One Lucky Hero (6 page)

“I'm starting to think you're concerned I might really murder you.”

“No, not really, I just have a sick sense of humor.” Pausing briefly, she cocked her head. “Unless . . . Should I be worried?”

Before she realized what he was about to do, he gently brushed her hair off her forehead, the light touch sweetly searing her skin. “Don't worry, Violet. You're safe with me.”

If he kept saying her name like that, Violet would believe anything.

F
IFTEEN MINUTES LATER
, Dean pulled through the Jimboy's Tacos drive-thru, handing Violet the bag of food. He normally avoided fried stuff, but the minute she'd suggested Mexican, his stomach had started growling.

“Mmmm, I love the smell of Jimboy's. I don't know if it's the grease or what, but nothing else compares.” Violet held the bag under her nose and inhaled loudly, drawing a laugh from Dean.

“I'm more of a meat and potatoes kind of guy,” Dean said.

“I can see that.”

He glanced her way before he made a left out of the parking lot. “What, do we have a certain look or something?”

“No, I just tend to think of uber-masculine men as devouring rare steaks and heaps of mashed potatoes. On game day in high school, if Tracy and I weren't fast enough, the football players would clean out the cafeteria before we had a chance to get our food.”

“Well, I don't know about rare steak, but I could probably scarf down my mother's entire brisket in one sitting,” Dean said.

“Brisket?” she asked. “What's that?”

“Just a cut of beef. My mother was, is Jewish, so we had it most holidays.”

“Oh.” Dean waited for her to ask him something else about his family, but instead, she changed the subject entirely. “So, do you live alone or with Tyler?”

Dean should have been relieved that she didn't ask him more about his family, but instead, he found it odd. Most women asked a million questions, even personal ones, to pass the time until they hooked up.

Guess she really doesn't want to get involved.

“I live alone, and I'll apologize now for my furniture. I picked most of it up at thrift stores because I wasn't planning on staying this long.”

“Where did you expect to be?”

Ah, there was a bit of curiosity in her. “Wherever they needed me. Most likely overseas.”

“So, what is the holdup?”

Dean wasn't about to tell her he was waiting on his psychiatrist to clear him; she might start thinking he really was dangerous. “Just a lot of factors and red tape. It will happen, though.”

“Huh.” She didn't press him for more details, just sat quietly as he turned right on El Camino, and then left a few minutes later into his garage. He'd been lucky enough to rent the townhouse for a decent price, and the landlord hadn't even had a problem when he'd brought his dog, Dilbert, home. Some places had a thing against pit bull mixes, but Kenneth had been cool.

Dean parked and unbuckled his seat belt. “I just need to let my dog out back. He's super mellow, so you don't have to be afraid, he's just big.”

“What kind of dog?”

“Pit bull mix.” Best had guessed Dilbert was a pit because it was such a concentrated breed in the Sacramento area, but Dilbert could have been boxer and bulldog for all they knew. Whatever he was, he was a sweet, lazy-as-hell dork that Dean loved.

They walked inside, and Dilbert's heavy breathing deepened the closer Dean got to his kennel. “Hey, buddy, you need to pee?”

Dilbert kept looking beyond Dean to Violet, his tail wagging low and fast. Dean glanced back at Violet, his smile fading as he took in her wary expression.

“You got something against bully breeds?” he asked.

“You could say that.”

He waited for her to say something else, but she just stood back behind his kitchen table. “Why?”

“I almost had my calf taken off by one before, so yeah, I'm a little nervous around them.”

It was a tale Dean had heard often, but since working with Best and the other trainers at Alpha Dog, he had learned a lot about dogs. The biggest thing was that you couldn't judge an entire breed on a few bad examples.

“Well, I'm sorry to hear that, but Dilbert”—Dean paused to grab his dog's leash before opening the cage and clicking it on his collar—“is just a big doofus. He's pretty low energy and might sniff you to death, but other than that, he's a pussycat.”

“He's a little big to be a cat, don't you think?” She eyed Dilbert, holding their food against her chest like a shield.

“I'm going to put him outside for a bit, anyway, but he'll win you over. Just wait.” He walked past her with Dilbert, who tried to pull toward her for a split second before Dean corrected him. He opened the back door, and Dilbert lumbered outside before sitting patiently while Dean unclipped his leash. “Okay.”

