Just Let Go… (6 page)

It was a nightmare. It was a dream. Please, God, don’t let him wake up.

Apparently someone was listening. Probably not God, because next, this woman locked her hands on to the porch post and twirled on her heels, not a move learned in cheerleader camp. It was a West Texas titty-bar twirl, and women like her were not supposed to be so well-versed in such antics.

His mind was drunk with the thought of it.

Letting go of the post, her hands strayed to her shirt, her curvy hips clocking back and forth in some primitive rhythm that he understood only too well.

Austen wanted to move, but as her hands worked the buttons, he stood frozen and stupid. In one irresponsible move, she stripped the shirt away, leaving nothing but a worthless piece of black lace that was a lot sexier than if she’d removed it.

His second instinct was to rip off his own shirt and cover her up. His first was to tear through the bra with his teeth. Usually Austen went with his gut, but this was Gillian.

Or it sure as hell looked like her.

Not done with him yet, she reached behind her back, twirled once, giving him a good bit of her back. It was safer, the simple stretch of her spine, the dusting of angel freckles. Just as his breathing resumed, she turned again, braless. His mistake—without the bra was a helluva lot sexier.

Sensing weakness in her prey, the woman looked at him with bedroom eyes, slowly licking her lips just once. His mind imagined that pink tongue wrapped around his cock.

Her smile grew.

Realizing that he was playing right into her sex-pot hands, Austen blinked, clearing the lusty fog from his vision. This was too important to screw up. She was too important to screw up. Lazily he leaned back against the opposite post, arms folded across his chest. He winked, an “aw-sugar” wink. It was condescending, sexist and insulting. It was masterful.

The smile faltered only a fraction. Then her blue eyes darkened to steel and those pretty fingers flirted with the side of her skirt. He dreaded the next move, even as every inch of him was panting to see it. The skirt slipped a paltry few inches, not lose enough to fall free. Austen smiled.

She twirled on her heels, showing him her back. Novice, he thought.

Until she bent low from the waist, and eased the skirt down her legs, exposing a tiny black thong and a whole lot of temptation. Thankfully she was missing the heart attack on his face.

But by gawd, he would die a happy, happy man. Her ass—two perfectly sculpted mounds of muscle and sin. And this from a breast man. His cock tightened, ached, threatened humiliation. Still bent over, she grabbed the pole and rocked her delectable ass, hips swaying back and forth, and he could see her then riding him, just like he’d seen a thousand times in his mind. Unable to restrain himself, Austen moaned.

The woman heard.

With one graceful grind, she rose upright, hair tousled, lips moist and a body that begged to be ridden.

Strip her down, ride her hard.

The words were his, but the harsh voice in his head belonged to Frank Hart.

When she moved toward him, he didn’t back away. Instead, he tweaked a rosy tip with an arrogant smile on his face.

She had no idea who he really was, what he’d seen, what he’d done, what he’d run from. Always running. There were hard lessons to be learned, but this woman needed to know, she needed to understand, she needed to forget.

When her hands shifted to his shirt, Austen stilled. Quick and efficient, she yanked the shirt from his shoulders. The tips of her nipples brushed against his bare skin like fire. Calmly he stood, cool and collected, in spite of the blood-pumping urge to touch. Waiting, waiting.

Her hands moved to his fly, toying there, playing there, before sliding down the zip.

His cock leaped into her hand, a dog to its master, but this wasn’t about sex anymore. This was about the fundamentals of his nature.

The waiting was done.

Callously he caught her hips in his hands and turned her to face the pole. He rubbed the slit between her legs, stroking the wet, swollen flesh. Her tail tilted higher. From the back, she was no different from any other piece of ass. Nothing more.

“No more playing, sugar,” he said, shoving his jeans to his knees, sheathing his cock. He slid into her warm and willing passage, ignoring the pain in his head. This wasn’t real, he told himself, only the fantasies of a thousand nights overlapping in his mind.

She rocked back against him, and he heard her pleasured gasp.

Strip her down, ride her hard.

His cock slid in and out, only the night watching two dogs at rutting season. She looked back at him, her face taught with confused pleasure. Austen closed his eyes and shoved harder, feeling her body buck under the overwhelming pressure. He would have broken under the pressure long ago. Not her.

