Wicked Burn (26 page)

Besides, Vic Savian had been so drunk on the night that he’d allowed Ellie to climb into his pickup truck with him he’d probably thought Ellie was Missy. Yeah, maybe that was it. They both had reddish hair and wore identical waitress uniforms. If that was the case, then Missy couldn’t wait to prove to Vic that he’d gotten the wrong woman to steam up the windows of his cab back in April.

All Ellie or Alex had been able to tell her about Vic Savian was that he’d inherited that enormous spread that used to belong to Manny Padilla out on the west side of town, and that he was a writer or something. She hoped he wrote scary books like her favorite author, Dean Koontz. She wouldn’t be a bit surprised, as dark, mysterious, and a little dangerous as he seemed. He didn’t come into the El Paso Lounge very often—or anywhere in town that Missy had been able to identify—so she needed to make everything out of the opportunity that she could.

“Let me put a nice head on that beer for you,” she offered suggestively.

She blinked in surprise when he raised his shaggy head slowly. He made a subtle rolling gesture with his lean jaw as he inspected her. She’d never looked directly into his eyes before, so she hadn’t been prepared for their impact. Holy shit. Missy had seen how many beers he’d put away tonight as he sat there silent—and nearly as motionless—as a stone. So it shocked her more than a little to see how startlingly alert and penetrating his light gray eyes were.

His gaze lowered over her body unhurriedly. Was it wishful thinking, or did those phenomenal eyes linger for a second on her nipples, which had just obligingly pulled tight beneath her uniform? He slowly pushed his empty glass across the bar as he continued to watch her.

Missy tried to hide the triumph in her smile. She was going to get a taste of elusive Vic Savian tonight, she just knew it.

And she was determined to be the first woman in El Paso, Illinois, to see the inside of his bedroom instead of just the view of the floor mat of his truck as she leaned over to suck the tall, stiff pillar of his tasty cock.

“Wait.”

Missy paused and looked over her shoulder seductively, her hand poised over the tap.

“Give me a Scotch.”

Missy stared for a second, amazed at the effect his hoarse voice had on her body, like a pair of knuckles running seductively down her spine. It sounded so raspy that she wondered when he’d actually last spoken out loud to another human being. Jeez, this guy must be a real loner.

But she’d never seen a sexier hermit in her life. Maybe he was shy. Good thing Missy knew how to bring a man out of his shell. She licked her lower lip in a gesture of anticipation at the same time that she gave him a knowing wink.

“Anything you want is yours for the taking, cowboy,” she promised him huskily. She turned and cocked her hip, gifting him with the sight of her ample, round ass as she took her time locating the most premium brand of Scotch that Alex owned.

Of course it was necessary for her to bend over deeply to find just the right bottle.

 

 

Vic looked his fill at the sight of the reasonably attractive red-head waving her more than reasonably attractive ass in the air for his benefit. He wondered if he could have set a drink on the shelf of the upper curve of her generous, taut buttocks. His cock stirred listlessly in his jeans, like a bear awaking from a winter slumber, sticking its head up and taking a sniff.

Only to fall back to sleep again almost immediately.

The damn thing had practically been hibernating since . . .

“Make it a double,” he ordered tersely. The waitress straightened after studying the bottles in front of her for so long that Vic was beginning to suspect that she’d gotten her back stuck in that position, or else had some kind of reading disability.

“You like Scotch, huh?” she asked through curving lips as she poured his drink in front of him a few seconds later.

Vic shrugged.

“I can’t say I’ve ever tried this brand myself.” She cast her gaze in both directions. Alex was nowhere to be seen. “Mind if I join you?”

“Be my guest.”

The sight of her seductive green eyes widening in alarm when she took a sip of the Scotch would have made Vic smile once.

Damn. Why had he asked for Scotch? He’d never be able watch a woman drink it again without thinking of Niall. His lips flattened into a grim line. He pried them open to take a healthy slug of the liquor.

Hadn’t he expressly forbidden himself to think about that woman?

“God, I don’t know how you drink it so easy like that!”

“You either like the burn or you don’t, Missy.”

Her catlike eyes flashed. “You know my name?”

Vic shrugged. “Sort of hard to sit here for two hours straight and not pick up a thing or two.”