At the release command, Dilbert started sniffing across the lawn until he reached his favorite tree and lifted his leg. Dean snuck back inside to find Violet opening up his cupboards.

“Hasn't anyone ever told you it's rude to snoop?”

“I was looking for plates, not snooping,” she said.

“Uh-huh.”

“Okay, you're right. I was checking for body parts and pints of blood,” she said dryly.

Geez, the girl had an obsession with morbidity. “Holy shit, what kind of movies do you watch?”

“I love true crime. For some reason, serial killers fascinate me.”

“That is terrifying,” he said. “But I'd never be stupid enough to keep trophies.”

Her full lips twitched as if she was fighting a smile. “Trophies, huh? What kind of movies do
you
watch?”

“I don't watch a lot, but sometimes when I'm kicking back on my day off, I'll watch a
Criminal Minds
marathon.”

“Ah, you got a thing for Shemar Moore?”

Dean tucked her hair behind her ear, shaking his head. “Nah, not my type. Yours?”

“Actually, I've always had a thing for Reed,” she said.

Dean's eyebrows shot up in surprise. “The skinny kid?”

“What? He's like a lost puppy. You just want to snuggle him,” she said, teasing.

“If he's a puppy, what does that make me?” he asked.

“A kitten.”

Dean laughed again, the sound rough. It didn't happen very often, so he was out of practice. “You think I'm a kitten?”

“Mm-hm, is that a problem?”

“Usually kittens are small and fluffy.”

“But you can cuddle kittens, too.”

“Are you saying you want to cuddle me?” he asked, surprised.

The small, sexy smile that played across her lips was flirtatious and teasing, sending a beacon of lust straight to his cock.

“Let's eat first and see where things go,” she said.

Sounds good to me.

B
EING WITH
D
EAN
in a crowded park was one thing, but alone in his home, sitting adjacent to him at the kitchen table . . . he seemed bigger. Not that she was worried about
him
, not when his massive black and white hell hound was in the room.

Dean had finished his first taco and let Dilbert back in when he'd scratched at the door, assuring Violet that he'd give her a wide berth. Violet chewed the last bite of her burrito, watching Dilbert as he sat next to Dean's leg. The dog never took his eyes off his master's second taco, and if she hadn't been waiting for the dog to lunge for the food—and his hands by extension—she might have been amused. As it was, she was like a big bucket of nerves exposed to an electric prod: jumpy and jittery as hell. Not because she was scared, at least not of Dean, but because she was waiting for what happened next.

Being that this was her first casual encounter, she could only imagine how things were supposed to progress. Did she sneak off to use his mouthwash or chew some gum after dinner? What if he didn't and he had onion breath?

Oh, God, what if she went through with this and he was horrible in bed? What if he was so small that she had to lay there and fake it? The few lovers she'd had were okay, nothing mind-blowing, but she'd been satisfied.

If he screws the way he kisses, everything will be fine. Relax. Maybe you need another drink.

Violet wasn't going to ask for that, though. She didn't want him to think she was an alcoholic; he'd already looked at her funny about the Breathalyzer.

She just needed to catch a break. After all the bad shit she'd been dealt, she just wanted one night of forget-about-everything-else-except-this-guy's-body-on-hers sex. Was that too much to ask?

She wiped her hands on one of the napkins and swallowed. “Where is your bathroom? I want to wash my hands.”

“First door on the left.” He set his taco down and stood.

“What, are you going to follow me in there?”

“No, I just wanted to make sure there was a towel for you to dry your hands on.”

“Oh. Thanks.”

Violet followed Dean as he walked down the hallway and pulled a black hand towel from the linen cupboard.

“Here you go. Just hang it over the towel rack when you're done,” he said.

“Okay.” As she stepped into the bathroom, she closed and locked the door behind her. Leaning back against the cold wood, she closed her eyes.

Why is this so awkward?

Then again, it didn't seem like it was awkward for him at all. In fact, he appeared completely at ease, while she was sweating buckets.

Going to the mirrored medicine cabinet above the sink, she stared in horror at her wild hair and the black smudges under her eyes.

“Oh, God, I look like shit.” She opened the cabinet to block out the reality of her appearance and curiously eyed the contents. Some aspirin, razors, a few prescriptions, and dental floss right next to a small bottle of mouthwash.

And a black box of condoms.

