“Horse.” Virgil managed a congenial smile. “Nice to finally make your acquaintance.”
Horse bared large yellow teeth as he laughed, and Virgil wondered if
that
was where he’d gotten his name. “You’re crazy for coming here.”
“A point I’m more than willing to concede.” Crazy was one thing, but Horse hadn’t expected such a brazen move and that was important. Virgil could read his surprise; the man wasn’t prepared, which meant Mona hadn’t double-crossed him, after all.
If this ended well, Virgil promised himself he’d thank her properly.
“Gully, if you’ll step out of the way, I’ll let you live,” he said to the stout man still standing in front.
Gully smoothed the leather vest he wore without a shirt. More biker style than street gang, it wasn’t a good look for him. He was overweight and his complexion was far too pasty to pull it off, especially during an L.A. summer. But it showed his tattoos, which was probably the whole idea. “How do you know my name?”
Virgil grinned. “I know everything.”
“Then you should also know that I’m not gonna let you shoot a fellow Crew member.”
“Your choice.” He lifted his gun. He didn’t plan on
shooting Gully. Horse was tall enough that he could drop him if he had to. But he’d have to deal with Gully grabbing that pistol as soon as Horse fell behind him and was trying to decide how he’d get out of the room without taking a bullet himself. As determined as he was to save his family, to be free of The Crew at last, the prospect of killing someone, even Horse, didn’t sit well with him. He’d killed before, in prison. But he’d had no choice.
He felt he had no choice here, either. Yet it wasn’t the same, wasn’t two men coming at him with homemade knives.
“You leave me and my family alone, I’ll let you live, too,” he told Horse.
“I don’t make deals.” Horse made a move as if he was going to grab Gully’s gun. He couldn’t reach it, but Virgil couldn’t tell that when he fired. The bullet hit Horse in the shoulder. A dark spot bloomed on his shirt. Then Gully went for the gun, as expected, so Virgil had to shoot him, too.
Aiming for the leg, he hit Gully somewhere in that region. Gully crumpled, moaning. Virgil had only seconds before everyone else in the house descended on him, a split second in which to finish Horse off. But Horse had ducked behind the desk, making it impossible to get the kind of shot he needed, and Gully somehow managed to squeeze off a round in the interim.
Virgil heard the bullet strike the wall behind him. Close, but not close enough. Gully was in too much pain to aim straight. Or he didn’t know how to hit a target. Regardless, the noise had attracted attention. Footsteps pounded down the hall, coming toward them. From the shouts accompanying those footsteps, at least a hundred Crew members were rushing to Horse’s aid—but Virgil
knew that was panic talking. Realistically, it was probably five or six.
Still, he was already outnumbered. And now there’d be no going out the way he’d come in. The futility of what he’d tried to do struck him in that moment, but so did the memory of burning that picture of Peyton and Brady. He couldn’t let his family down. Laurel or Rex, either. He
wouldn’t
let them down, not as long as he had the breath to keep fighting.
Firing again, he hit Gully in the gun arm, and the pistol fell to the carpet. The fat bean counter was neutralized. But Horse was very much alive. In between cursing and calling for help, he tried to shove Gully out of the way so he could reach the fallen gun. When he couldn’t do that without exposing himself, he pulled Gully in front and used him as a human shield.
“This is the leader you were willing to die for?” Virgil shouted.
Red-faced and gasping, Gully managed to wriggle out of Horse’s grasp, leaving him unprotected for only a second.
That was all Virgil needed. Planning to crash through the window in order to get out, Virgil crossed the room while firing into Horse’s corner again and again. Splinters and Sheetrock dust rained down on them but Virgil was moving too fast to see if he’d hit Horse. At this point, everything was a smoky blur.
At the last minute, he had the presence of mind to shoot the window. He thought that might make it easier to break. But he didn’t get the chance to jump through it. He was on the bed just a foot away when the other Crew members began pouring into the room.
Although his gun was empty, bullets began flying—from
their
guns. It took only a split second for one, then another, to hit him in the back.
L.J.
’s vision was blurry, but the pain was gone. Had he really been shot? Or was it just a bad dream?