“Well, I’ll tell you something, cowboy.” She leaned forward, thrusting out her breasts conspicuously. “I don’t know if I like Scotch, but I
like
the burn.”

Vic’s lips curved slightly as his eyes moved over her face. Nice mouth. Although that caboose she sported might be worth a thorough investigation.

Now
that’s
more like it, Vic thought with vague satisfaction. He’d reacted quite differently to the fact that Niall was an unfaithful liar than he had to Jenny’s betrayal. After Jenny he’d fallen into bed with practically any reasonably attractive woman who would overlook the fact that he was stone drunk.

His intoxication tonight, however, was the exception, not the rule, since he’d been kicked in the gut and ass at once with the knowledge that Niall was married. His interest in sex had dropped off drastically since last December. Technically speaking, his libido was as active as ever; it was his interest in actually spending the time and effort necessary to take a woman to bed that was lacking. A few dimly recalled blow jobs in his truck cab outside of a bar in the wee hours of morning and bringing off the woman with his hand in thanks were the sum total of his pitiful sex life for the past six months.

“You know lots of woman fight the burn,” Vic told Missy as he gazed at his Scotch and rolled the amber liquid around in the glass.

“Not me,” Missy assured him.

“Here’s to the burn, then,” he murmured, holding her stare as he drank. Missy licked her lower lip sensually before she took another sip of the Scotch, this time doing a much better job at hiding her grimace. She leaned forward until their faces were only inches apart.

“I’m going to set your bed on fire, Vic Savian.”

He gave a full-fledged smile as the first wave of euphoria from the Scotch hit his brain. “Is that right?” he drawled.

She colored pinker than the liberally applied blusher on her cheeks. He caught a whiff of her scent—cheap perfume, sweet sweat, and stale smoke. He jerked back slightly and took another drink of Scotch to cover his instinctual reaction. If he drank enough, it wouldn’t matter what she looked or smelled like. The only thing that was of significance was the scalding orgasm that he had deep inside her body, that nirvanic moment of pleasure when all memories were swept blessedly clean.

“Yeah, that’s right, big boy,” Missy assured him with gleaming eyes. “I get out of here at two thirty. You just sit tight till then, ya hear?”

Vic didn’t respond as she grabbed her tray and left the bar with one last coy glance. The pleasant haze of the beer and Scotch he’d consumed, combined with the promise of a blissful forgetfulness between Missy-the-waitress’s long, strong thighs, had him feeling better than he had in months.

Six months, to be exact.

His euphoria was short-lived, however. It popped like a fragile bubble when he saw who walked into the El Paso between two young toughs who looked like they’d either just gotten off the back of a Harley or wanted everyone to think they had.

“Vic!”

The whites of Donny Farrell’s eyes showed up clearly behind a thick fringe of obscuring brown hair when Vic approached their booth.

“What’re you doing here?” Vic demanded tersely. The kid that Meg had insisted he hire on as a stable boy six months ago appeared to be at a loss for words. The long-haired, barrel-chested, goateed idiot sitting next to Donny was having no such problem with speech, however.

“What’s your problem? Who are you to question him about what he does? His fucking long-lost dad?”

“Shut up, Banger,” Donny muttered under his breath.

“No, I’m not his dad. Who’re you? One of his classmates in the tenth grade?” Vic countered levelly.

Banger’s chest expanded so far in indignation that Vic wondered if he was going to squeeze Donny’s skinny body right out of the booth.

“Why you son-of-a—”

“Come on, Donny. I’m taking you home,” Vic stated, calmly cutting off Banger’s tirade.

“Go on,” Banger’s scruffy companion taunted when Donny stood, the kid’s expression mixing defiance and uncertainty in equal measure. “I told Banger you were too much of a pussy to hang out with the big boys.”

“You’re the pussy, Chooch,” Donny muttered with a bitter weariness that was heartbreaking to see in one so young. “At least that’s what I hear from Banger. That’s what he calls you behind your back all the time.”

“Fuck you, man!” Chooch told Banger furiously, switching the target for his aggression without a quiver of his eyelids. Banger was in the process of sizing up Vic, deciding whether or not he could take him. The majority of his bravado melted out of him by the time he met Vic’s steady stare.

