five seconds of your time?” He shook his head. “At your rates, I’ll owe you nine thousand dollars for an hour of our meeting tomorrow.”
She winked at him, sensual, erotic—so beautiful it hurt to look at her. “Trust me. I’m worth that and more.”
Raising an empty bottle, Brock told her, “Before you guys go and drag me into this odd little mating dance you’re doing, I’ll have another of those penny beers. Please and thank you.”
Jude bit his tongue in an effort to remain silent, annoyed by both the comment and the request. Mating dance? Hell, no. He and Ryanne argued, nothing more. And though he’d never asked his friends to give up alcohol, he’d wanted to, which made him loathe himself a little more. Their pasts were as painful as his own, and they needed an outlet.
“Daniel?” Ryanne asked. “Another ginger ale?”
“Yes, please,” Daniel replied with a grin. “I’m Brock’s designated driver tonight.”
“Well, then, I’ll make sure your sacrifice is rewarded and add a cherry and a lime wedge free of charge.” Slowly, languidly, she leaned toward Jude. “You see anything you want, Mr. Laurent?”
Another clench of muscle low in his gut. “No, thanks. I’m good.”
“Oh, sugar. I’d bet my unmentionables you’re very, very bad.” Hooded gaze locked on him, she flattened her hand on his shoulder. He had to hide a jolt of surprise, the warmth of her skin burning through his shirt, the scent of fresh strawberries and cream strengthening.
“What do you think you’re doing?” he demanded.
“Don’t think. Know. I’m wondering why you look so hungry. Positively ravenous.”
He stiffened in places he shouldn’t. Had she just insinuated that he hungered for her?
He didn’t. He wouldn’t.
She winked at him, all coy femininity and smoky charm—and he did hunger, shit, he did. “Stay right there. I’m going to satisfy your appetite.” With another wink, she took off.
Those hips swayed with more vigor, and his hands curled into fists.
Brock whistled under his breath as he watched her go. “That is one mighty fine woman.”
Of course he would think so. She was exactly his type. The kind of female who would tick off his parents.
Teeth gnashing again...
Don’t care who my friend wants to nail.
“She’s a trouper,” Daniel said with a sly glance at Jude. “We’re in a tri-city, right? Between Strawberry Valley, Blueberry Hill and Grapevine. In all three towns, her mother was known as a get-around girl. Remarried a couple times, but in between marriages she stole the husbands of other women. Even slept with one or two of Ryanne’s high school boyfriends.”
Having done his homework, Jude knew a lot of people disdained Ryanne for her mother’s behavior, and he sympathized. Back in Midland, his mother had been the town pariah. Poor as dirt, so desperate to keep her family farm going, she’d sold herself to any man willing to fix tractors, repair barns or feed cattle.
But Daniel wasn’t done needling Jude. “When Ryanne moved in with one of her former stepdads, hot damn. Even the residents of Strawberry Valley went a little crazy. Earl Hernandez used to own this bar, and Ryanne was seventeen, I think, maybe eighteen. Countless people called her a whore. Parents forbade their children from spending time with her, fearing she was just like her momma. Fact was, she’d moved in to care for the guy. He had cancer.”
Yeah. Jude knew that, too. Damned if you do, damned if you don’t.
Not that he would allow Ryanne’s past to matter to him. He would keep his eyes off her curves and on the prize: her survival.
He’d already briefed the guys about Dushku’s move to town, so he used their minutes alone to explain his plan for camera placement inside and outside the bar, with twenty-four-hour monitoring. A necessary component, considering Ryanne lived upstairs.
“The Scratching Post falls under Blueberry Hill jurisdiction, so we shouldn’t involve the cops just yet,” he added. “There’s serious bias against Ryanne, Dorothea and Lyndie.”
“It’s true,” Daniel said. “Lyndie was married to the former chief, and Ryanne helped her leave him. I wasn’t here, but I remember my dad’s shock when the seemingly happy couple split. Apparently Carrington was beating the shit out of Lyndie.”
“Where is Carrington now?” Brock’s words were laced with so much rage, Jude had no doubt the ex would be beaten to death if he ever walked through the door.
“Dead. Which saves you from killing him and being sent to prison,” Daniel said. “As for Dushku, we don’t want to stay on the defensive. We need to go on the offensive as soon as possible.”
Jude rubbed the back of his neck, unable to alleviate the tension coiled there. “The Dushkus are merciless, even the ones who are in prison.”
“We put the fear of God in Martin Dushku now,” Brock said, “and we’ll save ourselves a lot of trouble later.”
Or start a war.
Who was he kidding? The war had already started.
“I’ll take care of this,” Jude said. He’d keep his friends—and their women—out of it.
“We’ll all take care of it,” Brock corrected. “Together.”
All for one, and one for all. The story of their lives. Even still, Jude would take the lead on this. When things got bad, and they would, he wanted to be the sole target.
Unlike the others, he had nothing to lose.
He said none of that, however. His friends would only argue. What they couldn’t do? Stop him.
