Behind the Lies (Montgomery Justice #2)(75)

He pressed her back against the bed and thrust into her. He filled her to the hilt and then stopped, his breath quick, his body slick with sweat. He throbbed inside of her. “Home,” he whispered. “Home.”

She wrapped her legs around him and bucked up against him. “More. I need more.”

With a low groan, Zach moved against her, driving her to the edge over and over again. She clung to him, wrapping her body and heart around him.

He was hers, just as she belonged to him.

His movements quickened. She met him thrust for thrust. Her heat coiled around Zach, tight and straining.

An explosion of pleasure rocketed through her.

The entire world disappeared. Her heart slammed against her chest, and she gasped, stunned at the intense emotions pouring over her, wave upon wave, in time with the tiny pulses at her core. Somewhere inside, the soul that had been shattered at Brad’s words and fists began to heal.

Zach sagged on top of her, his breathing sporadic. She cradled him close, stroking his hair. She’d never felt safer, warmer, or more protected.

He shifted, still buried inside her. She hugged him tighter. She couldn’t let him go. Not yet.

A tear escaped down her cheek.

She felt complete for the first time in her life. It would also be the last.




Sirens screamed in the distance. Brad stumbled through the revolving door of the hospital, ignoring the shouts for him to stop. Blood dripped into his eyes, and he pressed the makeshift bandages he’d created against the head wound to staunch the bleeding.

His temple throbbed, but he pressed harder, using the pain to stay alert. He tripped over a cement barrier and slammed to his knees on the pavement. “Damn it.”

Stupid boy. Get up and run.

His father’s voice competed with the shouts from the hospital.

“Find him!” a voice yelled.

Quickly, Brad clawed his way up an embankment then slid down the other side to the abandoned parking lot in the doctor’s offices adjacent to the hospital. He rolled the last few feet, coming to a stop on the asphalt. Sucking in a deep breath, he wiped away the sticky fluid pooling on his forehead.

His plan had gone to hell. He shoved himself to his feet, swaying slightly when the west wind whistled down from the mountains, and stumbled to his car. Brad tugged the keys from his pocket, opened the door, and slid inside.

He gripped the steering wheel tight and stared into the night. Impossible. This couldn’t be happening.

He’d failed.

He couldn’t fail.

He didn’t fail.

Unacceptable.

“Bobby’s got no smarts,” his father screamed, shoving his wife against the stove. “He’ll never amount to anything. Just like his stupid mother.”

He punched her face until she curled up on the floor.

The words had seared themselves in Brad’s mind. His mother had died for being stupid. Now Brad had let that Montgomery bitch hit him.

His blood was everywhere. They’d track the DNA. They’d find him.

He turned the engine on and eased toward the street.

Suddenly, a large pickup screeched past him into the hospital parking lot. He leaned forward and watched three large men race into the building. Part of the Montgomery clan. He hated that family.

His fists spasmed.

Cursing, he hit the steering wheel, then couldn’t stop. He pounded and pounded until his hands hurt. He heaved in a breath, then another, then another until he regained control. He could do this. He had to maintain control.

The phone on the passenger seat rang. He glanced at the screen, but ignored the call from the puppet master.

He refused to play that game any longer.

He had to win his own battles.

He knew what Jenna wanted—her son. He knew what he needed—the evidence against him. Only one of them would be satisfied in the end. And it wouldn’t be Jenna.

He picked up the GPS monitoring device from the seat. The southern California coast was outlined on the screen. A red dot pulsed in movement on the freeway.

Maybe his luck had changed.

Brad pulled a small device from his pocket. He zoomed in on the map. A couple of miles ahead, the perfect spot.

He dialed a number.

“Johansson.”

“I need contact information for one of the Montgomery brothers. I don’t care which one.”

“You don’t ask for much. I’m kind of busy right now.”

“It’s urgent.”

“Fallon, it’s the office calling. Give me a minute.” His FBI contact’s voice filtered through the car. A few seconds later, Johansson rattled off a number.

“Which one does it belong to?”

“Reporter,” Johansson said, his voice short and staccato.

As if the man could hide his duplicity.

“I won’t say it’s been a pleasure, Johansson, but our association is over.”

Brad pressed the button. Johansson shouted out. An explosion erupted. The phone went dead and the red dot vanished from the map.

One loose end obliterated.

He set aside the GPS tracker, picked up his phone, and dialed.

“Luke Montgomery,” the voice barked.

Brad gripped the cell. “Tell Jenna that if she wants to keep the kid, she can have him, but I want the evidence, the tapes, everything. I’ll be in touch for a meet.”