Cold Blood (Lone Star Mobsters Book 4) Page 2
What if Grady got out this time?
Too nervous to sit still, Etta paced the length of the porch instead.
The boards creaked beneath her. She’d been renting this old one bedroom cottage for a couple of years. It wasn’t exactly the best place in town, but she couldn’t afford anything better on her skimpy social worker salary.
Etta dreamed of owning a home of her own, but it wasn’t financially feasible. It didn’t stop her from fantasizing though. She wanted a big yard with a picket fence. Sometimes, she imagined a little boy playing with a dog, teaching the pooch how to fetch in the backyard.
Never gonna happen.
Social work was more of a calling than a profession. No one became a caseworker to get rich, and she certainly hadn’t. Etta wanted to help people.
Every time she got a meager paycheck, Etta reminded herself of the greater good. Overworked and underpaid is a cliché, but it applied to her job. Besides, she was better off than most folks. She had a roof over her head, money to pay the bills, and food in the fridge.
Just as she was about to go inside, a Harley pulled into her driveway. A lot of front porches were full at this time of night. Most folks like to enjoy the evening air while lounging on the swing. And they were all gawking at her.
The Four Horsemen MC was infamous in this town and the subject of many rumors. People made up all kinds of stories. Like they cooked meth in the woods, buried people in the desert, or killed FBI agents. The bikers looked like Magic Mike extras and thundered around town on bikes. No wonder they captured so much attention.
“Hey.” He lifted his chin.
Etta smiled back. So much for being subtle. Every time she saw him, she lit up.
Every. Damn. Time. Haven’t I had enough of bad boys? Apparently not.
Justice walked with a swagger, his long strides eating up the sidewalk. He stood about six feet tall with light brown hair and blue eyes, and his skin had a golden hue. Etta bet he spent a lot of time outdoors. She kept picturing him chopping wood or mending fences. Maybe while shirtless with the sweat slipping down the length of his spine.
Phew. And I’m back.
Stubble hovered over his lips and across his cheeks. He wore a pair of tight jeans along with a white T-shirt, which peeked out from beneath a hoodie.
Dangling from his neck was the Navy SEAL special warfare insignia, an eagle clutching a trident, an anchor, and a rifle. It was about as American as a piece of apple pie flanked by handguns, so it looked absurd with the biker wear.
“Have a seat.” She patted the stoop, and they sat side by side. Etta wanted to lean on his shoulder, both literally and figuratively but didn’t dare. They were skirting the edge of propriety as it was.
For a moment, she considered telling him about her ex-husband, Grady Williams, but adding a motorcycle gang, er, club into the mix would aggravate the situation.
“What’s up?”
“I’ve had a real fuckin’ day.”
She chuckled. “Yeah, me, too.”
Justice ran a palm down his face, and she noticed the dark circles beneath his eyes. He could use some sleep.
Etta hadn’t gotten much rest either. Yet, every time she laid down, Etta stared at the ceiling, counting the tiles instead of snoozing.
“Sucks, don’t it?”
“Pretty much.”
“What’s goin’ on with you?”
“Waitin’ on some news.” She took another pull on her cigarette.
“The crappy kind?”
“Oh yeah. I’ve got a big lead ball in my stomach, tellin’ me it’s not gonna go my way.”
“Women’s intuition, huh?”
“More like Murphy’s Law. What about you?”
Things had a way of unraveling in her life, no matter what she did. Whenever one aspect started going well, another headed due south.
“My brothers want me to take a step back from the club. They took a vote on it and everythin’.”
“And you’re not okay with it?” Personally, he seemed too nice a guy to be mixed up with a motorcycle gang, but he hadn’t asked for her opinion.
“Nope. It’s the one thing I had left.” His gaze held hers. There was an unspoken question on the end of his sentence. Did he still have her, in a manner of speaking, anyway?
Uh oh. Justice was on the wrong side of the law, and she’d had enough of men who didn’t play by the rules. It hadn’t worked out so hot last time. But from the moment, Justice had shown up at her door, covered in blood and filled with anguish, she’d been a goner.
Etta knew he needed someone and she wanted to be that person. They’d formed an immediate bond, and she’d do just about anything for him.
Sometimes, she went an extra mile or two for a client.
One evening, a man who’d beat his wife until she’d nearly died, came after Etta when she’d gone to the woman’s house to retrieve some items. She’d grabbed a baseball bat from the trunk of her car and told him to back off, or she’d hit a home run with his kneecaps. Wisely, he’d walked away. The proper thing to do would’ve been call the authorities, but she’d simply lost it.
Etta had an affinity for helping abused women and children in particular. Their cases pulled on her heartstrings. Given what she’d suffered through, it was hard not to empathize with them. Her instructors had taught her to sympathize with her clients instead, and get them the help while keeping her emotions detached from the situation.
Etta sucked at distancing herself.
For example, her youngest client, Tyler Jenkins, had come from a rotten home and suffered all kinds of abuse. Sometimes, when Etta pictured that backyard, Tyler was the little boy playing with the dog. Like the bond with Tyler, this connection with Justice was about more than an affinity. He wasn’t even a client, for pity’s sake.
