Dangerous Flirt

Dangerous Flirt

(Laytons Book Two)

By

Avery Flynn

This book is a work of fiction. Names, characters, places, and incidents are the product of the author’s imagination or are used fictitiously. Any resemblance to actual events, locales, or persons, living or dead, is coincidental.

Copyright © 2012 by Avery Flynn. All rights reserved, including the right to reproduce, distribute, or transmit in any form or by any means. For information regarding
subsidiary

rights, please contact Avery Flynn at [email protected].

Visit Avery’s website at www.averyflynn.com.

Edited by KC

Formatting by
Anessa Books

ISBN: 978-0-9908335-4-3

Manufactured in the United States of America

First Edition: 2012 (Seduction Creek)

Revision: May 2015 (Dangerous Flirt)

For my family, those by blood and those by luck, you’ve

made all the difference.

A huge high five to Emma Shortt for all she does, I couldn’t have done it without you. A hip bump to my critique partners Kerri and Kimfor bringing me back from the edge of crazy too many times to count. the next trip to Mike’s for dinner is on me – except for the bar tab because y’all
know I’m not a millionaire.

Dangerous Flirt was first published in 2012 as Seduction Creek, but has since been revised.

Twenty years ago
.

F
rom her spot in the backseat, Beth Martinez held her breath and watched the glowing green numbers. The nine disappeared, replaced by a one and a zero. Ten o’clock. Two hours past her bedtime. A new record.

She shimmied her eight-year-old butt in the seat. The seat belt scratching against her neck tempered her crazy dance moves. In the front seat, her parents
yammered on about boring grown-up things, totally clueless about her quiet celebration.

The drive home from Denver had taken longer than usual, thanks to some well-timed whining for dinner. That move had been brilliant. Her papá had frowned at her in the rearview mirror, but her puppy-dog eyes had him pulling into the last Denny’s before they crossed the Nebraska state line. The neon-blue lemonade
with sprinkles hadn’t tasted as good as it looked on TV, but still, Beth couldn’t wait to tell everyone at Dry Creek Elementary that she’d tried it.

“Mi’ja, honey, do you have to go to the bathroom?”

Heat burned her cheeks. “Nah, I’m good.”

Papá shrugged. “Whatever you say, my favorite daughter.”

“I’m your only daughter.” She rolled her eyes.

“Why mess with perfection?” her mother piped in
and winked at Beth.

Their station wagon passed into the Bighorn Hills, always spooky at night with its sagebrush shadows and coyotes howling from behind the pine trees. Twenty more minutes and they’d be home in Dry Creek, Nebraska, the last town on earth without a Denny’s.

No way would she get in bed before ten-thirty. Now that would be beyond record breaking. Even her best friend Claire’s brother,
Hank, had to be in bed before then and he was fourteen.

Up later than a teenager. Awesome.

Their car rounded the curve and her body pulled to the left. Light flooded the interior and Beth’s hand flew to her eyes, blocking out the brightness.

“What the hell,” her father grumbled. “This asshole is all over the road.”

Beth went on alert. José Martinez never cussed. She craned her neck around
her mother’s seat to get a better look, wondering what had gotten her father so mad.

A big, square car crossed from one side of the road to the other as it headed right for them.

The blue lemonade gurgled in her stomach when she looked out the window. On one side, sagebrush and prickly pine trees covered the hilly landscape. On the other, the Bighorn Hills sloped down toward the valley and Dry
Creek’s streetlights. Forget about not having a Denny’s, she wanted to be home. Now.

“Mamá!”

“It’s okay, honey. We’ll just pull over to the side a bit and give that car plenty of room to pass.” Her mother twisted and re-twisted a strand of thick brown hair around her finger.

The car swerved to the far side of the road before jerking back into the center of the highway.

Her father moved their
station wagon to the opposite side, close to the drop off. Gravel spit up from beneath the tires.

“Are we going to be all right?”

“Sure, mi’ja, nothing to worry about.” Her father’s fingers curled so tightly around the steering wheel that his brown knuckles had paled in the dashboard’s glow.

The car drifted again and then drove to the opposite side of the highway before it popped back in their
direction as if snapped by a rubber band.

“Hold on everyone!” her father yelled. The screech of metal tearing against metal drowned out any other words as the sedan plowed into them.

Their station wagon sailed off the highway and through the trees, picking up speed as it charged downward. It slammed into something big and somersaulted through the air.

Beth’s body floated up from her seat, the
seatbelt biting into the soft skin at the base of her neck. Her head whipped back and forth as the station wagon flipped over and over.

With nothing holding them secure, her parents tumbled around the interior, their bodies slamming against the doors, windows and the ceiling. Over and under, around and about, the station wagon crashed through the trees until it landed with a thunk upside down.

The world swam in front of her and Beth puked bright-blue vomit that landed with a splash on the ceiling. The safety belt cut into her waist and chest, keeping her in her seat while her body hung upside down.

Her long brown hair, wet and sticky from the puke, clung to her face like a curtain, blocking her view of the front seat. “Mamá! Papá?” Her cries were weak compared to the deafening roar
of blood rushing through her ears.

No answer.

Clenching her eyes shut, Beth tried to block out the world. She must have fallen asleep in the car and this was a nightmare. Determined to make it true, she counted to ten, fully prepared to open her eyes and see her parents talking in the front seat as if nothing had happened. Because nothing
had
happened. Nothing.

One.

Two.

Three.

They’d be
talking about abuelito’s retirement party.

Four.

Five.

Six.