Vic’s gaze moved over Banger in a rapid, disparaging once-over. He was at least in his mid twenties if not early thirties—old enough to know that he shouldn’t be dragging fifteen-year-old kids into bars with him. But Vic knew that Donny had a multitude of older brothers—a few of whom were out of prison at the moment. The badass that he studied presently shared no physical similarity to Donny—fortunately for Donny—so Vic figured he must be one of his older brothers’ partners in crime.

Alex had returned to the bar and must have noticed the tempers flaring over at the booth.

“Banger, I don’t want any trouble from you tonight, ya hear? Sheriff Madigan is in the back of the bar and you’re already on his shit list!” Alex shouted.

Alex’s threat to sic Danny Madigan on him seemed to completely flatten an already deflating Banger. Vic couldn’t say he blamed the jerk. Madigan might be a small-town boy, but he was also a six-foot-two-inch, heavily muscled ex-Marine who not only had the power of the law behind him, but could turn Banger into packaged ground meat in a matter of minutes. Still, Vic suspected there was some other reason Banger chose not to tango with Vic when Sheriff Madigan was on the premises—something Vic hoped didn’t have to do with drugs or guns or some other illegal activity.

“Your ass is grass, man!” Banger told Vic with a glare he might have learned in a therapeutic acting class at Joliet Penitentiary.

Vic gave Donny a bland look. He knew the kid interpreted his expression accurately when Donny’s lips curved in shared amusement.

“Banger, you’re a moron,” Donny said before he turned. “Let’s go, Vic.”

“See ya, boys,” Vic said, his mouth curving at Banger’s infuriated expression at his emphasis on the word
boys
.

“Hey, wait.”

Vic paused in the process of holding open the El Paso Lounge’s front door for Donny.

“What about our date?” Missy Shane asked shrilly.

Vic tried to ignore the smirk he saw on Donny’s face from the corner of his eye. “Maybe another time,” he muttered before he ducked his head and followed Donny out the front door. Vic took a long draw of the fresh, brisk air, clearing his head.

“You had a date with Missy Shane and you blew her off?” Donny asked, his voice breaking slightly in incredulity. “Shit, you’re nuts, man. Missy’s
hot.”

“Wasn’t exactly a date,” Vic muttered under his breath.

“Then you’re even
more
nuts.”

“Yeah? Well, you’re too young to be talking about non-dates and hanging out in bars,” Vic accused sourly as they started walking to his truck.

“You’re just changing the subject.”

Vic frowned. The kid was too sharp for his own good. Meg’s bright idea to have Vic offer Donny a job in the stables had to do with the fact that she saw a lot of promise in the kid and couldn’t stand to see him ending up in juvie or worse. Vic had seen Donny’s drawings and had to agree. Besides, Vic was extremely picky about the people who took care of his horses, and Donny was a natural.

“You’re a smart kid,” Vic muttered as they walked through the parking lot. “Way too smart to be letting those assholes talk you into making drug exchanges for them or doing some other equally stupid thing. They’ll tell you how you won’t get in trouble for it because of your age, but they’re lying. They don’t give a shit about you. Am I right?”

Donny flipped the dark fringe of hair out of his eyes. “About me being smart? I left with you, didn’t I?”

Vic opened his mouth to press the subject but bit off his words. Hell, what’d he’d said in the bar was true. He
wasn’t
the kid’s dad.

Donny had gotten across his point, just as Vic had.

“You got your permit with you?” Vic asked tersely as he dug in his jeans for his keys. He knew from experience around the farm that the kid was a good driver. Vic was helping him log enough hours with an adult driver so that he could get his license.

“Yeah.”

“You been drinking?” Vic pressed. He’d already surmised that the answer was no from Donny’s behavior, but the kid did have a history, after all. That was one of the reasons Meg had implored Vic to hire him to work in the stables. Meg knew that Donny needed some kind of constant in the chaotic, dysfunctional world provided by his flighty mother, a houseful of reprobate older brothers, and a father who had said sayonara before Donny had cut his first tooth.

“Nah, I don’t drink anymore,” Donny answered with a vaguely insulted expression.