Violet's cheeks flamed, and she closed the mirror. Presented once again with her hideous appearance, she washed her hands and gently used the hand towel to clean up under her eyes. Running her hands through her windblown hair, she gave in and stole his brush off the counter. As she worked through the knots, she wondered why a man with such short hair even needed one but was grateful just the same.

Finally, presentable, Violet walked out of the bathroom but paused to look over a collage frame in the hallway.

A younger version of Dean stood in front of a tank with five other men in desert camo. He was smiling with his arms around their shoulders. Some of them made faces and flashed rock symbols while another sat on top of the tank flipping the camera off. A few of the faces seemed familiar, and she was pretty sure that they were the same men from the photo in Dean's truck.

Next to the group shot was an older photo of a man in a military uniform with a pretty dark-haired woman in a wedding dress and veil, her arms around his waist.

Violet heard Dean's approaching footsteps but ignored him as she studied the next picture, even as his arm brushed her shoulder.

“The one in the corner,” he said, pointing up to a photo of him and another dark-haired young man buried up to their necks in the sand, “is me and my younger brother, Freddy. We'd all taken a family trip to Maine about five years ago, and everyone thought it would be hilarious to bury the two eldest in the sand.”

“And who is this?” She pointed to the top picture of three pretty women in rose pink dresses holding bouquets. Two of the women were glaring at each other around the one in the middle.

“Those are my three sisters at our cousin's wedding. The youngest, Natalie.” He pointed to the sister on the left. “In the middle is Audrey, and Dotty is the one who looks like she's about to punch Nat's lights out.”

“And did she?” Violet asked.

“No, I stepped in just in time to pull Dotty onto the dance floor, where she burst into hysterical tears and soaked the front of my uniform.”

“Why was she crying?”

“Because she was pregnant, and she was scared to tell my parents,” he said.

Violet glanced back at the picture, studying Dotty. “How old was she?”

“Twenty.”

Violet could understand the terror his sister must have felt. She experienced it nearly every day, worrying if she was doing right by her siblings. Wondering if they would have been better off in foster care.

“So, why does she look like she wants to kill your other sister?”

“Natalie had found the test and was blackmailing Dotty. Typical bratty little sister warfare.” He grinned down at her like she'd understand, but she couldn't imagine breaking her sister's confidence for any reason.

“That's messed up.” She didn't mean to sound so harsh, but tormenting someone you were supposed to love with sensitive information seemed cruel to Violet. She would never take personal information about her sister and use it against her.

Then again, it had just been Casey, Daisy, and her for so long, maybe they were abnormal. But if they were, they had a hundred excuses for being different. Their lives had never been easy, but after their mom died, their dad's drug habit had become uncontrollable. He couldn't hold down a job because he was always getting high, and whatever money he did bring in went straight up his nose. Sometimes he disappeared for days, and then suddenly, he was just there. And as horrible as it was, every time he left the house, part of Violet hoped he wouldn't come home.

As a teenager, she'd taken any job she could around the neighborhood and babysat for a few families who let her bring Daisy and Casey with her. She'd hidden the money she earned around their bedrooms until she could open her own checking account, but after her dad found one of her stashes—almost six hundred dollars—she'd installed dead bolts on all of their doors. Then it just became a race between her dad and her to see who could sell off family heirlooms the fastest.

When she'd first started college, she'd taken a self-defense course, and just before her twenty-first birthday, had completed her firearm safety course. On her birthday, she'd walked into the store and bought a gun and a safe to hold it. She'd spent hours at the range shooting, getting better and better all the time. Between the locks on their doors and the gun, Violet had finally started to feel safe.

The extra security wasn't just to keep her dad from ransacking their rooms. If any of his druggie friends stayed over, she needed her siblings to feel safe, too. Daisy and she shared a room, and the Jack and Jill bathroom led into Casey's. It had worked out well, especially on nights when her brother had been scared and crawled into bed with her anyway.

Three years ago, though, everything had changed. One night, her brother must have forgotten to lock his door, because she'd woken up to him crying. Daisy had been staying the night at a friend's house, and Dad hadn't been around when they'd gone to bed. She could still remember the panic that had gripped her when she'd heard the crashes and thumps coming from Casey's room. When she'd burst into the room to find her father throwing things around and screaming about money as he loomed over Casey, fear had been replaced by white-hot rage.

“I know you have some, you little shit.”

