Читать книгу Caught by You - Kris Rafferty - Страница 8

Chapter 2

Avery’s feet were already hurting and it was only late morning, four hours into her eight-hour shift. She was bored and restless when the bell over the diner’s door chimed. Like Pavlov’s dog, she had a reaction every time it rang, but instead of salivating, her stomach tightened with dread. Another customer requiring a smile and chirpy greeting.

Then she saw him and her day suddenly wasn’t so boring.

Scruffy, lots of stubble, he was deliciously sexy; strong jaw, aviator sunglasses, dark brown disheveled hair, his red flannel shirt was open, revealing a tight black T-shirt stretched over a flat, muscular stomach. Her eyes zeroed in on his silver belt buckle, and then she spent a moment or two imagining what his black jeans were hiding. Yum. Yum. Yummy.

Avery bit her lip, fiddling with the rings on her fingers. It was a nervous habit, but this guy made her nervous in a good way. He pushed his sunglasses on top of his head, unveiling eyes so green and vibrant she had to will her jaw not to drop. He approached, propped his backpack against the counter, and scanned the room. Avery quickly looked away, her pride fighting with her instinct to gawk.

Nat Harris, a retired barber who ate at the diner every day, was sitting at the counter, chuckling under his breath, because he’d caught her wanting something she couldn’t have. Embarrassed, Avery found it hard to meet Nat’s gaze. He was a man who knew a thing or two about not getting what you want. He’d struggled with wanderlust his whole life, but between raising siblings and keeping his business afloat, he’d been stuck in North Conway, New Hampshire for thirty years. Retired now, he lived to travel, and was taking a cruise next month. The brochure was on the counter between them.

Nat nudged his coffee cup toward Avery. “Can I have a refill, honey?”

“Sure thing.” Despite Nat’s preferences, she refilled it with decaf instead of high octane. He had a bad ticker, so she ignored his grimace and instead focused on the brochure, its bright colors and exciting pictures. A clutch of wistfulness had her grimacing. Not for the first time, she was reminded she was where Nat had been, raising a sibling, out of options, feeling life passing by. Avery wanted to travel. She wanted to be anywhere but here, but choices had consequences, and she had the life she deserved.

Jaw-droppingly handsome man sat his fine self at the counter, slipped his sunglasses into his shirt pocket, and made Avery’s heart pound just a little bit faster. She told herself to play it cool, to enjoy the moment without inviting too much comment, and when she felt his eyes on her, despite her better judgment, she looked back at him.

Only he wasn’t looking at her eyes. Ostensibly reaching for a menu, he leaned, peering over the counter and openly admired her legs. His gaze moved slowly up her body until it connected with hers, and then he smiled. Yikes. Handsome man was coming on strong.

It made her regret not blow drying her auburn hair straight this morning, but instead allowing it to air dry into waves that fought the restraint of her ponytail. And her practical “nurse” shoes? She regretted not wearing a heel, something that said sex kitten, rather than bed pan. She regretted not changing her beige and cream-colored uniform this morning, when she’d realized it still reeked of syrup despite being washed. This man had Avery regretting a lot, down to not putting on makeup, not even a smudge of lipstick.

Releasing a sigh that had become habitual, Avery forced a smile, because she knew it wasn’t her lack of blow-dryer, laundry expertise, heels, or lipstick that ailed her, it was her lack of options. She’d made decisions that had unavoidable repercussions, and now she had to live with them. This handsome man wasn’t for her. He was for other women. Women who hadn’t…well, hadn’t sold their souls.

“Coffee?” She set a cup and saucer before handsome man and then offered the choice of the two coffeepots. Her nerves were getting the better of her, making her hands tremble, and not just a little. The bitter brew inside the pots quivered. “Decaf or regular?” He briefly ran his hand over his mouth as if hiding a smile. He discombobulated her, and from all appearances, he’d noticed.

“Caffeine, please. I’ve been camping for the last week and I’m desperate for a decent cup. And a full night’s sleep. I came to the great outdoors tense and irritable, and now I’m leaving tense and irritable. I thought nature was supposed to soothe the savage beast.”