Mamá would laugh at something Papá said and then lean across the seat to kiss him on the cheek.

Seven.

Eight.

Nine.

Papá would say “good morning, mi’ja”, even though it was ten o’clock at night.

Ten.

Beth didn’t even have to open her eyes to know something had happened. Something awful.

A wet gasping sound came from the front
seat.

She opened her eyes and parted her hair, pushing it back out of her face.

First, she saw the empty spot where her father had sat behind the steering wheel.

Next, the hole in the windshield, big enough for a man to fall out of and disappear forever.

Finally, her mother’s long brown hair tangled around her once pretty and now bruised and bloodied face. Her body lay twisted on the station
wagon’s ceiling, but her face looked up, her brown eyes unfocused.

“Maaaaaaaammmmmmááááááá!”

One of her mother’s eyes twitched, but nothing else moved. Her mouth gaped open as she wheezed in a desperate breath and exhaled a wet one.

Beth slapped at the seatbelt, trying to unlock it, straining against the nylon. “Mamá, help. I can’t get to you.”

A single tear slid from her mother’s eye, the
droplet tracing its way across the bruise reddening her cheekbone.

Papá had disappeared.

Mamá lay unmoving.

Beth couldn’t escape, couldn’t help, couldn’t do anything.

Terror blacked out everything. She kicked her legs until one of her Keds flew off. She beat the window with a fist and thrashed about. Exhausted after only minutes, Beth’s harsh breathing filled the car.

Only when her panting
slowed did she realize it had been the only sound in the car.

As if on its own power, her gaze landed on her mother’s still figure. “Mamá.”

Her mother wouldn’t answer ever again. Guilt twisted around her heart and squeezed.

All because of her.

If she hadn’t whined, they wouldn’t have stopped for dinner. Her family would be home. She’d be asleep in her bed. They never would have seen the other
car. None of this would have happened if she hadn’t been so selfish.

It was all her fault.

Today.

H
ank Layton surveyed the late dinner crowd at Juanita’s, munching away on enchiladas and plates loaded with puffed-up tortilla chips covered in frijoles, melted cheese, guacamole and jalapeños. His stomach growled as if he hadn’t eaten in a year.

“Hey ya, sheriff. Just you today?” The Juanita of Juanita’s strode up to him armed with a menu he knew by heart.

“Just me.
Can you put me in the back room?”

“Trying to avoid the ladies elbowing each other out of line to be the next Mrs. Layton?”

“Not quite.” He lowered his voice. “It’s my mom.”

“What is it this time?” she asked.

“Founders Day is coming up–”

“Got you working overtime, huh?”

“The woman is a slave driver and she sees it as the perfect opportunity to grill me about grandkids.”

Juanita shook her
head knowingly. “For most people, I’d say what’s wrong with a mama who’s concerned with her children, but for you, I say I have the perfect table. Come on.”

He followed her through the cramped dining area, past the Mexican flag depicted in neon light and into an area that was more of a large alcove than a separate room. She handed him a menu and waved him in before scurrying to the kitchen, presumably
for chips and salsa.

The back room held four two-person tables. A woman occupied one.

Beth Martinez sat with her back to him with her I'm-a-serious-lawyer jacket slung haphazardly over the back of the chair. The strands of her normally silky-smooth, long brown hair stuck up at odd angles. She sighed and slouched lower in her seat.

He’d known Beth since she and his little sister Claire became
Girl Scouts together in second grade, but this was the first time he’d ever seen her looking so…lost. The Mexican-themed red and yellow lamps put a spotlight on the faint tremble of Beth's shoulders. All huddled up and turned away, her body language said “leave me alone”, but he couldn't. Something more than common decency, he didn't know what, pushed him toward her table.

“Hey there.”

Her head
shot up. Even with the barrier of her glasses, he could tell she’d been crying. She took a quick swipe at a cheek with the back of her hand.

“Mind if I join you? I hate eating by myself.” He turned up the charm wattage on his smile when she eyed the exit. “Come on, I’ll buy your dinner and we’ll call it even from all the times I stole your Ring Dings when you and Claire had sleepovers.”

One
side of her mouth curled upward. “I always wondered which one of you brothers stole them.”

He held up his right hand. “Guilty as charged. So I’ll make it up.” He sat down in the free chair at her table.

This time her smile involved her whole mouth. “Have a seat.”

Eyeing her still closed menu, he settled back against the seat. “Good, you haven’t ordered yet. How hungry are you? Because I’m starving.”

As if on cue, her stomach growled. “Famished.”

“Are you woman enough for the Double Date?” He laughed when she gave him the side eye. “On the menu.”

She flipped open her menu, traced a finger down the list of entrees, paused for a moment and arched her eyebrows. “Three chimichangas, four enchiladas, a double order of rice and beans and sopapillas for dessert. Are you kidding?”

“Come on, live
life on the wild side.”

“You’d have to roll me out of here afterward.”

Hank looked, really looked, at Beth. Even though she sat, he knew her body was long and lean, with muscular thighs and an ass you could play quarters on. Shit, he’d known that since coming home after a four-year, post-college stint in the Marines. She’d been twenty years old with hair down to her waist and the sweetest little
strut he’d ever seen. The woman had been—and still was—a knockout. But there was something more to her now than when she was barely legal, some extra air of…hell, he couldn’t describe it, but it sure made his dick sit up and take notice.

“I doubt that, you’re looking fine.” His gaze roamed her light brown skin, locking in on the small patch of lace peeking out from the scoop-necked shirt she’d
been tugging on. “More than fine, really.”