One look at her brother's terrified face had sent Violet running to her room to get her gun from the safe. Her hands had been shaking so badly, she'd only managed to get one bullet in the chamber before Casey screamed again. When she got back to the room, her father was on top of Casey with his hands around his throat. She'd raised the gun and unclicked the safety.

With a voice far steadier than the rest of her, she'd said,
“Get off him before I blow your fucking head off.”

It was as if he hadn't heard her. Her breathing grew labored as tears pricked her eyes. This was her father. She was aiming a gun at her father's head.

Casey released a choked cry, and Violet shut off every doubt and worry, adjusting the end of the barrel for her warning shot. Before she could stress over what would happen after she fired her one bullet, she pulled the trigger, the bullet whizzing just over her father's head and imbedding in the wall, plaster exploding over Casey and her dad. She couldn't think about the fact that the wild-eyed man who turned toward her was still her dad, that despite this moment and all of the other bad ones before it, there had to have been some good ones, too.

All she could think about was Casey. Getting him away from Dad, no matter what.

Her dad scrambled off him, falling to the other side of the bed. When he stood up and wiped at a cut on his cheek, she held her ground.

“Next time it won't be a warning. You get out of this house and you don't come back, or I'll file assault charges.”

Her dad had shaken off the pieces of drywall that coated his head and sputtered, “You're bluffing.”

Violet could still feel the sweat sliding down her spine and the pinch of sorrow in her heart as her eyes had blurred. She'd told herself she'd cry later, but in that moment, she'd had to be strong. Firm.

She'd had to protect Casey.

“Try me.”

Violet still couldn't believe it had worked. Maybe he'd been too high to notice the slight quiver at the end of
me.
All she knew was that in the three years since, he'd never tried to come home or contact them. Part of her wondered if he was dead, and sometimes she hated herself for missing him. She didn't miss the junkie who had made their lives miserable, but she did miss her dad, who he was in those rare moments when he wasn't consumed by the need for one more fix.

After he left, it took a while, but things finally started to come together. Violet filed for guardianship over her siblings and had to prove that with her father's addiction, she had been solely providing for them for years anyway. It had been a stressful time in their lives, but their judge had been sympathetic, and although a social worker was supposed to keep tabs on them, they hadn't seen one in years. But that was fine, because things continued to get better. Above all, they were happy and safe for the first time in too long.

Well, they
had
been happy, but with Casey's moodiness and acting out the past year, she wasn't sure anymore.

“Hey, you okay? You kind of went away for a minute there,” Dean said.

Violet shook herself out of the past and back to the present. “Sorry, I was just thinking about my own sister. She can be a pain, I'll admit it, but we ultimately have each other's back.” Mortified that he might have taken her observation the wrong way, she quickly tried to apologize. “I didn't mean to imply that you guys didn't have a good relationship, I'm sorry—”

Dean held up his hand, and she stopped rambling. “I didn't take it that way, and besides, it all worked out. Natalie got grounded for keeping the secret, and Dotty and her boyfriend had a simple wedding a month later before she blew up like an oil tanker.”

“Oh, my God, you're horrible! I hope you didn't say that to her face,” Violet cried.

“No, but I would have been within my rights. She called me Gonzo until high school because my nose was so big.”

Violet studied him. “I don't think your nose is big. It's a nice nose.”

“Thanks, but until my junior year I was pretty much a twig with a small head. I barely reached five feet five inches and was the kid who got his ass handed to him almost every day by guys who were bigger and meaner. Then, I grew six inches over the next year and started hitting the weight room every morning. By the time I enlisted, I wasn't the favorite victim anymore by a long shot.”

“I definitely wouldn't try to shove you in a locker now.” Violet grimaced at the lame joke, an attempt to fill in the conversation when all she really wanted to do was ask him more about his family. His life.

But that went against everything that he'd said all night. That this was casual, nothing serious. You didn't ask people you weren't interested in getting serious with about their childhood.

Yet several times tonight she'd bitten her tongue, tempted to do just that. First on the drive to his place and now. He was such an interesting enigma, but she didn't have the right to uncover all his secrets.

Especially since there was no way she'd be baring any of hers.

“Considering I haven't gone near a locker in almost twelve years, I think we're both safe.”

Violet jumped when his arm went around her waist, and he squeezed her hip.

“Want some coffee?”

Coffee. Coffee was a good choice. It would make her more alert and less apt to say or do something stupid. Like get to know him.

And realize you might like him?

Yes, because that was the last thing she needed.