Pouring his coffee, Avery aimed for a polite though disinterested attitude. His ego seemed plenty stroked, and her pride was stinging from failing to hide her attraction. Her one move was to make it clear that her being attracted to him didn’t buy him anything.

“Is that what you are? A savage beast?” She’d unintentionally allowed the last two words to fall from her lips like she’d enjoyed saying them. Damn. She sucked at standoffish.

He chuckled, ignoring her question. With a glance at her name tag, he seemed to settle in for a long talk, studying her as if later he’d be quizzed on the details. “Patty? Nice name. Mine’s Vincent.”

Patty Whitman was Avery’s alias. “Pleased to meet you, Vincent.” She replaced the coffeepots, and then turned back to him, wrinkling her nose. “It smells like your fishing trip was successful.” He did reek, and it made her wonder if focusing on that flaw might dampen her raging hormones. It didn’t take long to acknowledge little would. Maybe if he were unkind? Yeah, that would do it.

He wrinkled his nose, too. “Sorry. I had a disagreement with a fish and the fish won.” He scanned his menu and seemed overwhelmed by the options.

“You’re lucky you didn’t meet up with bears.” They would have eaten him alive. She sighed again, wondering how Vincent tasted. His lips were perfect and quick to smile. They probably tasted divine.

“No bears.” He rolled up his flannel sleeves, eyes still perusing the menu.

No customer was attempting to catch her eye, so Avery leaned her hip on the counter and lingered. She recognized his tattoo immediately. A cobra entwined around a human skull over a cross of rifles, and the moto one shot, one kill written under it. He caught her looking, and instead of eagerly discussing the tat, like every other ink fan, his smile lost its authenticity, and he rubbed his hand over his forearm, as if it bothered him.

“Sniper,” she said. The word popped from her mouth, and she regretted it immediately when his smile faded. A veteran who didn’t want to talk about his experiences killing people? Totally understandable. There were plenty things in her life she didn’t talk about, especially to a stranger while slinging coffee in a diner. “I saw that art in a tattoo magazine once.” It was a lie. She’d seen it on too many arms, on too many men who’d taken their skills to the marketplace, but she didn’t say that because she didn’t want questions, such as, why a waitress in North Conway, New Hampshire, knew about sniper tattoos.

Vincent tapped the menu. “What do you recommend?”

“The burgers are good.”

“Cheeseburger plate then,” he said, “with onion rings instead of fries. And Coke.” He leaned forward, his brows lifted, and suddenly he was all charm. “Did anyone ever tell you what amazing green eyes you have? I have green eyes, too.”

“Yes.” She smiled. “I can see.”

He peered closer, studying hers, as if it were a perfectly normal thing to do. “There are gold flecks in yours, and—”

His pause lengthened and seemed strange. “And?” she said.

He no longer focused on her eyes, but rather on her gaze. His smile widened, grew flirty. “They’re stunning. Rare. They go along with your hair. Less than two percent of the world’s population has red hair.”

“Hmm.” She tried to repress a smile and failed miserably. “I think I’ve heard that before.”

He faux frowned. “Then I need to up my game. When is your shift over?”

Whoa, Nelly. That escalated quickly. And oh how she wished she could be just a girl, being picked up by just a guy, who wanted to be with her at the end of her shift. But she wasn’t. Time to set boundaries.

“Why do you ask? Looking to take me home to mother?” Her returning smile was playful, but the shake of her head made it clear whatever he had in mind was not happening.

“Now why’d you have to go bringing my mother into this?” He feigned hurt, but she could see she’d amused him. The guy liked a challenge, apparently, and Avery was having a hard time pretending she wasn’t enjoying herself.

A glance over her shoulder told her no orders were up, so she leaned on her elbows, taking what pleasure she could from the interaction. “Mother’s tend to keep people honest,” she said.

His smile couldn’t have been naughtier. “I like honesty.”

“Yeah?” She licked her lips, repressing a smile. “So, where do you see this going?” His chuckle was scandalous, and had a few customers taking note. The guy certainly didn’t mind her calling him on his shit. In fact, she suspected he liked it, and damn…so did she. “You. Me,” she said. “We hook up during my lunch break, I bring you to my apartment, we spend a glorious hour of nasty, mind-blowing sex—”

“Liking where your head is at.” He was smart enough to know she was teasing, but confident enough not to be offended. It was a giddy-inspiring combination.