He blinked, trying to make sense of the bright light directly above him and the fuzzy objects surrounding him, but once he saw the picture hanging on the wall, he knew getting shot had been no dream. He was inside the cabin those dads had rented, the ones who’d walked through the door and been shot to death by Ink.
His mind shied away from the rest of the memory, the process of dragging them outside and digging their graves, but there was no avoiding the replay. It cycled in a never-ending loop—until he was distracted by the odd smell around him, a smell he couldn’t place, and the sounds of someone rummaging in the kitchen.
He wanted to call out, ask what was going on and why he felt so strange, but he was afraid it was Ink. Had to be, didn’t it? He hadn’t been with anyone else since he’d busted out of prison. Ink had been with him in Laurel’s house. Ink had been with him when the sheriff appeared and started firing. Ink had been in the truck after they ran through the forest. And Ink had helped him limp into the cabin, said he was going to operate—
Oh, God.
L.J.’s hand wanted to go to his chest, to de
termine what might’ve happened to him while he was unconscious. But he couldn’t move. His wrists were tied to something above his head.
What the hell was going on? Was this Ink’s idea of saving his life? Or Ink’s idea of revenge for nearly leaving him in the forest?
“Hey, you’re awake!”
It was Ink, all right. The last person L.J. wanted to see. The last person L.J. wanted cutting into him. Ink didn’t know anything about removing a bullet or what other damage he might cause by digging into a guy’s shoulder. Neither did he care. That was the most frightening part. This would become just one more thing to brag about.
If L.J. lived.
Actually, if he died, Ink would still brag about it.
His mouth as dry as cotton, L.J. had to swallow before he could answer. “I can’t…move. Why can’t I move?” His voice sounded hoarse and panicky, unfamiliar even to him.
“Sorry.” Ink came around the table carrying a dish towel, which he was using to wipe his hands. “Had to tie you down. For all I knew, you’d wake up and start thrashing around and hurt us both. You should’ve seen the way you jumped when I cauterized that hole in your shoulder.”
“When you…
what?
” That was the smell. Burning flesh.
His
flesh. The thought made him more nauseous than he already was.
“Cauterized the wound,” Ink repeated. “I used a metal spoon. That was all I could think of. The only way to sterilize it and get it to stop bleeding since I had no needle and thread to try and stitch it.”
“But who said you should—”
“Saw it in an old Western once,” he broke in. “Worked great, too. You should thank me. We’re out of the woods now.” He laughed. “Out of the woods. That’s a good one.”
It was called a pun. But Ink wouldn’t know that. Maybe he was cunning, but he wasn’t educated. At least L.J. had graduated from high school. It wasn’t until a cousin got him into boosting cars that he went to prison and met the likes of Ink and the rest of The Crew. “Pun intended,” he muttered, hearing his grandmother’s voice saying the same thing.
“What?”
Unable to explain, he shook his head. “Just something that…came to me.”
“So? How do you feel?”
L.J. squinted at the bright light above him. “Where am I?”
“My makeshift operating table, aka the dining room table. Pretty clever, huh?” When Ink tapped his head, L.J. thought he would definitely be sick. For all he knew, Ink had taken out one of his kidneys. Ink liked to talk about such morbid things, used to entertain the other guys in prison for hours with stories of black-market organ transplants and doctors who supposedly made a bundle stealing kidneys from the poor.
L.J.’s lips were cracked and peeling. He made an effort to wet them so he could speak. “What’d—what’d you do to me?”
“I removed the plug that damn sheriff put in you. What do you think?” He held up a small, slightly flattened piece of metal. “See? Here it is.”
There was smear of blood on Ink’s arm. He’d washed his hands but he hadn’t done a very good job, hadn’t
washed high enough to reach all the evidence of his “operation.”
“Great. Thanks,” L.J. said drily. “So…will you untie me?”
Ink stared at him for so long, L.J. was afraid he’d refuse. But then he grinned and shrugged and got a knife that was still stained with blood to cut the strips of sheet anchoring his hands to two different objects that wouldn’t budge. When he sat up and rubbed his wrists, L.J. saw that Ink had used the wooden captain’s chairs, one on each side of his head, which shouldn’t have been all that heavy. He was just weak. Weak and sick and confused.
