Split(80)

I groan and grip my raging hard-on. “Stop turnin’ me on. Need to teach you a lesson, and you makin’ me hard is gonna make this a lot more fun for me.” I shrug one shoulder. “Not so much fun for you.”

A whimper slides from her lips and f*ck if it isn’t the sexiest damn thing I’ve ever heard. Breaking her down piece by piece and now she’s finally defeated. I. Win. “Please . . .” Her eyes dart around, as if she’s looking for an escape.

“Run. I’ll catch you.” I fake-lunge and she stumbles but regains her footing.

A noise catches my attention. Humming, or . . . I study the source and find it when Shyann pulls her cell phone from her pocket and fumbles to get it to her ear. “Hello?!” She’s breathing heavy and her shoulders sag in relief.

I ball my fists at my side. Dammit!

“Loreen, yeah . . .” Her eyes come to mine. “Listen, I need— What?”

I plant my feet, cross my arms at my chest, and wait. She’s gonna tell whoever is on the phone to call the cops; I’ll drop back and let Luke take over and no one plays innocent as well as the innocent. Luke won’t remember shit; they could hook him to a lie detector and he’d pass with flying colors.

Worked before.

It’ll work again.

“Oh my God, is she okay?” Shyann doesn’t take her eyes off me, as if she’s waiting for me to pounce. “Do they have any idea who did it?”

My little news reporter, always gathering information. Nosy bitch.

“Which hospital?”

Hospital?

A weird feeling comes over me but I squash it before I allow myself to question it too much while I pace, waiting.

“Okay, I’ll do whatever I can to help. Thanks, Loreen.” She hits a button and the second her eyes meet mine, she jerks. “Gage, I know you’re angry, but we need to go.”

“Like hell we do. I’m not finished—”

“Sam’s been hurt. She’s in the ICU.” Her bottom lip quivers, but she blows out a long breath and stops it. “Someone hurt her bad, Gage.”

She pushes past me and climbs into the truck while I stand there staring at the space she just vacated. What the hell? One minute she’s scared shitless, and rightfully so; the next she’s treating me like I’m her f*cking chauffeur.

“Come on!”

I blink and turn slowly, only to find her staring at me impatiently from the open window.

“You’re not scared anymore.” The words fall from my stunned lips.

“I know you’re mad, and we have so much more to talk about, but I need to get to Sam.”

“But . . .” What f*cking good am I if I can’t scare away people who hurt Luke? This bitch just found out I murdered my entire family to protect Luke, and she’s treating me like . . . a friend? Something about that bothers the shit out of me. “Do you care that little about your life?” Why does her lack of self-preservation make my chest feel tight? Damn, this witch!

“I care a lot about my life. But if your plan is to kill me, you’ve had and will have plenty of opportunity to carry that out. For now, please just take me to my truck.”

Dumb-f*cking-struck.

I numbly walk to the truck, turn it on, and take Shyann to her truck, parked at the work site. She climbs out, slams the door, but sticks her head through the open window, sleek and shiny black hair spilling in too. “Unless you plan on letting Lucas come forward, you better take off. I’ll cover for you.”

What the f*ck! “I don’t need you covering—”

“You may not know this but it’s pretty obvious you’re not him. It’s . . . um . . .” She motions to her own eyes and a tiny blush colors her cheeks. “All in here. Your expressions, they’re different.”

Protecting Lucas. Again. “I—”

“We’ll talk later, okay?”

Reassuring me?

I’m speechless.

She thumps the hood of the truck twice in goodbye and jogs away.

Who the f*ck is this woman?

She’s throwing up a big fat f*ck you to every single thing I thought I knew.

For the first time in forever I feel . . . useless.





TWENTY-EIGHT



SHYANN


I slam through the hospital doors and skid to a stop in the waiting room. The place is filled with people, all quiet, and now staring at me.

The Payson Regional Medical Center is a hospital that matches its town: small, unimpressive, but functional. I spot the reception desk and move to it, eyes on a petite brunette whose friendly smile is aimed my way.

“Can I help you?”

“Yeah, I was told Samantha Crawford was brought here?”

She frowns. “Yes, are you family?”

“No, but—”

“Shy?”

I whip my head toward the deep male voice calling my name and my eyes narrow. “Dustin, I just heard. How is she?”

The whites of his eyes are bloodshot and the skin surrounding them is puffy. He jerks his head toward a section of the room that’s mostly empty except for a man and an elderly woman who is engrossed in knitting a pink blanket. We drop down to a couple of plastic chairs in the corner.

“It’s bad, Shy . . .” His voice is unsteady. “Her face, it’s—”