“—on the bed, the couch, in the shower, drinking water off each other’s skin.” She lifted her brows, smiling, not in the least surprised to discover she would love to live out that little fantasy. “We’ll make naughty memories to last a lifetime, all in the span of an hour’s lunch break.” He leaned on the counter, moving his face closer to hers, lips cracked with a smile.

“An hour isn’t enough,” he said, “but if you insist.”

She laughed hard enough to throw her head back. “You’re incorrigible.” Then she stepped back and clipped his order slip onto the order carousel. “If I insist, huh?” Hot and bothered, Avery knew if she continued their flirting, there was no way she’d retain even a sliver of what pride she had left. “I have a feeling women insist a lot with you.”

“If I was a good boy, you wouldn’t want me.” He winked.

Ugh. Truer words were never spoke. How else to explain her ex-husband? Still. This guy didn’t know her, and Avery didn’t like that she’d become so transparent that even a stranger could read her.

After a polite but dismissive nod, she grabbed the coffeepots and walked away, moving from table to table, refilling cups. The whole time, she had to force herself not to look at him, because she knew he was looking at her. She could see his reflection in the mirrored wall behind the counter. Vincent. He’d suddenly become the embodiment of all things she’d given up three years ago. Her penance. Her punishment. And not for the first time, she resented the restrictions of her fate. Resented the hell out of it.

The bell above the entrance chimed, distracting her. A woman gasped and caught Avery’s attention. A chair fell to the floor, but Avery’s gaze remained locked on the woman’s expression of horror. She couldn’t force herself to follow the woman’s gaze to the diner’s entrance, because the chatting stopped, the utensils stilled their scraping on plates, and silence hung in the air, as if even sound feared what was to come.

Avery forced herself to move, to walk behind the counter, eyes front, seeking to make it to the kitchen before the unseen danger got her.

A shotgun cocked, and the familiar sound had her stopping in her tracts. “You!”

She didn’t recognize the voice, but that didn’t mean he wasn’t one of her ex-husband’s contract killers. It had been three years since she’d left Dante. Odds were he’d found her, and that shotgun was how she’d die.

Avery turned to face her fate. Her killer. He was around her age, early twenties, wearing flannels and jeans. Greasy, blond hair, high as a kite. The man couldn’t control his twitching and suffered from facial tics. So, strung out on meth, probably. His hands shook, and his head bobbed uncontrollably as he aimed the shotgun at her. It told her that he wasn’t here because of her ex-husband. Coppola contract killers weren’t meth heads. They were all too sober. Yet, he still looked as if he wanted to kill her.

“You,” he said again, looking at her. “Stay put.” He scanned the room. “The rest of you, against the wall.”

Avery stayed put and the customers moved against the wall.

The diners were freaking out, looking between the man and shotgun, and his companion, a tall, brown-haired man who hid his gaze behind lanky, unwashed hair. The companion seemed confused by the commotion.

Vincent hadn’t moved. Clutching his coffee, he watched everything play out via reflections in the mirror lining the counter’s wall. She supposed his Army experience gave him nerves of steel, but that didn’t make her feel better. If he played hero, it was her belly that would bear the brunt of the shotgun blast. It was her guts that would splatter the wall.

The bell over the entrance door chimed again. Avery feared another unsuspecting customer had fallen into this trap. Instead, two more robbers shuffled in, guns in hand. Four total now, all in their twenties, eyes-dilated, hopped up on drugs. These two wore long, black overcoats.

Avery forced her breathing to regulate to the beat of her thumbs twirling her rings, like a worry stone. She looked at nobody and nothing, just stood near the register, rejecting the option of running to the kitchen, because it might precipitate an attack, and those deaths would be on her, so she stayed put, working her rings.

“What is going on?” The new guy was a ginger, short and stocky, laughing at the frightened customers. “I said let’s get lunch, Charlie. Not rob the place.” The ginger waved his pal deeper into the diner. “Jim, lock the door.”

