Glitter Baby (Wynette, Texas #3)(87)

He stayed with her.

Her lungs burned, and she lost her rhythm. She sucked in ragged gasps of air. The word “rape” rattled around in her head. Why didn’t he fall back?

“Leave me alone,” she screamed. The words were garbled, barely comprehensible, and she’d lost more precious air.

He shouted something. Near. Almost in her ear. Her chest was on fire. He touched her shoulder, and she screamed. The next thing she knew, the ground rushed up, and he was falling with her. As they hit the sand, he shouted the word again, and this time she heard.

“Flower!”

He fell on top of her. She gasped for air beneath his weight and tasted grit. With the last of her strength, she clenched her hand into a fist and swung hard. She heard a sharp exclamation. His weight eased, and the ends of his hair brushed her cheek as he raised himself on his arms above her. His breath fanned her face, and she hit him again.

He pulled back, and she went after him. Scrambling to her knees, she hit him again and again with her fists. She didn’t bother aiming, but caught whatever she could reach—an arm, his neck, his chest, every blow punctuated with a sob.

Finally he made a vise of his arms and squeezed. “Stop it, Flower! It’s me. It’s Jake.”

“I know it’s you, you bastard! Let me go!”

“Not till you’ve calmed down.”

She gasped for air against the soft fabric of his T-shirt. “I’m calm.”

“No you’re not.”

“Yes I am!” She slowed her breathing, quieted her voice. “I’m calm. Really.”

“Are you sure?”

“I’m sure.”

Gradually he released her. “All right, then. I was—”

She slugged him in the head. “You son of a bitch!”

“Ouch!” He threw up his arm.

She caught him in the shoulder with her next blow. “You arrogant, hateful—”

“Stop it!” He snagged her wrist. “If you hit me again, I swear, I’ll deck you.”

She seriously doubted he’d follow through, but her adrenaline rush was beginning to fade, her hands hurt, and she was so wobbly she was afraid she’d throw up if she took another swing.

He crouched in the sand before her. His tangled, unkempt hair fell nearly to his shoulders, and his mustache obscured all of his mouth except for that impossible, sulky bottom lip. With a Nike T-shirt that didn’t make it to his waist, faded maroon shorts, and his long, outlaw’s hair, he looked like he should be carrying a cardboard sign that read, WILL KILL FOR FOOD.

“Why didn’t you tell me it was you?” she managed on a thin stream of air.

“I thought you recognized me.”

“How could I recognize you? It’s dark, and you look like a wanted poster.”

He released her wrist, and she struggled to her feet. It shouldn’t have happened this way, with her wearing mustard-stained white shorts and a ponytail slipping out of its rubber band. She’d imagined herself dripping in diamonds when she met him again. She wanted to be standing on the steps of the casino at Monte Carlo with a European prince on one arm and Lee Iacocca on the other.

“I’m making a new Caliber picture,” he said. “Bird Dog goes blind, so I have to learn to use the Colts by sound.” He rubbed his shoulder as he stood. “Since when did you turn into such a chickenshit?”

“Since I saw a man who looks like a serial killer coming out from behind a sand dune.”

“If I have a black eye…”

“Here’s hoping.”

“Damn it, Fleur…”

None of this was playing out as she’d imagined. She’d wanted to be cool and aloof, to act as if she barely remembered him. “So you’re making a new Caliber movie. How many women do you slap around in this one?”

“Bird Dog’s getting more sensitive.”

“That’s gotta be a real stretch for you.”

“Don’t be a bitch, okay?”

Fireworks went off in her head, and she was once again standing in the rain on the front lawn of Johnny Guy Kelly’s house finishing a conversation that had barely gotten started. She spit out her words through a rigid jaw. “You used me to get your picture finished. I was a stupid, na?ve kid who didn’t want to take her clothes off, but Mr. Big Shot’s love machine made short work of that. You made me happy to take everything off. Did you think about me when they handed you your Oscar?”

She wanted to see guilt. Instead he launched a counterattack. “You were your mother’s victim, not mine—at least not much. Take it up with her. And while you’re doing that, remember you weren’t the only one who got screwed. I’ve lost more than you can imagine.”

Her fury ignited. “You! Are you seriously trying to paint yourself as the injured party?” Her hand flew back of its own volition. She hadn’t planned to hit him again, but her arm had a will of its own.

He caught it before she made contact. “Don’t you dare.”

“I think you’d better take your hands off her.” A familiar voice drifted toward them from the dunes. Both of them turned to see Michel standing there. He looked like a boy who’d accidentally wandered into the company of giants.

Jake loosened his grip on her arm but didn’t let her go. “This is a private party, pal, so how about minding your own business?”