Read JARED (Lane Brothers Book 4) Online
Authors: Kristina Weaver
I swear I feel every drop of blood that drains from my head as the words settle in and my bottom drops out from under me. This is all wrong, for so many reasons, and my first instinct is to find a hiding place and settle in for the long haul.
No one but Ronny will understand this fear, because only she has ever been on the receiving end of it, but the emotions are almost overwhelming in their intensity as I struggle to reel myself back in and stop another attack from assaulting me so soon after the last one.
“Baby, don’t be afraid. I will never let that viper or any of her people get near you. Please believe that. Believe in me.”
I do. I know that Jared would take on an army for me and die to protect me before they ever breathed near me. My fear isn’t for me, though, and I know it. It’s for him and the family if they should try to keep Cleo away from me.
“I guess Jerry was right after all,” I whisper.
“Jerry was not right. Killing just for the sake of killing is wrong, baby. Even Miah knows that and he’s the coldest bastard on the face of the earth. He spared Lynn, too.”
“Yeah and look where all this humanity got us. Lynn, if she gets to her people, will destroy anything in her path to get to us, and Cleo is just plain evil.”
“True. But it’s our humanity that separates us from people like them, and I, for one, love that sweet, soft center you have,” he purrs, pushing me back onto the bed and coming up over me with a growl of need. “I’d really like to explore that soft center again if you’re feeling up to it.”
My heart starts beating again, this time with the hottest throb of joy and arousal and I bite my lips, looking up at him seductively.
“It’s not me who has to be up, buster,” I purr, pulling his mouth down to mine with a giggle.
Jared chuckles and gives me a deep kiss that only whets my desire.
“Love you, Cupcake.”
“Love you, too, Sugar Bear. Now make love to me, would you? It’s been hours.”
Melissa
If I have to stay in this fucking cabin another day, I think I’ll go stark-raving mad and that’s just the clam part of me talking here. I haven’t slept properly since Roman left me, and I can’t eat without my food upchucking at all hours of the day.
I’m pregnant. And right now my nerves are so high that I’m terrified the stress will make me miscarry. I want to leave and go looking for him.
I need to be with him to know that my asshole of a father is holding up his end of the bargain and looking out for my guy. And yet here I am, pacing like a caged animal because I can’t bring myself to break the promise I made to him.
If it were just me, if all I had to worry about is me surviving a beating or a bullet if that evil nest of scum-sucking dick bags finds me, I would be okay. I’d live.
But I have a kid to think about now—a child that is my only connection to the man I love.
When this all started and I first met him, you could see the sparks flying every time we clashed. Roman and I are those people who love to hate each other, and hate to love each other, and yet we work somehow—something I still denied to him the last time I saw his smarmy face.
I was so pissed at him for daring to leave me and put himself in even more danger that I refused to tell him I loved him as he kissed me and plead with me to understand.
I regret that now with every breath in my body, because I know that if he dies, he’ll do so thinking I don’t care.
I know the past two days I’ve spent crying is likely due to hormones, so I’m trying to cut myself some slack, but I swear to God I cannot stay in this shithole another day without knowing at least something.
If I could just ascertain that he’s still alive, I would back here and wait another week before needing to see him again.
I need to know. I need to.
I can’t keep my promise and I feel a wave of relief course through me as I run to the bedroom, grab my things, and head for the old station wagon parked in the shed out back.
I hit the highway at around nine fifteen, if my watch is still right, and I make it to the street behind my dad’s house a good hour later, smiling at the irony of it all.
If those assholes just knew that I am hiding right under their noses, I bet they’d shit their pants. With a furtive glance, I open my door and creep through old Mrs. Tally’s back yard, making for the break in the fence that will lead to Dad’s house.
The chief and I aren’t exactly the Partridge family or anything, but I love the old coot enough not to have disowned him the moment I realized what he was into with Cleo and Lynn, those whores, but I am still miffed at him for continuing on with this shit when I know that he never wanted in on this in the first place.
My poor pops is a fool, and I thank God I inherited my mama’s good sense, but he’s not evil and I know it’s killing him that he’s involved with terrorists. That’s why he agreed to help Roman in the first place, and I love him for it even more.
If Roman can just prove what he has to, Pops will be free of this mess and I can finally have my man and my dad together, creating the family I want.
I shake off those thoughts and bend to retrieve the spare key beneath the little frog statue that Pops bought for me the year I turned thirteen and decided that all things frog related were cool as shit.
I still love the little suckers, and Roman laughs at every fog T-shirt I own, even the one that claims that frogs can do it doggie style.
I push the key into the lock and hope to God that Dad is home at this time of night and not at the station still.
I can’t stay too long, that would be risky, but I do need to talk to him.
The kitchen is a mess now that I’m not here to look after the slob, and I wrinkle my nose at the smell permeating the house.
Everything is filthy and out of order, and I fully expect to see his office looking like a hurricane hit it when I turn the corner, only to stop dead in my tracks.
There’s blood everywhere, and I recognize it as the source of the smell permeating the air. I stand still and can almost feel myself falling to my knees when the truth hits me. I just know that my pops is gone, and someone, some asshole who deserves death, took him away from me and his unborn grandkid.
My heart hurts so much when I finally manage a breath that I only realize I’m puking all over the place when I slump over and just barely avoid taking a header into my own vomit.
I…I can’t believe it’s all come to this. My dad, the only other man besides Roman to ever love me, is gone, and here I am, all alone once again. But this time I’m not really alone, am I?