“Sure, Eric.” Jim was tall, had a receding hairline, and pinched lips. He hustled to do as Eric told. Once locked, he leaned his back against the door and then unsheathed a long knife. The room gave a collective gasp. Jim ate up the reaction with a spoon.

Avery kept her gaze on Vincent, and his hands reflexively clutching his coffee mug. He seemed to be biding his time, watching the gunmen in the mirror, his expression revealing purpose, not fear. Avery had enough fear for both of them, and feared that the robbers would notice his lack of fear, and soon. They were already scanning the room for hints of push back, and had found none so far. Though Vincent kept his back to them, she suspected that wouldn’t last long.

Eric was touching Brooke Fawley’s hair. He twirled a blond lock around his sausage finger, tugging her head closer to his. Brooke sobbed, but didn’t resist. Small town girl done good, she’d been accepted to UNH Durham, and everyone was excited for her. High school valedictorian, she’d earned a full ride scholarship, the only way someone from her part of town could afford the pricy school. Smart and pretty, she was too pretty to go unnoticed by the gunmen. Brooke seemed repelled by Eric’s touch, but that only seemed to amuse him more. He leaned in for a kiss.

Vincent stood, poised to act.

Avery slammed her hand on the cash register’s keys. It opened with a bang, displacing change onto the floor. Now all eyes were on Avery, most especially Eric’s, who wandered away from Brooke, thank heaven. His interest and malice radiated from him, and with every step he took closer to her, Avery found it harder to breathe. Seeking his attention wasn’t the smartest thing she’d ever done, but she was more suited to handle a guy like Eric than Brooke.

They wanted money. Avery had access to the money. Maybe she’d luck out and the gunmen would leave once they’d taken it. She grabbed a takeout bag and filled it with cash.

Jim pushed off from the door, still wielding his knife, and jumped over the counter to land next to her. He grabbed the bag of money before she could finish filling it. Then he noticed Vincent’s cheeseburger plate under the heating lamp on the order up shelf. Jim poked his head through the hole separating the kitchen from the counter area.

Jim glared, getting in her face. “Where’s the cook?” His breath reeked and his eyes were freaky bloodshot. Heart in her throat, Avery struggled to speak.

“I don’t know. He ran, probably. There’s a back door into the alley.” It’s what she would have done if she were Sam.

Eric walked around the counter and took the money bag from Jim. After stuffing it into his jacket, Eric waved his hand, indicating the kitchen. “See if the cook is still back there.” Jim took off; then Eric grabbed the burger off the order up shelf and took a bite. “Charlie?” He spoke around his food, glancing at his cohort, the first robber to enter the diner. “Make sure you’re pointing that shotgun away from me, buddy. Okay?”

Charlie squinted, blinked a few times, and re-aimed the shotgun. His pal, the quiet, brown-haired robber with greasy hair, took that moment to sit at an empty table near the door. He seemed tired, and bored.

A crash sounded from the kitchen area. Vincent leaned on the counter as if prepared to jump over, but then two shots rang out and he ducked, a mere instant before Avery did.

“I got the cook good, Eric!” From inside the kitchen, Jim shouted through the order-up hole. Hunched on the greasy floor behind the counter, Avery shuddered. Sam was shot. Sam.

Eric threw the rest of the burger onto the counter in disgust. “Well, hell, why’d you do that?” He waved his revolver at Avery. “Get up, girlie.” Shaking, feeling weak with fear, she stood straight, only to discover Charlie was aiming his shotgun at Nat, the retired barber.

“Now we got to do them all. Right?” Charlie said. “I’m not leaving witnesses.”

Vincent moved so quickly Avery only saw a blur as he put his back against the nearest wall, then her heart sank when she saw him hold his FBI wallet credentials out to Charlie…and a Glock. Damn, handsome guy was a Fed. She should have known he was too good to be true.

“Everyone needs to calm down.” Vincent kept all the men in sight, but his gun didn’t waver in its aim. It was leveled at Charlie. “Put the shotgun on the floor, Charlie. And you, Eric, right? Put that gun down. Gentle like…on the floor.”

