Undeniable (30 page)

She managed to turn the knob, and with her hands between his shoulder blades, to force him inside. He stumbled across the floor, giving her enough room to close the door behind them. She leaned against it to catch her breath, done with coddling him, done with playing peacemaker.

Done with doing all the things she’d sworn never to do for a man. He was a man. Old enough to stand on his own two feet. Whether or not he was strong enough… If he wasn’t, she didn’t want him here. Loving him made no difference if he couldn’t be the man she needed him to be. The man who would help her be strong, too.

“I know about Greg,” she said, rushing out with the words before
she changed her mind and went soft. No coddling. No peacemaking. He needed to face the past he’d run from at eighteen.

He said nothing as he spun where he stood, wobbled and righted, brought his beer bottle to his mouth and downed half of it. Then he frowned, staring into it as he asked, “What do you know? That the man can’t tell good barbecue from bad? That he doesn’t know shit about wearing boots? That he doesn’t belong here?”

“That he’s your brother.”

Dax stilled, sharp and suddenly sober, his head coming up slowly, his gaze mean. “Who told you that?”

She pushed off the door, crossed her arms, gave him a shrug that said it didn’t matter.

“Who told you that?” His voice was low, the words evenly spaced and powerful.

She swallowed and held her ground. “No one told me. I heard talk is all.”

“Who was talking?”

“Does it matter?”

“Goddamn it, Arwen.” He slammed the bottle across the room, his gaze holding hers as the glass shattered, tinkling against the tile like a sad country song. “Who the fuck was it?”

The room tightened around her, and she moved to keep it at bay, crossing to the table that had been in the Buck Off Bar, to the booth where she’d sat as a girl and dressed her Barbie in the tiny plastic heels that reminded her of her mother’s shoes.

Shoes that didn’t belong in Crow Hill. That were meant for a life in the city. She looked out the window, watched Crush cross the lawn, orange on green, downy white feathers floating in his wake. The circle of life.

But they were talking about Dax’s life. “Is it true? Is Greg Barrett your brother?”

Blood hammered through the veins at his temples. His eyes narrowed in the shadow cast by the brim of his hat. “You gonna answer my question, or what?”

Really? That’s what he wanted to know? “I’m not even sure. I think it was Roma Orleans. Maybe Nan Waters. Why does it matter?”

“Because I want to know who’s telling lies.”

Except it wasn’t a lie. She knew that. His insistence otherwise was one thing, but the women speculating were right. Greg shared the same traits with Darcy as Dax. His coloring was darker, but all three had Wallace Campbell’s eyes, though the colors varied from bright blue to green, and the shape of their smiles was identical.

“How long have you known?”

Finally, he faltered, nudging up the brim of his hat and scrubbing both hands down his face. “A few days.”

She took a deep breath, blew out all of her tension when letting it go. “He told you?”

A nod. “At the hospital.”

“What did you do?”

“Told him he was full of shit and decked him.”

Arwen winced. “Did you tell Darcy?”

“Hell, no. I haven’t told anyone, and I won’t. Not until I know for sure.”

And only one person could verify that. “What did he say?”

He snorted. “Besides owing his education to the old man? An education that should’ve been mine?”

An education he’d turned his back on. “Who’s his mother?”

“Some legal secretary The Campbell met at a conference.”

The Campbell. She didn’t think she’d ever heard anyone but Darcy use the term to refer to their father. “What are you going to do?”

“About what?”

“Finding out if he is who he says he is.”

“Nothing.”

“You don’t think you owe it to Darcy to tell her?”

“Nope.”

“What if she hears the rumors?”

“She’s a big girl.”

“That’s harsh.”

“It is what it is.”

“What if your father never wakes up?”

“Then he never wakes up.”

“And if he dies? Is Greg named in his will?”

“How the hell should I know?” he fairly shouted.

Arwen waited, a clock in her head ticking as she watched Dax’s anger abate. “You seriously don’t want to know the truth?”

He took a deep sighing breath. “Am I going to steal his toothbrush and pay for a DNA test? I barely have enough money to feed the livestock left to my care, not to mention feeding myself, so no. I don’t want to know the truth.”