“How do you feel?” Ink asked again.
“Okay, I guess.” L.J.’s hand went to his head as if that might help sort out his thoughts. “What’d…you give me?”
“The last of my pills. That’s friendship for you, huh?”
Friendship? L.J. didn’t even want to be here. He would’ve left if he could have. Ink was crazier than anyone L.J. had ever met. “What were they?”
“Maxidone. Or so I was told.”
“Which is?”
Ink tossed the knife onto the table. “Who knows? And who the hell cares? They work, don’t they?”
“Yeah.” He couldn’t feel any pain; they must’ve done their job. Ink had obviously taken some, too—more than usual, because he was in a better mood than he’d been in so far. Odd, considering their situation had fallen to shit. “And you got them from…where again?”
“Quit being stupid, huh? I got ’em from Wiley Coyote, and you know that because you were there. Jeez,” he added with a chuckle.
Jeez?
Ink was high, all right. He’d probably smoked
the joint that’d been on the coffee table, too. Or mixed drugs and alcohol.
“You remember Wiley, don’t you?”
Dimly, L.J. recalled The Crew member who’d helped them get away from the prison and provided Ink with a container of tablets for his back. “Yeah.”
“Time to get you off this table.” Ink motioned for him to get up. “I’ll take you to the bed. You need to rest.”
L.J. had no idea how he’d walk from point A to point B. When he slid off the table, he had to bend over and take several deep breaths just to keep from throwing up or falling over. “Yeah, bed,” he said when he could finally straighten.
Ink supported his weight as they made their way slowly up the stairs; Ink even helped him lie down and covered him with blankets. But the sickness L.J. had felt a few minutes earlier came back, worse than ever, and kept him from falling asleep.
Was he having an allergic reaction to Ink’s pills?
He was about to call out, let Ink know something serious had to be wrong, when he began to doubt everything Ink had told him. Maybe it wasn’t an allergic reaction. Maybe he’d lost track of time and Ink had kept him shut up in this cabin for days. It could be an infection…?.
He racked his brain to determine whether or not that could be possible. But due to whatever drug he’d been given, he couldn’t arrange his thoughts, had no concept of time. Had he been tied to the table just for a few hours? Or had he been there for several days?
The last thing he remembered was getting out of the truck…?.
Rolling gingerly to one side, he tried to feel his lower
back, which ached terribly. Was it from the hardness of the dining room table? Or had Ink stolen his kidney?
He wasn’t sure. He couldn’t reach all the way around without tearing open the wound on his shoulder.
“Ink?” he called. But it was a halfhearted, feeble effort to rouse him. One Ink didn’t hear.
A second later the front door slammed and the truck’s engine roared to life.
It should’ve felt worse to get shot. The bullet entering his leg had been bad. The hospital visit wasn’t much of an improvement. And losing out on capturing Ink and Lloyd had been a real bitch. But Myles could certainly think of worse things than lying in bed tucked up against Vivian’s soft, warm body.
He slipped his hand up under her shirt to cup her bare breast—he’d been aching to do that ever since she’d lain down with him—and his body hardened. He liked her just as much as he’d feared he would. He could feel himself falling into that emotional abyss called love, knew he might slide in so deep he’d never get out. And yet, somehow, that was okay. Caring risked loss, but
not
caring guaranteed a lukewarm life, devoid of any great passion. Why he’d believed that kind of existence would satisfy him he suddenly didn’t know. He wouldn’t take back the years he’d had with Amber Rose despite how they ended, would he? No. So why wouldn’t he embrace a second chance to feel the same way about someone else?
Vivian stirred and turned to face him. When her eyes opened, she smiled sleepily. “How you doin’?”
“Fine. You?”
“Better now that I’ve had a chance to rest. What time is it? Do we need to get up?”
He caressed the rim of her ear. “Not yet. It’s only been a couple hours.”
“Then what are you doing awake?”
Her eyes looked so big with her hair that short. “Thinking.”
“About…”
“You,” he said simply.
“And?”
“I’m glad you moved in next door.”
She hesitated, obviously considering his words. “You’re kidding. What about your wounds?”