Charlie swung the shotgun toward Vincent, prompting Avery to bolt for the kitchen, just as Jim came back out, causing her to collide with him. He wrestled her into a bear hug from behind, aided by the sting of his blade at her throat.

The shotgun discharged. She flinched, and saw Vincent tuck and roll, shooting his Glock.

Charlie’d missed. Vincent hadn’t.

Customers screamed, ducking, overturning tables and chairs. Charlie screamed, too, rolling on the floor—shoulder wound. Vincent must have hit an artery because Charlie was bleeding like a fountain. His brown-haired buddy, at his side, was pressing on his wound.

Vincent’s Glock was aimed at Jim and Avery, and she appreciated the attention, because Jim was strong, high as a kite, and enjoying himself. The blade at her throat burned as it scraped skin.

“Put the gun down, Mr. FBI man,” Eric said, “or Jim here is going to need a new shirt.”

Vincent didn’t blink. Eyes on Avery, he looked as if he were struggling to read her mind, though Avery couldn’t have been more of an open book. She was scared, clutching Jim’s wrist, trying to keep the knife’s edge from biting deeper. Yet, all she saw was Vincent’s hesitation.

“Shoot him,” she croaked.

Jim head-butted her, but was kind enough to drop the knife an inch or two before doing it, so she saw stars instead of her maker. The stars didn’t last long, because he pressed the knife back to her neck, which served to clear her head quickly.

“Blood thirsty, isn’t she?” Eric laughed. He peered at her uniform’s name tag. “Patty? Such a lovely name.” He indicated Vincent with a tilt of his head. “Patty, Mr. FBI man knows Jim will slice you ear to ear if he shoots. Won’t you, Jim?”

“Looking forward to it.” Jim chuckled as a warm trickle of blood worked its way down her neck, to her collarbone, and all the while, Charlie continued to scream, writhing on the floor.

“Shut up, Charlie!” Turning his back on Vincent, who still aimed the gun at Jim, Eric walked to Charlie’s side, picked up the discarded shotgun and cocked it. The brown-haired friend took one look at Eric’s face and hurried to move, slipping in blood. Then Eric aimed carefully, and shot Charlie in the head.

The discharge was deafening, echoing off the diner’s walls, and at that range, Charlie’s head was…gone. It was messy, covering Eric and the surrounding area with blood spatter and brain. Customers’ screams were deafening.

“Shut up!” Eric waved the shotgun, and everyone fell silent as if a switch had been flipped. Some people had their hands pressed to their mouths. Some averted their eyes. Most were slack-jawed, but all were silent. The diners. The robbers. Even Eric took a moment to recognize the brutality of his actions, but only Eric was smiling.

He turned to Vincent. “If I’m willing to kill my cousin, what makes you think I’m not willing to kill all of you?” He aimed the shotgun toward the customers, not deigning to look where he aimed. “Or I might let you all go free.” He allowed the muzzle to point at the floor, shrugging in a playful manner. “Let’s chock this up to a bad day, folks. What do you say?” He aimed the shotgun at Vincent, and between that, and him being covered with a fair amount of his cousin’s remains, nobody put much credence to Eric’s negotiations. “Put the gun down. No one wants more bloodshed. Right, Jim?”

Jim’s body shook with silent laughter, making the knife at Avery’s throat jiggle, scraping at her skin. She was no fool. She knew she’d be the first to die when things went south, and things were going south with the speed of a roller coaster on its first descent. Vincent needed to end this.

“Shoot him,” she croaked.

But Vincent didn’t shoot. He turned the gun so it’s flat side was parallel with the floor, doing as Eric asked. Then he bent his legs, lowering the Glock, his eyes now fixed on Eric and the shotgun.

Avery’s heart sank. Why didn’t the Fed understand? These were killers; they wouldn’t be satisfied with one or two kills. Her, the Fed, Nat, the rest of the customers, they were all going to die like Sam, and Charlie, but…

“Not today,” she said.