She didn’t know what to say. How could he live like this, turning his back, not knowing, never wondering, drifting still? She shook her head, hugged herself tighter, glancing out the window to see Crush curled in a ball at the base of her yard’s huge spreading oak.

And yet… She
had
turned her back on her father, rarely wondering, not knowing, staying selfishly involved in her life in Crow Hill without a word to the man who had suffered an unimaginable loss and yet still done his best by her.

What right did she have to criticize Dax when she was no better a daughter than he was a son?

She was fighting back tears when Dax came up behind her, wrapped his arms around her, lowered his head to nuzzle his
cheek to hers. He smelled like beer and wood smoke, like sweat and the sun. Like the Dax that she loved, though right now he was making it hard to remember why.

Right now, she wanted to walk away. She wanted him sober. She wanted to have this conversation from a place where he would remember. She didn’t want the distraction of his body and his hands and his warm breath on her neck.

She wanted him to face this thing that, if true, would change his life forever. She didn’t want him to look for an escape, because that’s what he was doing. Running. Away from the truth, away from the pain. Running to her, this time, instead of leaving Crow Hill. And if she welcomed him, accepted him…

He was kissing her neck and she couldn’t breathe and she didn’t want to enable his avoidance by giving in. God, she was torn. Was this what it meant to love someone? Offering unconditional support while they found their way?

“Dax—”

He spun her, shook his head, lifted her to sit on the table’s edge. “Don’t talk.”

“We need to talk.”

“I’m done talking. No more. Not today.”

She pressed her lips together. If he wasn’t going to listen, there was nothing for her to say. She needed to get back to the festivities anyway. But he was in her way, his eyes fiery, his mouth grim, his nostrils flaring, his pulse a visible beat in the hollow of his throat.

Her pulse answered, and she fought it back. She didn’t want this. Not here. Not now. If he couldn’t be honest with her, if he couldn’t open up to her, if all he could do was rage against life being something other than what he wanted it to be…

He reached for her foot then, held her gaze as he worked off her boot. He dropped it to the floor, tugged off the other, making
it easy to strip her of her jeans. She gave him a look. “I didn’t come in here for this.”

“Doesn’t matter,” he said, hopping on one foot then the other to get rid of his boots, too. “I need to fuck you.”

His words were cold and crass and didn’t consider her at all. It was his need that kept her there. Dax Campbell needed her, and an ache rose from her core to frighten her with its strength.

She was going to get hurt. He didn’t love her. He needed her to give him relief. He was drunk and angry and driven by his cock. He was going to hurt her, and she couldn’t tell him no because she needed him for the same wrong reasons as well as for the ones that were right.

His fly was open, the denim vee spread wide by the thrusting bulge of his cock in his briefs. The shaft was thick, the head engorged, the tip weeping already and making her wet. She lifted her gaze, taking in the strip of golden hair rising above the elastic band to bisect his well-defined abs.

She loved his body hair, coarse on his legs, kissed by the sun on his arms, the silky wedge in the center of his chest, the nest that cushioned his penis and balls and created a wonderfully sticky wet friction when he slid into her and out.

He shrugged off his shirt, tossing it into the booth as he helped her off the table, reaching for her, burying his face in her hair, his fingers nimble at the buttons of her fly, opening her jeans, tugging them down, taking down her panties, too. She wore only her socks, her bra, and her Hellcat Saloon T-shirt, and he stripped the last two away, returned her to the table.

Naked and wet, she waited, hungry, hot, watching his erection spring from his pants as he shed them. Then he moved in, one hand fisting his shaft, the other in the small of her back. She widened the spread of her legs and he dipped his hips, aligning their bodies before driving his cock so deeply inside her he hit bottom.

She leaned back on her hands, dropped her head on her shoulders, and closed her eyes, hurting where his fingers dug into her skin. She didn’t care. She was naked in her kitchen, and he was thick and long and full inside of her, and her nipples were so tightly drawn, the touch of the air made her flinch.

Impaled, she couldn’t move as Dax leaned in, the base of his cock stretching her to the point of pain. She gasped, gasped again as he fingered her clit, pulling up on the hood to expose her, taking a nipple in his mouth and biting down. This time she yelped, her cry echoing in the kitchen and followed by Dax’s very dirty and very earthy laugh.