She’s not what you think. She’s a tramp, a whore, and she’s yours. All yours. They’re all yours if you play the game.

“Is this…what you…wanted?” she managed, the words punctuated by the sharp slap of his thrust.

“It’s what every man wants, sugar… Nothing else.” His fingers gripped tighter on her hips, marking her skin, wishing she weren’t so delicate. There’d never been bruises on her in his mind.

The ghosts of Parson’s Green whispered around them, laughing like fools. Her back straightened, arching against him, pressing her skin to his sweat-soaked chest. His hips froze at the full-body contact, the clean silk of her hair caressing his face. For a second, he breathed in the virgin’s scent of her, the essence of her. “Why did you leave?” she whispered. The words were loud in his head, breaking into his moment. She didn’t need him, she was using him, just like he was using her, but the question hammered at him. He knew how to get rid of dreams. Destroy them.

Hell bent, he anchored her hips to his cock, pushed harder and harder, until she fell forward, her hands locking to the pole once again.

His eyes followed the desolate path of his cock, pumping deep inside her.

Over and over, he thrust. Relentless. Soulless. He could hear the sounds of her frantic gasps, felt the shudders course through her, and knew he had to remember this forever. He needed to finish this, finish her. Tension pulsed through her taut muscles, her body arching higher and higher, and he knew it was time.

With one vicious thrust, he spilled himself into the condom.

Her body froze, poised just on the edge, but he wouldn’t give her that. He wouldn’t give her the satisfaction she craved.

It was done.

Without a word, without a sound, he pulled out of her, ripped off the condom, not looking in her direction. Not now.

After she had cleaned up the mess that he’d made, he heard her laugh and Austen looked up. That was a huge mistake because the clear blue eyes were sparkling, not with humor, but tears. It was no less than he had expected, exactly what he intended. He wanted to pull her close, kiss every inch that he’d contaminated, but this was Gillian. She’d never needed his help. The blue eyes grew tougher, wiser and when she spoke her voice was cold.

“Take me back to the bar.”

Austen curled up one side of his lip, just like his daddy used to do. “Sure thing, sugar.”

Her eyes narrowed to hard slits and he reached out to pat her lightly on that magnificent ass. “If I had known what I was missing, I would have tapped this earlier.”

She slapped his hand away, and jerked on her clothes. Once she glared in his direction, and he flashed her his most satisfied smile. She didn’t look at him again. She didn’t bother with her bra, wadding it into a ball, and chunking it at him with surprising force. The black slip of nothing fell at his feet. He picked it up slowly, held it out to her, but she shook her head. “For your collection.”

He wanted to tell her he didn’t have a collection, but she wouldn’t have believed him. Instead, he stuffed the bra in his back pocket and politely took her arm.

“Watch your step. It’s a little tricky. You don’t want to fall and hurt yourself.”

Not surprisingly, she turned, delivering a hard slap on his cheek.

Austen put his hand to his face, his fingers tracing there where she had touched him. The pain wasn’t in his face, but somewhere far worse. Still, it had been the right thing to do. Hate and anger were so much healthier than all the fantasies he’d ever kept locked up inside.

Nonetheless, he frowned as he followed her to his car.

They drove in silence back to Smitty’s where the parking lot was still full of cars. It had taken less than an hour to kill her dreams.

He walked around and opened her door, and she stared at him square on. In one swift movement, her feet hit the ground, and she pulled herself upright without his help.

The music from the bar filtered across the parking lot, along with the hum and buzz of the rest of the world. He was grateful for the masked silence, otherwise it’d be too easy to say things that he would regret.

He noticed the steel disappear from her eyes, watched the moonlight shimmer on her face, and he realized with a foolish heart that his dreams were still alive.

Not that it mattered. Tomorrow morning he would be gone, and Gillian Wanamaker would be nothing more than a movie reel in his head. Fantasy. Fantasy was safe.

“Don’t pretend with me. You don’t have to,” she was saying, her eyes vacant yet smart. “Not anymore. I know who you are. Frank Hart would be right proud of his youngest boy. Living up to the family name.”

Austen Hart nodded once, too tired to do anything else. She was right.