Avery slid her fingers from Jim’s wrist to his thumb pad and yanked on it with all her strength, weakening his grip on the knife as she stomped his foot. Then her back scoop-kick connected with his groin, forcing Jim to fold forward and faceplant her oncoming skull. She heard the bridge of his nose break with a snap as she upward palm heeled his elbow, loosening his choke. It allowed her to slip free, lunge forward, and with a vicious pivot toward him, wrist-lock him and strip the knife from his grip.

All in the space of two heartbeats.

Eric stared at her, stunned. Jim roared with rage and pain. Vincent opened fire.

It was confusing, and Avery lost track of who was winning, because Jim bent his elbow, breaking her hold. Avery lunged with the knife, aiming her slices at nonlethal targets, but the guy had no fear, and took all her damage without slowing his attack. He kept swinging, forcing her to parry, duck, back up and slice.

Out of the corner of her eye, she saw Eric hiding behind a table, aiming his shotgun at her and Jim, as Vincent lay down cover fire. But the Fed didn’t have a line of sight. Avery did, so with all her strength, she threw the knife at Eric. He flinched, and messed up both their aims. His shot went wild, and hit the mirror behind her as Avery’s knife pinned Eric’s hand to his shotgun’s stock.

Eric howled just as Jim punched Avery’s jaw, sending her crashing backward onto the counter. Cups, plates, food were pushed to the floor, as she gained a front row seat to Vincent’s fight with the greasy-haired robber. In three moves, Vincent broke the man’s elbow, knee, and then jaw.

Jim grabbed her hair and dragged her across the counter, clearing the surface, and sending everything to the floor. Scalp burning with pain, she whipped her fingers at his eyes, and connected with a slimy orb, buying her time to chamber a white “nurse” shoe, and kick his groin. The fight should have ended there. It usually ended there. But drugged up, Jim was still in it for the win. He rushed her. Avery hook punched his temple, stopping him cold. He dropped to the floor at her feet.

Avery backed up against the wall, out of breath, her heart beating a painful mile a minute. A gunshot had her ducking, and when she peeked over the counter again, she saw Eric writhing on the ground, bleeding from the shoulder. Vincent caught her eye, his concern evident. Well, Avery was concerned, too. Jim still thrashed on the floor, clutching his watering eyes.

Vincent ran to her, peering over the counter at Jim on the floor. “Damn. You okay?”

“Do I look okay?” She couldn’t catch her breath. All the robbers seemed incapacitated or unconscious.

“You scared me.” He studied her face. “You sure you’re okay?” She nodded quickly, but wasn’t sure. “You scared me, dammit!”

“You already said that.” She swallowed hard, flinched with pain, and did her best to slow her breathing.

Vincent barked out a laugh, eyes wild, smiling. “We’re alive. Did not see that happening!”

He laughed again and cupped the back of her neck, pulling her in for a hearty kiss. His lips were warm and tasted of coffee. It was nice and confusing. When he released her, she couldn’t help but want another one, and fade into the pleasure of not thinking. Then she saw Eric over Vincent’s shoulder. The killer was clawing his way to the store’s entrance. Vincent saw him, too.

“Dammit!” He released Avery and chased after him.

It was over. It was over. So why did she still feel the terror?

The customers were reviving, and their shock had found a voice. Shouts, phone calls. Avery flinched as no less than five iPhones aimed at her and flashed. Jim groaned at her feet, clearly reviving. She stomp-kicked his head without a second thought, assured herself he’d lost consciousness again, and then leaned against the wall. Her numbness was wearing off, and reaction was setting in. She wanted to faint, but there was no time.

Nate took off his belt, offering it to Vincent to help tie the robbers. Vincent glanced back at her, as if assessing her state of mind. She did her best to hide her emotions, but her panic was growing. People kept taking pictures, evidence that would end up in court. Prosecutors. Newspapers. Social media. Vincent was a Fed. All ingredients for disaster. Avery could be held for questioning, when she needed to run with her sister.

When Vincent turned back to Eric again, Avery grabbed her purse from under the counter and slipped into the kitchen…and immediately saw Sam. He’d been shot dead and now lay in a pool of blood by the phone, its receiver hanging—swinging—over his body. Married, three kids. It wasn’t fair.

Avery hurried past, forcing herself not to think, but to escape out the door to the alley beyond. She would not cry. She would not cry.