Pretty Reckless (Entangled Ignite) (11 page)

Chapter Ten

The two snaggletooth dirty old men, still planted in their plastic lawn chairs, smiled at me as I exited the saloon two hours later. Center Street was as busy as it was going to get around ten on a Wednesday night. Four parking spots were taken up—not a bad turn out. I dug into my back pocket, rummaging for my keys. All I wanted to do was head home after my run in with Luke.

I’d intended on leaving the bar a little tipsy with the hope that I could obliterate all my indecent thoughts about Gunner, but nothing goes as planned when Luke Wagner is around. He’s been a world class pussy whisperer since junior high, if the girls around town can be believed. Me? The only thing I’d wanted the night of our little so called ‘affair’ four and half years ago was to get drunk enough to drown out the constant misery of losing Gunner and our baby. Instead, I’d gotten drunk enough to fall into bed with Luke. It was a move I still regretted—not least because the scumbag wouldn’t stop hanging around.

The main issue for me was that Luke was a charmer, and drunk or tipsy or whatever you wanted to call it, I’d gotten wrapped up in his clever little pussy trap. I’ve often wondered since if the same thing had happened to my mother where Luke’s father was concerned. Only thing was, I was pretty certain she regretted not staying with Mitch, whereas I was all good on the not letting Luke’s silver tongue talk me out of my shirt—and more—again.

I marched down the sidewalk toward the sheriff station. The cruiser was parked two spots down by the stop sign. I shoved my keys into the door, turned the lock, and pried it open. I was getting ready to swing a leg inside when the wind got knocked out of me from a heavy fist into my right side. I fell to the ground, clutching my stomach.

“Shit!” I managed before another kick plunged into my side.

I tumbled over. The back of my head scraped the asphalt as I looked up at a man wearing a black ski mask glaring down at me. He grabbed me by the hair and pulled my face up to his mask.

“If you know what’s good for you, you’ll tell your Texas Ranger buddy to back off the ketamine case. Do you understand?”

I moved a hand around my waist, coming up empty. My gun was still evidence after the shooting in Odessa. If I’d been a smarter woman, I would’ve started carrying a backup piece long ago, but hell, this was Pistol Rock and though I kept weapons at home, I didn’t have another pistol I was comfortable carting around. Technically, I’m supposed to carry at all times, since we deps are on duty even when we’re off—be prepared at all times is the rule of thumb. But then again, I wasn’t very by the book, and guns and alcohol didn’t mix and…

Ah hell, who was I kidding? I was screwed.

The nasty let go of my hair, only to clutch me by the throat to spit in my face.

I started to kick, clipping his left shin with the tip of my boot. “Bastard,” I wheezed, wiggling under his clutching fist.

The man in the ski mask cackled. “He was right. You are a feisty little thing.” He jerked my head forward. “Don’t worry honey. I’ve got strict orders to batter you, nothing more. Too bad, but gotta do what the boss says.” He tossed me into the cruiser door.

My back buckled, and I slumped against the front tire. The flat of his hand slammed into my nose. I scooted back against the tire, trying to take cover as I tasted the snot and blood dribbling past my mouth. I wiped away the blood from my upper lip. Then I took a good look at the man pacing back and forth in front of me. My assailant looked to be about five-foot-six and dressed in black from ski mask to boots. I swallowed, choking back the bloody spit drowning my throat. “Who do you work for?” I strangled out.

His chest rumbled with a sickening laugh. “We’re almost done, sweetheart,” he said and lifted a booted foot. I quickly hunched over to cover my stomach from the oncoming blow. “Ready?” He swung his boot forward.

I ducked my chin deeper into my chest knowing it was going to fucking hurt when his boot met my side.

“Yeah, I’m ready,” Gunner’s deep voice said, and he catapulted out of the darkness and into my attacker.

Unable to believe he could be here when he’d been resting off a flesh wound and popping mild painkillers just a few hours ago but grateful he was, I crawled my way to the back of the cruiser and leaned against the bumper. My head and side were killing me, and my hands and knees burned where the skin was scraped raw from me scuffling across the harsh asphalt. I took the bottom of my shirt and wiped the blood off my face. I wanted to help Gunner clean up my mess, but I just couldn’t seem to get my legs under me to dash into the sheriff’s station across the street and snatch a department loaner gun. Instead, I poked my head around the cruiser and watched Gunner beat the crap out of my attacker.

The last thing I needed left at my feet today was another dead guy.