He watched as she wheeled around and walked toward her car, watched until her tail-lights disappeared into black.

It was over. It was done.

A
S
G
ILLIAN QUIETLY
unlocked her front door, her phone started vibrating.

Mindy.

No, not yet. “All fine. Talk in the a.m.,” she texted back. It was a lie. Mindy would read it as such, but it would stall her friend until tomorrow.

When Gillian didn’t feel so forlorn.

The door now open, she moved inside, careful not to disturb her—

Mother.

Modine Wanamaker was sitting on her favorite floral sofa, the one they’d moved in from the original Wanamaker home. Her knitting needles clicked away, until she spotted her daughter. Knitting aside, she was clearly waiting for her daughter to explain.

Damn.

“Hi, Momma.” Gillian stored her purse in the bin in the front closet, lined up her shoes where they belonged. Ordinary sounded good. Routines were easy to follow, she didn’t have to think.

Her mother watched her with solemn eyes. She didn’t have to see her mother to feel the look. That was the thing with families.

Gillian turned, tried to smile. “You shouldn’t have stayed up.”

“You’re my daughter. You’ll be my daughter until I die. If I think I should stay up, I will.”

Gillian turned her attention from her mother to other less knowing objects like the antique glass collection perched on a ledge at the front window. She dusted the imaginary cobwebs. The collection was from the old house, too. One more thing that Gillian had insisted her parents keep. “You stayed up for nothing.”

“I was worried. That’s not nothing. Are you okay?”

Realizing there was no cobwebs, there would never be any cobwebs, Gillian faced her mother and forced a smile. “I’m peachy.”

Her mother nodded once, then patted the cushion next to her. Obediently, Gillian sat.

“You are the best daughter a mother could ever have. You took us into your home without a second thought. Never complaining, not once. You work hard for yourself, for others, and especially for Emmett and I. And when you hurt, I hurt. When you ache, I ache. And those are things you can never hide, because I feel it here, just like you.” Modine bumped a fist to her chest.

Her mother looked so tired, circles under her eyes, and Gillian felt so tired, as well. Drained. “I don’t want to talk about this.”

There were times when words were pointless, both Wanamaker women knew it. With a bone-deep sigh, her mother folded her into her arms. “I know. I was never a talker, either. He’s one of the H-A-R-Ts, honey. He can’t help the way he is. A cruel man for a father, and you read the rumors in the paper, a meth dealer for a brother and now Austen’s up on indictment. Kickbacks. Graft. Corruption. Did you expect anything better? It’s the way God made that family and I’m sure that He in His infinite wisdom had some purpose for that blight on humanity, but it always escaped me.”

The tears started then. Gillian was a first-class cryer. Silent, dignified, it was the Wanamaker way. Her mother hugged her tighter, making little hushing noises that only made the tears run faster. Gillian could smell her mother’s lavender fabric softener on her gown, the faint smell of vanilla, all mixed with the musky smell of sex.

Instantly, she pulled away, wanting to clean up, and her mother knew the signs, probably smelled the signs, as well. She let her daughter go, wiped away a few of the tears and held out a box of tissues for good measure.

“He’ll be gone tomorrow and meanwhile you need to move on. Marry Jeff Junior. Have a good life, Gillian. You don’t deserve the pain. Leave that to a stupid woman. That’s not you.”

Gillian blew her nose, dabbed her cheeks and studied the bluebonnet landscape on the wall. Serene and tough, very telling.

Done with the pain, she met her mother’s eyes and nodded. “You’re right, Momma. I don’t deserve this.”

Tomorrow he would be gone and Gillian wasn’t going to cry over Austen Hart anymore.

A
USTEN SIGNED THE
legal papers at 8:57 a.m. sharp. The lawyer, Hiram Handley, was the nice, kindly sort, not the blood-letting sort that roamed freely in the state capital.

“What are you going to do with your part of the property?”

Austen leaned back in the desk chair and laughed.

One-third of Hell House.

The house had originally been willed to Frank’s brother Edward, who wisely escaped to California. Judging by the Christmas card that Austen received every year, Edward looked to be human. Or had been. Uncle Eddie had died six months ago, leaving the Hart land to the children of Frank Hart. Now Austen was back in Tin Cup, the proud owner of one-third of a stinking pile of shit.