Ryanne arrived with drinks, a bowl of popcorn with sesame-glazed pistachios, soft pretzel sticks with beer cheese fondue and a plate of bacon-wrapped french fries. “In case you want to order another, this is the One Night Stand. Expect an orgasm in your mouth. This is the Horizontal Tango, and this is the Porking. If you’d like to add a plate of Thai-coconut chicken wings, aka the Boneyard, just let me know.” Smiling as Jude nearly choked on his tongue, she presented him with a bill. “Enjoy,” she said with a wink.
He expected her to leave, but once again she leaned toward him. “Well? Taste everything, and tell me again about the amount of salt in the food.”
Daniel snagged a french fry, and Brock grabbed a pretzel and shoved one end into the dip. Jude hadn’t had a real appetite since...in a long time, but he couldn’t stop himself from tossing a handful of popcorn and pistachios in his mouth. The sweet and perfectly salted flavors hit his tongue, and he nearly moaned.
Next thing he knew, he’d emptied the bowl.
“Guess my snacks are delicious, after all.” Ryanne laughed, the magical sound turning the food in his stomach to rocks. “Tips are encouraged or the next round might come with an extra special topping.”
With one more of those annoying winks, she wandered off to do what she did best: charm absolutely everyone.
Before his brain registered his intention, Jude found himself on his feet, stalking after her, finally jumping in front of her. “You’re being nice to me.” Not just flirting with him but enchanting him. “Why?”
“I realized I’m now your boss.” Cheeks glowing a lovely shade of rose, she beamed up at him. Whether she was flushed from the temperature of the room or pleasure, he didn’t know. Didn’t want to know. A devil never appeared with horns and a tail, holding a pitchfork. A devil appeared looking like everything you’d ever secretly wanted but knew you shouldn’t have. “My word is law, no matter how much you protest.”
Fighting her allure, he crossed his arms over his chest. “You actually think you’re in charge.”
“You said you were doing this for your friends. I know how much you love them, how much you don’t want to let them down.” In the muted light, her dark eyes glittered like jewels, threatening to hypnotize him into submission, tempting him to—nothing. “I’m willing to play the part of happy employer, but it’s going to cost you.”
Blackmailing him? “The price?” he grated.
“Praise. One compliment a day. Two if you’re being particularly snarly.”
You’ve got to be kidding me. “An unearned compliment is a lie.”
“And you never lie?”
“Never.” Truth was too precious.
Her head canted to the side, her study of him intensifying. “So you can’t think of anything positive to say about me?”
“I—” Could. Denying it would have been a lie.
She’d well and truly trapped him, an impressive feat. One worthy of the compliment she desired. Unwilling to give up an inch of ground he’d won, however, he said, “If you want your business to come out of this alive, you’ll do what I say. End of story.”
She took a step toward him. Her breasts brushed against his chest, earning a gasp from her and a hiss from him. Like a coward—an aching, throbbing coward—he took a step back, severing contact.
“I think I’ll be okay. Forgot to tell you I streamed a video of Mr. Dushku’s men tonight.”
“A video won’t save you in the future.” Another step back.
“Are you afraid of me, Jude?” She followed him, voiding his retreat, suddenly so close her warm breath rasped over the racing pulse at the base of his neck.
“No!” His spine bowed as the denial roared from him. Over the years, he’d been shot, stabbed and had part of an appendage blown off. Fear a slip of a woman? “No,” he repeated, doing his best to sound calmer.
“Well, I’m sorry to hear that.” As graceful as a ballerina, as erotic as a pole dancer, she turned and glanced at him over her shoulder. “I think I would have enjoyed soothing you.”
Had she just...come on to him?
Jude pulled at his collar, skin growing clammy. Ryanne Wade was too hot, and so was his blood. His body was in serious danger of overheating, a physical reaction he hadn’t experienced in a long time, thanks to another woman.
Constance Laurent. My Constance.
Memories fought for his attention. The way she had smiled at him each morning when she’d woken in their bed, as if overjoyed to find him home. The way she’d somehow ruined every meal she’d ever cooked, but had looked at him with adoration whenever he’d cleaned his plate. The way she’d cried during Hallmark movies.
The air might as well have turned to syrup; it was too thick to pull into his lungs, his chest too tight. His limbs shook.
Time to go. He didn’t bother saying goodbye to Ryanne as he rushed past her, didn’t even wave to his friends. He flew out of the bar, never once looking back.
* * *
JUDE THREW HIS truck in Park. Half the vehicle was in grass, the other half in the driveway. At least he’d made it to the cabin he leased with Brock rather than stopping in the middle of a road.
Each breath more labored than the last, Jude headed for the porch. Midway, he fell to his knees. Pain and grief exploded inside him, filling him, killing him.
A lie. He wasn’t dying. Not even close. Death would have been a mercy, and mercy wouldn’t touch him with a ten-foot pole.