“I can’t be involved with you.” Etta forced the words out of her mouth.
“You aren’t. You’ve made it abundantly clear on at least two occasions.”
Really? Because she felt involved. Etta thought about him way too often, wondered how he was doing. Even sitting next to him wreaked havoc on her nerves. She wanted to touch him, wrap her arms around Justice and bury her face in his chest. He smelled like wood smoke and the night wind.
“Right. I did.”
“So we’re friends.”
No, they weren’t. Not even close. Etta had plenty of friends, and none of them stirred her up like Justice.
“Yes, although I just realized something. I don’t even know your real name.”
His grin was lopsided. “It’s Landon Page.”
“Hmm. Pleased to meet you, Mr. Page.” She held out a hand.
“The pleasure’s all mine.” He shook it, and their hands lingered.
Etta swallowed and pulled back.
Maybe she was merely starved for male attention. For the past few years, she’d thrown herself into her career. She’d gone on dates every once in a while, but as a rule, she was married to her job. Or maybe she wanted an excuse to keep a man out of her life.
Etta worked hard, saw as many clients as she could squeeze into her overbooked schedule, then stayed late to keep up with the paperwork, which was a real chore. When she got home around seven or so, Etta grabbed a quick meal, before collapsing on the couch to watch a show or two before bed.
And then she got up early the next morning and did it all again.
It was a life based on hard work. Sometimes, she thought about having more, but Etta was afraid. Things had gone spectacularly wrong before, and she had difficulty trusting her own judgment when it came to matters of the heart.
Nope, this is madness.
Etta believed Justice was ten times the man Grady had been—good, decent, kind. Although, there’d been a time when Etta could’ve sworn Grady was the most wonderful man she’d ever met. She thought he’d care for her, protect her from the world. Instead, he’d been her own private jailor, the man who’d terrorized her.
What if I’m a terrible judg
e of character?
She cleared her throat. “Maybe this is a chance to do somethin’ different.”
“Nah, I chose the club and I ain’t about to back out now.”
“Are you sure? There are lots of other opportunities for a man with your background. You could go into security or—”
“I made my bed, Etta.” He sighed. “All I wanna do is lie in it.”
And now we’re talkin’ about beds. Time to change the subject.
Etta caught the scent of something familiar. “Have you been smokin’ tonight?” Marijuana had a distinctly sweet, very pungent odor.
“Yeah.”
“I thought you were gonna lay off the weed. It’s a crutch.” They’d talked about his substance use before. She told people what they needed to here, not what they wanted to hear.
“I know, but I can’t let it go. Yet.”
Etta understood. Knowing what your problems were and doing something about them were two different things. He needed to get at the root cause of the wound and deal with it, but men have a tendency to shove it down, cover everything with anger, and refuse to discuss their feelings.
From what she’d pieced together, something horrific had happened to him in Afghanistan, and he wasn’t alone. A lot of soldiers came home with PTSD. They were dropped into high-pressure situations and forced to make split-second decisions which could have fatal consequences. No wonder it took a toll on them.
“And hey, since we’re tellin’ each other truths tonight. You smoke, too.” Justice snatched her cigarette and took a hit. “You’d be better off without this.”
“Touché, and you’re absolutely right.” Whenever her nerves got the best of her, Etta pulled out a cigarette and calmed herself down. “But I got other options. For instance, I talk to a friend of mine.”
“Who?”
“Bonnie Beauregard.”
His brows furrowed. “How do you know her?”
“It’s private.”
Actually, she couldn’t talk about it. They’d met in a domestic violence support group. It had been years since she’d been abused, but Etta still dealt with the consequences. When her past crept up on her, she made it a point to talk it over with others who’d gone through the same thing.
“Well, all the Beauregards are bad news.”
“Not Bonnie. She’s not like the rest of her kin.”
Bonnie was one of the notorious Beauregards, a family famous for their bootlegging past and current ties to the Lone Star Mafia. Although, she was the proverbial black sheep. Or maybe it’s white sheep, since they were a bunch of criminals, and Bonnie played by the rules.
“I’ll take your word for it.”
“Glad to hear it, since I’m not givin’ her up.”
“Hey, I know what’ll make us feel better.”
Making out on my front porch like two teenagers? Because it would put her in a fantastic mood.
“What?”
“A ride.”
“Hell no. You’ve been gettin’ high tonight, and I smell the whiskey on you, too. I don’t even know how you got here without gettin’ into an accident.”
He smirked. “Because I’ve got skills.”
She scowled, not amused in the slightest.
“Fine, then you can drive.” He dangled the keys.
“No.” She held out her hand. “Give me the those.”
“Why?”
“Because I said so. Hand them over.”
He tilted his head to the side. “You’re gonna come with me?”
“Nope, but I don’t want you to drive either. You’re stayin’ the night with me.”
The words slipped out before she thought them over. It wasn’t necessary. She knew Pretty Boy very well, another one of the Four Horsemen. He’d once been her client, and now they were friends. Etta could call him up, and he’d come over here and retrieve Justice, no questions asked, but she wanted Justice to stay.