“Stop,” I screamed when things looked like they might go further than I’d be able to explain later. Gunner turned toward me, his fist in mid-air. “You’re going to kill him.”

Lowering his hand, he looked up at me for a long moment. Then, without hesitation, he slammed my attacker’s head into the curb.

“Don’t move,” he growled and straightened. Then he stomped a boot into the masked attackers face before stepping on over the bastard and heading toward me. “What the hell are you doing here?” I demanded as he knelt beside me. “You’re supposed to be sleeping off a wounded ass, not perp-stompin’ on Center Street.”

Instead of answering, he pushed my bloody, disheveled hair off my face and asked, “Are you okay, sweetheart?”

Sighing because I knew he’d never give me an answer I could use, I scanned my bloody knees, took in my scraped palms, and I touched the tip of my nose. Warm blood squished between my fingers. There really was no need in humiliating myself anymore, so to save face, I lied. “No biggie,” I said, trying to stand up. A splitting burn on my right side sent me falling embarrassingly back down. “Ouch”—I winced—“my right side hurts like the devil.” He shook his head, slid an arm beneath one of my shoulders, and carefully hoisted me upright. “Laney, you know it’s okay to ask for a help, right?”

I hobbled to my feet and leaned into his sturdy chest. There was a part of me that wanted to pat his ass just to see if he was human enough to be hurting the way I did, but I refrained when he half carried, half dragged me up onto the sidewalk and propped me against the station door.

“Just give me a minute while I deal with that motherfucker,” he said.

Nodding, I slumped back into the glass door.

He stalked off to the heap huddled near the curb, leaned over, and pulled the guy’s head up by his hair. “Who do you work for?” he demanded coldly and ripped off the ski mask.

The guy shuddered visibly. “I was just told to take care of the girl.” He made a strangled noise. “You know, scare the shit out of her so she’ll be quiet.”

Gunner crouched, hand firmly clasped in the guy’s hair. “Were you also paid to get rid of Bosley Conrad?”

Choked, almost hysterical laughter issued from my attacker. “You weren’t supposed to be there. Bosley was the target, just drive in and shoot ’im up, clean and easy, the man said.”

Gunner made an unpleasant sound.

“You’re lucky that the girl’s here,” he growled, “or I’d have to kill you.” He stood up and cocked his head at me. “Where’re your cuffs?” he asked.

“In the glove compartment,” I said, pointing a shaky finger at the cruiser.

He walked around the cruiser, and I heard him pop open the glove compartment. At the same time, my attacker managed to roll himself off the curb and up on all fours in a pathetic attempt to make an escape.

“He’s running,” I said hoarsely.

Gunner slammed the cruiser door, stalked back over to Bosley’s admitted murderer, and stomped on his hand. I heard knuckles crunch.

“Mother fucker,” the guy screamed.

“Heading somewhere important?” Gunner asked, jerking him up by the arms. “You’re in Pistol Rock, buddy. There ain’t nowhere to run out here.” He dragged the guy to his feet and slung his arms around the stop sign. Then he flicked the cuffs open and tightened them around the killer’s wrists.

“Shit, that’s too tight,” the guy wailed.

Gunner took hold of the cuffs and squeezed them another click tighter.

“Son of a bitch,” the guy cried out. “You put ’em on too tight. I can barely feel my fingers.”

“You’re still alive to feel your fingers. Consider yourself lucky.”

“You’re leaving me here?” the guy shouted when Gunner stepped toward me.

Gunner shrugged. “Don’t worry. You’ll be locked up tight tonight. Even though Sheriff Dobbs always polices up the sidewalk trash first thing every morning, I want to make sure you’re booked and behind bars before I take Deputy Briggs to the hospital.”

He turned toward me, the hard line of his mouth softening, and I tried to use my skinned palms to push myself upright.

“Here, let me help you.” Gently he wrapped an arm around my waist.

“Thank you,” I said, grateful not only for the help, but to be in his arms again. The realization immediately made me uncomfortable when the glow from the street light caught in my engagement ring, making it sparkle. I tried easing out of Gunner’s arms, but my wobbly legs made that ill-advised. Immediately, he gathered me up to carry me to the truck. There was a hitch in his stride, as though his ass hurt, but aside from a wince, he let on nothing. “Why aren’t you back at the motel taking care of your wound?”

“When the drugs wore off, I couldn’t sleep, so I headed over to the station to see if I could find anything in the files on Bosley that would explain the drive-by. Then I heard you scream.”