What a prize.

And yet the lawyer was peering over his spectacles, expecting a serious answer. “Demolition, maybe.”

He’d let Tyler handle that. Or, oh, no, can’t forget Little Sis. No, the old house was somebody else’s problem.

“Property’s mineral rights will be worth something. Two miles east they ran a frac job and took a marginal site and the owner bought a condo in Aspen. With your connections, you should check into it.”

No, he didn’t want any money. Tyler didn’t need any money, but his sister, Brooke? His stomach clenched. He wanted to keep Brooke as far away from here as possible.

“One more thing. Tyler mentioned something about Frank and Charlene having another kid. A girl. Do you know how to contact her?”

Austen shook his head. “Check with Tyler.”

He’d be gone even if she did show up to claim her share. Did it matter if she knew he’d lied to her about the upstanding Harts of Tin Cup, Texas? Nah. As long as he wasn’t here to face it.

Relieved to be done, he vacated the chair and charged for the door.

“If you need anything,” the lawyer called, “you have my number…”

Austen was already gone.

Outside, his Mustang was waiting for him. Shelby was what he called her, and she was his pride and joy. The closest thing to a relationship he’d ever had. A 1968 fastback, rebuilt with all the original parts, including a 428 Cobra Jet V8 engine, Holley carbs, and cherry-red with white racing stripes down a scooped hood. Austen climbed in, heard the steady rumble of the engine and headed for home.

Home. Away from all the ghosts, away from all the rumors and lies. Away from here. Coward, that he was. Just like his daddy.

Hell.

Austen had spent his life running from a ghost. Maybe this time, he should kill the ghost for good.

There were two routes to the highway and Austen made himself take the shorter one, Pecos to Chestnut Drive to Elm, down the long dirt road to the old house two miles off Orchard Street.

He eased his car to a stop, but didn’t get out. This was close enough.

There was only one house on this road. An empty dirt field on either side, nothing for miles around but Hart property. No one had ever wanted to be near them. The morning was so quiet, birds singing, the wind whistling in the trees and somewhere in the distance he could hear a shotgun blast and a raspy laugh. Fun times.

After taking a deep breath, he took a more objective look. Without anyone to care for the house, the paint was nearly gone. The front porch was slanting precariously to one side, and there seemed to be a bird’s nest under the eaves. At least somebody could be happy there.

In the harsh light of day, it wasn’t imposing or scary. It was only sad.

Exactly like Frank Hart, the man. In the harsh light of day, he wasn’t scary or imposing either, only sad.

And now Austen was here, kicking the ass of a long-festering wound, the proud owner of one-third of nothing.

Hasta la vista, baby, he said to himself and pulled away from the curb. He drove down Main, by the courthouse, not really scanning for anyone in particular. Sightseeing, that was all. He passed Zeke’s garage not bothering to stop. Austen had left his old employer under questionable circumstances. Over time he’d paid back the six hundred—anonymously, since regret only went so far.

His foot pressed a little harder on Shelby’s accelerator. Feeling the kick in the engine and Austen was happy to see the dump in the rearview mirror.

He drove past Live Oak, past the Wanamaker house, and slowed to a conservative five miles per hour in case any kids happened to be around.

There were no kids on the tree-lined street, no early morning gardeners, no Gillian at all. He told himself that it was for the best. When the street curved, the house disappeared and he headed for the freeway, free and clear, until his cell phone rang.

Austen pulled to the shoulder and took the call.

“On your way home, darling?”

It was Carolyn. Austen latched on to the familiar voice, feeling normalcy return. “Leaving now.”

“I have a surprise for you when you get here.”

At the sound of her husky laugh he frowned, not thrilled with the idea of sex just then. In fact, celibacy seemed like a great plan. Unfortunately, barring below-the-waist paralysis, he wasn’t sure that Carolyn would believe a so-called lifestyle change. Maybe he could tell her he was gay? Nah. That wouldn’t go over well, either.

“Don’t you want to know about the surprise?”

No.
“Sure.”