Tonight, Etta didn’t want to be alone, and she doubted Justice did either.
He raised a brow.
She swallowed. “On the sofa, I mean.”
“Damn, and I got all excited for a second there.”
Yeah, me too.
“Come on. Let’s go inside.” She stood, and so did he. Justice towered over her like some kind of sun-bronzed Adonis. She was suddenly very aware of their differences in height. Justice almost had a foot on her.
Oh yeah. I’m definitely needin’ some male attention.
He grinned as though he knew the direction of her wayward thoughts.
“What?”
“You know what.” He smirked.
“Shut up.” Etta backed away from him.
“But I didn’t say anythin’.”
“I can hear you thinkin’ over there.”
“And what am I thinkin’?”
“Things you shouldn’t be.” Etta tugged open the rusty old screen door, and it squealed. She resisted the urge to kick it out of sheer frustration.
“Then I’m not the only one with a dirty mind.”
***
God damn, she’s a sight.
Etta wore a pair of tight jeans and a pink camisole beneath a white cardigan. Her dark red hair was pulled up into a bun, and he could see a trail of freckles dotting her neck and then spreading below the line of her sweater.
Justice would love nothing more than to see how low those freckles went. It reminded him of an old country song by Brad Paisley, Ticks. The singer offers to check a cute girl for bugs in all of her most intimate places.
Etta got under his skin. She was a feast for the senses. He loved the way her nose crinkled when she laughed. She had the sweetest smile and the kindest heart.
He was fucking mesmerized by the sway of her hips. It didn’t hurt that she had great big tits either. Justice loved large breasts, and a generous ass, like the one Etta, sported. He liked to have something to hang onto when he was deep inside a girl.
“Let’s get you a blanket and a pillow.” She opened the linen closet in the hall and started going through it. “Hang on to these.”
He held out his arms, and she piled them full of blankets and pillows.
It had been a long since he’d had a steady girlfriend in his life. He hadn’t had an actual sweetheart since before he’d joined the SEALs. Being shipped all over hell and half acre didn’t lend itself to lengthy relationships. He’d had to fly halfway around the world at a moment’s notice and couldn’t tell anyone where he’d been and what he’d done. Most women couldn’t take the uncertainty.
Of course, things had settled down. He wasn’t globetrotting anymore, but Justice was fucked in the head now, which provided its own set of issues.
And he didn’t want to lay all this on someone else. It wouldn’t be fair, but it didn’t stop him from looking…and imagining. Later he’d wrap a hand around his cock and picture her naked.
“Well, goodnight.” She walked down the hallway to another room. The door creaked open, and Justice got his first glance at her bedroom. She had an oak sleigh bed, and if he wasn’t mistaken, it was king sized, so there’d be plenty of room for both of them.
“Sure you don’t want some company in your big ol’ bed?” Justice leaned against the doorframe. He imagined spreading her out on the sheets, sliding her legs open, and then thrusting his cock home.
Fuck, I can practically taste it.
While he knew nothing could develop here, Justice refused to act like another of her cases.
“No, thanks.”
“Are you sure? It might get chilly this evenin’. We could keep each other warm, maybe a little hot.”
Her mouth parted and for a second he thought she might agree. Then her lips pressed into a firm line.
“Nope.”
Damnation. Well, it never hurts to ask. “Thanks for lettin’ me stay over.”
“I didn’t let you stay over. I couldn’t allow you to drive home in this state. I meant what I said earlier, Justice, we can’t get involved.”
“Sleep well.”
“Since you mentioned it, what are ya wearin’ to bed?” He looked her up and down, picturing something innocent but sexy nonetheless. “Maybe a babydoll nightgown?”
With an exasperated sigh, she shut the door in his face.
Chapter Three
Outside of Jalalabad, Afghanistan
Echoes reverberated off the grungy walls—the stomach-turning crunch of bone, shots fired, and low, injured moans.
Once more, Justice dangled from his wrists. He hung in the air like a flag on a pole. Justice feared they might snap in two from the strain of his own body weight. Sweat rolled down his back and blood trickled down his face from the head wound, making it hard to see.
They’d been captured. Justice couldn’t remember how long his unit had been held in the abandoned building. Hours? Days? Years? He hadn’t seen the sun in forever and couldn’t keep track of time.
He had no way of knowing how far away from civilization they’d been taken. After being caught by the Taliban, they’d been blindfolded and marched away from the scene.
Justice figured they were in the hollowed out remains of a jail. The country had sustained massive damage, and a lot of places had been reduced to rubble. The jail was falling apart, too. Debris littered the hallway, the brick walls surrounding them were crumbling.
Every day, the terrorists came to their cells, dragging one of them out at machine gun point to threaten and interrogate.
All he’d ever given the bastards was his name, rank, and serial number. He’d tacked on a “fuck you” to the end of the sentence, which had earned him a beat down, the first of many. These sons of bitches wouldn’t get to him to cooperate, no matter what they did.
The soles of his feet ached from where they’d whacked them with a small rod called a bastinado. His body was black and blue. He was covered in dried blood, vomit, and piss. When they’d hooked the car battery to his genitals, he’d even lost control of his bowels.