He grimaced and nodded at the truck’s door, tagged with Pistol Rock Motor Lodge across the white chipped paint—he’d borrowed Marty Stockherd’s pickup. I did my best to grab it and open the door, but my hands protested, so Gunner juggled me a bit, then managed the job himself. When the door swung wide, he eased me inside, strapped the seatbelt around me, and double checked the belt’s latch before shutting the door.

Then he hobbled over to our perp, uncuffed him from the stop sign, twisted his arms behind his back, and cuffed him again before dragging the perp into the sheriff station. Barely five minutes had passed before he returned and limped over to climb carefully into the driver’s seat. The
scree
of the rubber donut the hospital had sent him home with gave me some idea of the shape he was really in when he settled behind the wheel. He turned and glanced at me. His eyes were full of pain as he started up the engine. I pressed my throbbing head into the headrest and closed my eyes. There was no need in telling Gunner Wilson how to get to my house. He knew the way probably better than me.

…

The headlights washed across the dirt drive leading up to my house. Gunner pulled the truck to a halt and turned toward me. “Sure you don’t want me to take you to the hospital?” he said, sounding doubtful about earlier giving in to me asking to be taken home.

“I’ll be fine,” I lied, though every single part of me ached, and my head felt like a swollen, throbbing mass.

He winked and ran his finger down my bruised cheek. “Always the trooper,” he said and then gently kissed my forehead, for a moment making me forget about the beat down I had just endured—right up until the moment when he pulled away to look at me. “Have you ever thought about getting a new career?”

Teeth clenched against the pain, I scooted closer to the door. “Many times,” I said, shooting a glance at the rubber donut beneath his butt. “What about you?”

Instead of responding, Gunner tapped my chin, then drew his hand back. “You should’ve let me kill him,” he said, gritting his teeth. “Look at what he did to you.”

I pushed at the door, opening it to let in the sound of crickets chirping and the soft sound of leaves rustling in the trees. “Then I would’ve had to arrest you.”

He grinned. “I knew you still cared about me.”

“Think what you want,” I said, wobbling out of the motel truck. “Goodnight, Gunner. I’ll be fine from here.”

“I could come in,” he offered, letting the suggestion linger.

I gnawed down on my lip, then said virtuously, “That’s not a good idea,” and slammed the pickup door shut.

I took a couple of steps back, sinking to my bruised and aching knees as I watched his taillights fade into the night. It would have been nice having a little help into the house since the steps leading up to my front porch were going to be murder, but Gunner wasn’t in the best shape, either. Letting him into my house and expecting nothing to happen was about as stupid as sniffing a javelina’s asshole and expecting to smell apple pie at the best of times. Tonight, after he’d saved me from what would likely have been broken bones and a near death experience, it would be just plain ridiculous. Not because either of us was up to a bunch of bedroom gymnastics, but because I was engaged, and Gunner was starting to get too far under my skin again for comfort. Lately, he’d been there for me and Nathan was not.

Face up, Laney Briggs
, I ordered myself and started for my front porch, hobbling until I reached the doormat. My hand was shaking, making the keys jiggle as I turned the lock. Having turned down the hospital stay, my plan, once I got inside, was to grab an ice pack out of the freezer and a beer from the fridge. From there, I was going to plop myself down on the couch, watch a few reruns of
Friends
, and, if the night kept going well, maybe even polish off a pint of Blue Bell mint, chocolate chip ice cream.

I wrenched the door open and switched on the lamp next to the wall, and practically jumped out of my skin when I caught sight of Boomer Copley flopped out on my couch, asleep. He jolted up when he heard my shuffling boots.

Boomer’s dusty red mop of hair hung below his brows. He had pasty white skin scattered with brown freckles and a pair of plastic black flip-flops adorned his size fourteen feet.

He’d grown up on the far side of the railroad tracks. And by the far side of the railroad tracks, I mean exactly that. The Copleys were one of four families living in government housing here in Pistol Rock. Mrs. Copley was a chain smoker just literate enough to follow the directions on the back of a Hamburger Helper box. Rumor had it that Boomer’s father had skipped town one night by hopping onto a freight train. Nobody really knew for sure, but nobody really cared, either. I’d grown up with there being a place set for him at the Briggs family dinner table every night and him leaving every night, taking a napkin full of leftovers with him. He no longer showed up at my door very often, but when he did, there was a reason.