She hadn’t locked the door, and dozens of people milled in the yard between the saloon and the house, and at any moment someone could walk inside. The thought terrified her, and yet she pulled her heels to her hips on the table and grabbed her ankles, giving Dax better access along with her trust.

He took both, holding her shoulders as he loomed above, his abs contracted, his cock deep, his balls slapping her ass as he thrust. His mouth twisted, pained. His jaw clicked. His temple throbbed. Sweat beaded on his brow and fell to her chest, burning her skin as he pounded and grunted and scraped her raw.

She loved it, the violence, the intensity, the brutal power. Loved knowing how much he held in check. She bucked up against him, the table shaking as they fucked. He laughed again, and she bit off a sharply ordered, “More,” and his laugh grew wicked and low, vibrating through to her core where he stroked.

“More,” she said again and he leaned over her, licking at the tip of one breast then the other, sucking at her flesh, holding her nipple with the edges of his teeth. She squirmed, and he moved his hands to her knees, pushing her wide and holding her there while he drove deep.

It still wasn’t enough. She didn’t know what she wanted, what
she was looking for, reaching for, what was missing. He was taking her apart and she ached from the assault, craving the pain that kept her from saying words he wasn’t ready for. Words she wasn’t sure she trusted to be the truth.

The only one she trusted was, “More.”

Dax groaned. “You’re killing me here, baby. Killing me.”

“Can you think of a better way to go?”

He made a sound, half groan, half laugh, and it rumbled through her limbs. “Not even for enough money to save my fucking ranch.”

He pulled his cock from her pussy then, worked their shared moisture lower and found the bud of her ass, piercing the tight hole and slowly sliding deep. She kept her knees raised, moved her hands to her clit, holding Dax’s eyes as he gripped the edge of the table at her sides.

Her body shivered, invaded as it was, pinned as she was, and then Dax touched her, splaying one hand on her belly to anchor her, his thumb pressing into her clit and sending her flying. She stiffened, shuddered, collapsed, her eyes rolling toward unconsciousness, tremors rocking her, sweeping through her, and all the while Dax fucking her and fingering her and finishing her off.

And then he was gone, pulling away before lifting her from the table to the floor, flipping her over, pushing her down, entering her ass from behind. He stroked slowly, his rhythm steady, the pressure of his cock no more than she could bear, though all too quickly it wasn’t enough and she wiggled to let him know.

He delivered, holding her hips as he pumped. She reached for her clit, working it as sensation built again, and crying out as she came. The sound sent Dax over and he pulled his cock from her ass, shooting pulses of hot semen along her spine, spilling words that were just as sizzling as his body heat.

It was when he grabbed his shirt from the booth and leaned
forward to clean her off that she heard the first crack. She stilled, waited, heard another, and tried to push up. But Dax wasn’t paying attention. He was muttering to himself, wiping her down, and when the third crack came, it was too late.

The table shook beneath them and Dax pulled her back as it shattered, the particleboard top aged and dry and no match for their weight or destructive actions. It was broken, and it could never be put back together, and all she could do was stand there with her ears ringing.

“Wow,” he said, his breath hot against her ear, his heart pounding against her back, and then he added a loud
“Shit”
and grabbed her by the waist—just as the First Baptist Church’s Dr. Britton crossed in front of her window and kneeled in front of her oak to pet Crush.

She huddled atop Dax’s prone body, staring at the detritus of her childhood, while the man she loved lay snoring and passed out on the floor.

D
AX THOUGHT HE
might have to shoot himself. Why the hell he’d thought it a good idea to take Arwen to the Crow Hill Country Club would be a mystery he couldn’t see himself solving before the end of his days. But here they were, and he wasn’t about to back out now, and after the way he’d treated her at the barbecue cook-off, he was damn lucky she’d agreed to go out with him at all.

She looked amazing. A-maz-ing. When she’d met him at her door earlier, he’d forgotten his own name, and couldn’t for the life of him remember hers. He’d smelled oranges and herbs and her skin, been blown away by the way she’d made up her eyes, her lashes thick and dark, some glittery shadow catching the light from her porch, her mouth a deep dark pink he wanted to kiss.