He offered her a lazy grin. “Mere scratches.”
Although she smiled at his response, her manner remained serious. “I’m very different from Amber Rose. You realize that, don’t you?”
How could he miss it? But he found it interesting that she’d come to the same conclusion, since she’d never known his late wife. “In what way?”
“I have my business, for one.”
Having a business created a difficulty? “I admire what you’ve accomplished. And I’m willing to support you in it. How is that a drawback?”
“I’m used to being independent.”
“Understood. I can work with that.”
“But…Claire said Amber Rose has a brother who’s a doctor.”
He couldn’t help chuckling. What did Amber Rose’s brother have to do with this? “I’m not following you.”
“
My
brother is an ex-con.”
“Oh, right.” He nodded to let her know it was all clear to him now. “But
exonerated
means he didn’t do it.”
“My uncle did. My own mother might have put him up to it. And Virgil hasn’t come out of those prison years
unscathed. You know The Crew might never let us live in peace. They might not let us live at all.”
“They won’t hurt you as long as I’m here to protect you. But I understand your concern. And, just to save you the trouble of bringing it up, I also understand that your children’s father was an abusive jerk who may come into the picture at some point in the future. Any other warnings and disclaimers?”
She raised her eyebrows, as if what she’d already said should be more than enough to scare him off, but since he didn’t concede the point, she barreled on. “I’ve heard how sweet Amber Rose was.”
“You’ve heard a lot.”
“You’re a favorite topic among the ladies. It’s Pineview, remember?”
“So…you’re different, like you said.”
“And…maybe not as good. I’m aggressive and stubborn and…and I can be angry. Besides all that, I have baggage.”
“Beyond what you’ve listed?” he teased.
“Maybe.”
With her legs between his and the softness of her breasts against his chest, the memory of making love to her at the cabin made his pulse leap. “What are you really worried about, Vivian?”
“You loved her so much.” Her voice fell. “I don’t see how I could compete with that.”
He ran his thumb over her bottom lip. He craved the taste of her, the smooth texture of her bare skin. And it was
her
he wanted, not a substitute for Amber Rose. “You don’t have to compete. I loved my late wife, will always love her, but that doesn’t mean I can’t love you just as much.”
He bent his head to kiss her, but she resisted. She seemed hesitant to trust what he’d told her, and he couldn’t blame her. She’d been through so much. But as he slid his hands up the back of her shirt, kneading her tense muscles and coaxing her to stop worrying, her lips parted and she began to respond.
“I won’t let anything happen to you,” he murmured as their tongues met and touched and met again. “All you have to do is hang on to me.”
Making love to Vivian this time was a completely different experience, even better than at the cabin. Myles slowed everything down so he could memorize her body, enjoy it and let her enjoy his. As his hands skimmed over her breasts, her waist, her hips, coaxing her to become more pliable, to believe him—to believe
in
him—she closed her eyes and arched her back and didn’t fight him when he brought her to the brink of climax. At that moment, her eyes flew open and latched onto his, and he silently pleaded with her not to deny him.
“I don’t think I can—” she started, but he removed the hand she’d just placed on his chest and pinned it, along with the other one, above her head.
“Let go,” he whispered. “All you have to do is trust me.”
She must’ve taken him at his word because her legs tightened around his hips, telling him she was as committed as he was, and it wasn’t ten seconds later that she gasped and her eyes drifted shut. He tried to make the pleasure last as long as possible, but before the final spasm disappeared, he found his release.
The pain made it difficult to move. But worse than the pain was the struggle to breathe. One of the bullets
must’ve collapsed a lung. All Virgil could think about was Peyton and Brady and the new baby. How he’d never see them again, never meet his new daughter. Peyton would have to go on without him. Maybe Laurel was already dead. His past had gotten the best of him, despite everything he’d done to outdistance it.
Then, suddenly, anger came to his rescue. It seemed to grab his heart and throw it against his rib cage. That wasn’t a pleasant sensation, but it lent him enough strength and presence of mind to dive for the gun Gully had dropped on the floor. Surprisingly enough, no one else had reached for it. Horse and Gully were trying to melt into the paneling so they wouldn’t be hit by a stray bullet.