Screaming obscenities at the sky, he punched his fists into the grass. Crickets quieted, and fireflies vanished. Hanks of dirt flung this way and that. A rock sliced into the side of his hand, the sting a minor inconvenience compared to the fire seeming to pour through his chest, ashing his heart, charring his lungs.
This was his life now, a series of minutes and days bleeding into months and years. He existed, nothing more, except for moments like this, when the pain and grief overtook him—then he agonized.
Why? Why did he continue to agonize? He should rejoice. Pain and grief were his friends. Pain had been there for him on the worst day of his life. Grief had hugged him close and kept him focused on what he’d lost: his entire fucking world.
He knew the answer, though. Deep down, he resented every second he spent on this earth. And yet, still he fought to survive.
I don’t want to fight anymore.
Must.
Long ago, he’d made a promise to Constance. Shy, sweet Constance, his high school sweetheart.
They’d met on a double date he’d attended only because his friend had begged. One look at Constance, and he’d been a goner. She’d been as pretty and delicate as a cameo, and she’d sent his adolescent hormones into a tailspin.
She’d wanted him, too, willingly shucking convention to go steady with the poorest boy in town. The boy who’d once nailed more tail than Brock on his best day, all in an effort to prove he was wanted, or worth something.
You’re worth everything, Jude Laurent. Do you hear me? Everything!
They’d married the week after graduation. Determined to provide a better life for her, he’d joined the military.
Before he’d shipped out the first time, she’d wrapped her arms around him and said, “Promise me you’ll never give up, no matter how hard it gets and no matter what happens.”
“I promise. I’ll never give up. Now give me a kiss. Remind me of what I’ll be missing.”
If he could have lived inside the fabric of his happiest memories, he might have had a halfway decent chance of becoming the man he’d once been. But reality was a determined foe, as unstoppable as the pain and grief, clawing and kicking at his mind, demanding its due. Dreams offered no succor; any time his subconscious took over, he relived a moment he hadn’t actually witnessed—a night forged in blood, fire and death.
The night his wife and twin daughters had died.
In the present, hot tears poured down his cheeks, leaving raw, stinging tracks in their wake. Two and a half years ago, a frat boy had drunk too much at a local bar, climbed into his car and driven away. No one had cared enough to stop him. Only nine minutes, twenty-three seconds later, he’d crashed into Constance Laurent’s car, ruining Jude’s life forever.
Constance died on her way to the hospital. The twins, Bailey and Hailey, died on impact.
The entire world should have ceased spinning that...very...second. The galaxy should have mourned the loss of such beauty, laughter and light. Rare treasures, his girls.
Dance with me, Daddy. I found my moves and my grooves!
Daddy, I’m not joking and I’m not playing. I need chocolate right now or I’m gonna lose it.
Lose what, little sweet? he’d asked.
I don’t know. Whatever it is.
Children changed you the moment they were conceived. Made you softer and harder all at once. You learned to play defense and offense simultaneously, protecting your kids while warring with anyone who dared to threaten them.
After the accident, people had offered him what they thought were words of comfort. Meant to be. No stopping fate.
More lies. Fate hadn’t poured alcohol down Frat Boy’s throat, or put car keys in his hand.
Besides, nothing comforted Jude. The only arms capable of offering him solace were now rotting in a grave.
All he had left were memories of a life he’d once adored. Memories he both adored and despised. He remembered the way Bailey’s nose had crinkled when she’d giggled. The way Hailey had twirled a strand of hair around her finger when she cried. The way Constance had blown him a kiss every time he’d walked out the door, whether he’d been headed for another mission or to the grocery store.
Memories would never keep him warm at night.
Only pitying yourself. He had friends who’d swooped in the moment he’d called. Gone...they’re just...gone.
Now he lacked a purpose. And family. He supposed he could do something about the purpose. Or maybe he already had?
Maybe he’d found one in the Scratching Post. At least temporarily. By saving Ryanne and the bar he despised with every fiber of his being, he would save Daniel and Brock from losing someone they loved.
Through the trials of war, they too had already walked hand-in-hand with enough pain and grief, sorrow and loneliness. Enough...or far too much. Overseas, they’d lost friends in a hundred different ways. They’d overcome great odds to save Jude on the bloodiest of battlefields; as gunfire rained around them, they’d risked their own lives to carry him away when he couldn’t even crawl.
As his breathing normalized, Jude wiped his face with the bottom of his shirt and fell back on his haunches. He loved his friends so deeply, he would willingly die for them, but he missed his family more than he missed his leg. Sometimes he experienced phantom pains, allowing him to pretend the leg was still there. At no time did he ever forget he was a family man without a family. A father without a child.
He was essentially alone.
He wished he could be more like Ryanne. She lived in the moment, enjoyed the highs, basking in her triumphs, and rolled with the lows. He thought she might even embrace those lows, choosing to learn from her mistakes rather than wallow.
Irritation pricked at him. Be like a bar owner? A person who served alcohol to potential motorists? Never.
He would go on as always, pretending to live, breaking down, then pretending to live again.
I’ll never give up.