I have my pop’s grandbaby growing in me, and I can’t afford to hang around here bawling like a ninny when it’s blatantly obvious that these people would kill me in a heartbeat if they discovered me.
With that fear in mind, I finally find the strength to pull myself up and stand on shaky legs as I look at the death and destruction all around me.
Whoever did this, whoever took the life of a man with more honor than sense…I hope they rot in hell one day for this.
When I can’t stand to look at the dried and crusted stains another minute without retching, I turn and start creeping back through the house, my only aim now to get back to the cabin and the safety it will provide for us while I think of some way to get in touch with Roman.
He deserves to know about his baby. He deserves to hear at least one
I love you
.
I’m almost to the end of the hall and a breath away from the kitchen door when I hear the thing creak open and the heavy footfalls that make the boards beneath my feet shake.
I freeze for a precious few seconds in fear before my survival instincts kick in and I dive for the hall closet with a silent curse. I’m inside and breathing harshly and so fast, and I almost faint in relief when I hear footsteps passing.
Then they come back, and I can feel someone standing outside the door as if they’re right next to me.
And then the knob starts turning slowly.
~~~
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The Metropolitan Museum of Art is my favorite place in the world, hands down. I love everything about it, from the steps at the entrance to the crowds of people vying to see the art.
I visit at least once a month without fail and never cease to be spellbound by everything all over again, nevermind how many times I’ve been. My favorite painting is Monet’s
Sunflowers
.
It’s the happiest painting I’ve ever seen, or at least, it makes me happy every time I see it.
My college professor despaired of my one-dimensional view of art the whole time he’d been cursed with me and my uninspired ass. He said my interpretation of art is skewed, flat, and altogether too happy when faced with a world of possibilities.
All I know is that I love creating something that is happy and colorful, something that brings joy to those who see it. And I love flowers.
Sue me.
It’s as I’m leaving that I make the quick decision to pop into the gift store, even though I know I won’t find the print I’ve been looking for. Every time I come here I’m disappointed. I never get my print of the
Sunflowers
.
Last year Mom had bought me a tote of the
Water Lilies
for Christmas. I don’t have the heart to tell her it’s not what I wanted, so I’d aaahhhed and held it aloft and then gone home and hung it from a hook to store extra brush rags.
“It’s a beauty, this one,” I hear from somewhere to my left.
I look back over my shoulder to see a man and what looks like Heidi Klum’s twin sister cooing about a dark blob that’s masquerading as art but is actually a one-way trip to depression. The guy is…hotter than hell, with black hair and a set of lips that make me wish I’d brought my sketchpad and pencils.
I no longer do that after the last time I’d lost track of time and been asked to leave at closing time. But, and I hate to say this, with the super love I have for landscapes, I want to do something with this man that will dominate the canvas.
Something about him is just so…
“Oh, Vincent, I just love all this angst. To see and feel what the artist must have been feeling is so inspiring.”
I hear the overwrought tittering and grind my teeth against the need to tell the airhead that no matter what people think, they can never know what the artist was thinking.
I ignore the gushing and go back to my monthly fix, going over every minute detail, every brushstroke, every shadow and shade until I can go home and try my hand at it again. Here’s the print I’ve been searching for, and yet, it’s so pale in comparison.
“This one is my favorite, but I like
The Artist’s Garden at Giverny
too,” says a crisply accented voice.
British. How delicious.
I know who is standing behind me, and I freeze, feeling my breath stall as shivers and goose bumps break out all over my skin. He’s standing so close I smell his citrusy cologne and feel the heat of his breath at my nape.
“I…I prefer these stronger colors, but that one’s excellent too. It’s beautiful.”
It comes out a choked whisper, and I feel myself blush and tense when he leans to my left and peers down at me.
“You’ve been staring at it for over an hour before coming into the gift store. See something the rest of us don’t?”
His breath whispers over my ear and cheek, and it’s all I can do not to lean back into him and experience the tightly muscled chest visible beneath his suit jacket and shirt.
“I-I keep trying to paint it just so…but I can never commit it to memory enough to… The colors are never right.”
“That’s the problem with true art. One of a kind originals can never be faked exactly. Nor true beauty.”
His husky whisper has me turning against my will, and I gasp when a set of mint green eyes captures mine. I can say I have seen true beauty in every art form, but I have honestly never seen a man this intensely handsome before.
I won’t be obsessively painting the
Sunflowers
when I go home. Oh, no, it’s this perfect creature that will consume me until the wee hours of the morning, and I know exactly how I’ll capture him on my canvas.
“Beauty is in the eye of the beholder. Or so they say.”
His lips curve, and I spy a single dimple gracing his right cheek.
“Then let me say how truly honored I am to behold you.”
“Oh God, does that work on every woman you try to pick up, or am I just lucky?” I ask, laughing at the cheesiness of the line.
His answering chuckle makes me smile harder before the art lover wannabe sidles up and latches onto him like poison ivy.
“Vincent, you said you’d help me pick out a good souvenir for Mummy.”
I pull myself back from the brink of flirtation and open staring when I realize they truly are together—and, unbelievably, I’d forgotten that fact—and make an ass of myself when a postcard rack behind me gives way and I’m dumped to the floor in an inglorious heap of flailing arms and flying cards.
I am possibly the biggest klutz on earth, and now I’ve managed to make a tool of myself in front of the first man to ring my bell. Great.
“Good gracious! I can see your pants.”
As I’m not wearing pants and am in fact clothed in a really nice cherry red gypsy skirt, I know exactly what they’re all seeing, and I groan through a blush that fits my attire.
The only upside to this day?
I’ll never have to see Vincent, my new obsession, ever again.