No Perfect Hero(28)

Every damn thing about her, from those pretty green eyes to the soft blue paints she uses to smear the sky on canvas.

I'd love to know what drove her out here, really, besides an asshole fiancé. She mentioned a job and a gallery going bust. A familiar hard luck story she doesn't deserve.

Hay's a sweet mystery wrapped in want.

I want to know what she’s trying to prove.

I want to know what ignited that crackling blaze inside her.

I want to know what makes her so maddeningly stubborn, so maddeningly beautiful.

I want to know what makes her gasp, makes her sigh, what kindles those glassy sparks in her eyes into desire.

And I really want to know how she whimpers when she comes, rocking so hard under me while I etch her little outline into the mattress.

Yeah. I’m moonstruck.

I'm fucking foolish.

All because Hay went and stood up to me. Told me repeatedly to shove it where the sun don’t shine, instead of simpering after me and trying to cozy up with bedroom eyes like most girls her age.

Maybe that’s why I’ve never gotten serious about anyone.

Nobody ever showed me fire.

Didn't catch my interest, even if avenging Jenna's the real reason there's no place for any woman in my life, spitfire or not.

Goddamn. I shouldn’t be thinking this.

I’ve stopped focusing on my laptop screen and the GPS tracker dot following Bress’ movements. He’s back in town. It looks like he’s been...at Stewart's shop?

Shit. I wonder if he found the tracker and went to Stew to have it looked at.

What’s bothering me even more, right now, is that the tracker shows Bress’ camper parked at Brody’s.

The pub.

Where Hay’s working tonight.

I swear under my breath, look away, look back, start getting up, then make myself sit back down.

Wait. No.

There’s nothing to worry about since they're in public. I don’t need to go charging in like a damned bull. Bress has no reason to think she suspects him of threatening me and vandalizing the cabin.

Hell, she doesn’t even think it herself – she thinks I’m the asshole here, and Bress is Mr. Rogers.

'Course, he doesn’t know that.

He might be checking her out for a good chance to get her alone, out of the way. My fingers curl into a fist.

Fuck. I can’t stay here.

I just want to check out the lay of the land. And if Bress is onto me already, then he’d damn well better know I’m watching him, and forget the letter of the law if he goes anywhere near Haley.

If he touches her or the girl, the gloves are coming off. I'll send him straight to hell myself without giving him a chance to rot behind bars.

I’m dressed and in my truck before I even realize it, cursing at myself the whole time. I’m doing the right thing, I tell myself.

Taking it slow, real cautious, just like Jenna would've wanted.

But it sure as hell feels like more than that, with the tight knot of agitation coiling in the pit of my stomach.

When I pull up outside Brody’s, I don’t see Bress’ car in the lot.

I do see Stewart’s old souped-up muscle truck, a fucking monster on high wheels with flames down the side of the cab. I know nearly every car in town.

When Heart’s Edge has a population under two thousand, you get to know your people and their rides even when you’ve been away for a while.

The pub is pretty lively. While it’s not exactly a college town, it’s a magnet for college kids to come out on a drive with their bros or their dates for a secluded spot. A twenty-something-year-old kid's dream place to get drunk, make out, and fall asleep under the stars.

The lights are bright, familiar, when I step inside. The jukebox plays some old nineties grunge band. There's people milling around the grey, weathered floors and tucked in clusters at the tables, booths, and against the walls. Old classic neon signs glow overhead next to road signs scavenged from diners and highways across the States. It smells like beer, onion rings, and hormones.

Home, sweet home. Brings back a lot of memories of my younger days.

Brody’s mostly hires pretty girls looking for their first job. It’s like a small-town Hooters, and the uniform is pretty loose: cutoff denim mini that shows everything but the goods and a sports team jersey knotted below the midriff.

Only one rule: that jersey better not belong to the Cardinals, the Patriots, or the Rams.

Most of the girls here are college-aged themselves. I don’t feel quite right looking at those midriffs and naked thighs when I’m almost thirty-damned-five – save for one.

The moment I walk in the door, I zero in on Haley.

Don’t know if she went shopping or someone let her raid their locker, but I think that girl’s trying to fucking kill me.

She’s got on a swatch of denim, frayed edges that barely lick against the lower curves of her ass.

Everything rides down so low on her hips I can see the V of creased flesh to either side of the lower swell of her smooth, toned belly. Right where it starts delving down toward panties she can’t be wearing, or I’d see them when there’s only enough skirt to keep those smooth thighs and tight curves from being a full-on pornographic peep show.

The chunky leather belt she’s wearing is almost bigger than the skirt, anchoring it in place. Only thing keeping her breasts from spilling out everywhere is a tight-drawn knot right below and between them, pulling an oversized men’s jersey down until the V-neck shows cleavage.