“I was having dinner with Jack Haywood last night, and you know he’s tight with the transportation committee and all, and he was unhappy with the proposed rail route. So we moved it.”

Austen punched the record button on his phone. Some conversations needed to be listened to twice. “We moved it? Carolyn, you can’t just reroute a plan that’s been on the books.”

“Not me, exactly. Mainly some of the oil lobby. And Pecos County. Seeing as the price of a barrel is shooting back up, Jack figures that shifting everything forty miles east will revitalize all those little towns that don’t have oil revenues to sustain their growth in the long term.”

That, and Jack Haywood grew up in Boxwood Flats, one of those little towns that was forty miles due east. Austen rubbed the throbbing ache at his temples.

“Your dad’s okay with all this?” Austen knew the governor would put his foot down. The governor would stop it.

“He was more than happy after the Pecos county rep said he’d vote yes on Dad’s new budget. He’s been grinding his teeth to get that thing passed before the election.”

Hell.
“Jack’s been a busy guy.”

“I thought it was brilliant, killing like fifteen birds with one stone. I know you’re not fond of Tin Cup. Yes, sir, if I had a nickel for every time you wished a hurricane on that town.”

Austen closed his eyes. “There are no hurricanes in West Texas. It was a metaphorical hurricane.”

“You say metaphorical. I say they don’t need a rail station. I thought you’d be happy.”

Gillian was going to be furious. He remembered the pride in her voice.
We’re building a railroad through this town. We’re hitting the big time.

Hell.

Gillian would think he was responsible. Austen Hart, lowdown, sexist, town-killing, parade-killing jackass of the year.

She would hate him.

She already did.

“I am happy,” he lied. “Has the story hit the wires?” It was a tiny story. Metro only. Probably page seventeen of a Sunday late edition. Nobody would notice.

“Some of the local outlets picked it up, but Daddy’s planning a formal press conference next week. He’s calling it The NAFTA Pipeline: Bringing Jobs to Texas, The Big Engine that Could. The slogan was my idea.”

“When’s the press conference?”

“Monday. First thing.”

Monday.
He felt immediate relief and let out a long breath. That was three days away. A lifetime. He’d be in Austin. Hell, she probably would have forgotten his name by Monday.

After he told Carolyn goodbye, he pulled back on the highway and cranked up the volume on the radio.

There was nothing he could do.
Do not care. Not my problem. Not my fault.

On the radio, some male singer was crooning about the woman he loved, the one who was not his wife. About the guilt weighing like bricks on his heart.

Austen flipped stations.

This time, it was the female whining about the cheating bastard she loved, and how she hoped he would be barbecued in hell.

Damn country and western.

Now frustrated and guilt-ridden, Austen shut the radio off. He was the jackass of all jackasses. He deserved the guilt. And yet, would he turn around and solve the mess he’d just heard about? Not in a million years.

Traffic was starting to pick up on the highway, and he could hear an emergency siren coming from behind.

There was nothing in the mirror, but the sound was getting louder. He checked again and this time he could see the flashing red lights approaching over the hill.

He checked the speedometer just in case. A law-abiding seventy-five miles per hour. Not a problem.

The red lights pulled closer, and he shifted to the next lane so the cop could pass.

The headlights of the car began to flash in his mirror, and right then he knew. Peaceful acceptance filled his mind, a trick that he’d learned as a kid. Anticipation was always the worst.

His first instinct was to pull over, let her rant and then drive off without a care. But for once, he was innocent. Better to run. He didn’t need the harassment. He didn’t want to see her again.

He wasn’t that strong.

Figuring she’d eventually give up, he cruised along at his little-old-lady speed.

Gillian was smart.

In the rearview mirror, he could see her bright lights growing brighter, trails of white oil-burning steam spilling from under her hood. Somebody was going to be in trouble, and this time it wouldn’t be him. He started to point toward her hood, but then she sped on past him. Her brakes screeched, assaulting his ears like a cat in its death-throes. The sheriff’s cruiser stopped sideways in front of him, and he could hear the pained sound of rotors grinding through to the steel.

Hell.

Austen slammed on his brakes, no screeching, no squealing, no grinding, and the tires bit into the pavement. The smell of burned rubber assaulted his nose.