Can't Let Go
Why did Jude care what happened on her property, anyway? Why did he think people were selling drugs and sex? Oh...crap. What if people were selling drugs and sex? Acid churned in her stomach, quickly burning a path up her throat.
“And did you have to report anything to him?” she asked.
Loner shifted from one foot to the other. “Past few nights, different men have climbed inside a van and, uh, it started rocking soon after. Those men took off about fifteen minutes later.” Again he pulled at his collar. “Not sure if no money was exchanged, though.”
Poo on a stick!
Ryanne had heard so much cursing on a daily basis, she’d decided to keep her words and thoughts, like, superclassy. Snort.
She sooo did not want to call the cops about this. While she loved the hardworking, honorable men and women who worked for the Strawberry Valley PD, she didn’t fall under their jurisdiction. Instead, Blueberry Hill PD would be sent out, and one of their officers—Jim Rayburn—wanted her shut down by fair means or foul. Sometimes he showed up at the bar to card and question her patrons. Other times he pulled them over for suspicion of drunk driving. Ryanne suspected Jim was the one who’d written “Ryanne Wade is a slut” and “For a good whore call Ryanne Wade” on the men’s room wall.
He despised her, all because she’d helped her friend and ex-stepsister Lyndie Scott leave her husband, Chief Carrington, Jim’s former boss.
The abuses the chief inflicted on the delicate Lyndie, turning a buoyant young girl into a woman with crippling shyness and constant panic attacks... For the first and only time in her life, Ryanne had contemplated cold-blooded murder.
A jealous husband did it for her, giving the beater and cheater a taste of his own medicine. In Jim’s mind, Lyndie and Ryanne were responsible. What if he blamed the sex and drugs on Ryanne? What if he jailed her?
Can’t risk calling for help. “Thank you, Loner. Please report any other shady activity to me instead of the constipated man. Okay?”
He nodded. Determined to hunt down the van, she surged into the crammed parking lot. As she wove in and out, peeking into windows, the loud wail of a jackhammer registered. Her gaze zoomed across the street, where halogen lights were posted around a construction site.
Not too long ago, a man named Martin Dushku had come to see her. Though he’d had violent tattoos on his neck and hands, he’d worn a sophisticated suit that probably cost more than her SUV.
He was opening a strip club nearby, he’d said, and hoped she wouldn’t mind having competition.
She’d smiled and said, “What competition? I run a bar, not a strip club.” Besides, economic theory suggested two competing businesses being located right across from one another was actually better for each business, because the competition fueled more activity and therefore more business.
He’d laughed. “And your place is low end while mine will be high end. But,” he’d added, “I’d prefer to buy you out and run both businesses, which would free you up to travel.”
Her desire to travel wasn’t a secret, but he’d still managed to creep her out. She’d refused his offer. She wanted to travel, yes, but she also wanted a home to return to, something she hadn’t had as a child. More specifically Earl’s home. Also, she enjoyed providing meals for the homeless. Mr. Dushku struck her as the type of man who would treat the less fortunate like dirt.
She’d expected a fight, but he’d accepted her refusal gracefully and taken off.
Mind on the task at hand. He’s not my worry tonight.
Right. Almost done. Only a few more cars to check. In fact, she was about to breathe a sigh of relief that there was no sign of the van or foul play when she came to a shadowed corner in back, with only two vehicles. One—a van. The other was a sedan. Her stomach sank. Both vehicles had tinted windows and, just as Loner reported, the van rocked back and forth.
What should I do?
Light suddenly flooded the sedan, allowing her to lock eyes with the man behind the wheel. He was smoking a cigarette, casual and unabashed. Beside him sat a man with a snake tattooed on his jaw.
I should...run? They had to be pimps or bodyguards, because their charge was clearly doling out goods and services in the van.
Run? No! Fury sparked inside Ryanne, tempered only by dismay.
Calling the cops was no longer a should-she-shouldn’t-she situation. She should. She would. First, she needed proof of her innocence, just in case Rayburn tried to turn the tables on her. So, despite possible dangers, Ryanne withdrew her phone and took pictures of the men and the license plate on both vehicles. No one would be pinning a crime on her.
When she stood at the rear, the passengers decided now would be the perfect time to emerge. Well, crap. She began to stream a live video on her phone. A weapon in and of itself: it proved her innocence, while ensuring the guys couldn’t do anything violent without a boatload of witnesses.
“Say hello to the world,” she said, and grabbed her gun as a just in case.
Cigarette was over six feet tall while Snake topped out at about five-five. Both males were muscled, heavily tattooed and glaring at her.
Ryanne stood her ground. How many times had she been forced to break up fights involving big, scary men? Countless.
Cigarette slapped a hand against the van, once, twice, and it stopped rocking.
“You and your crimes aren’t welcome here.” She was proud. Her voice, like the rest of her, held steady. “Leave, and don’t come back.”
Snake looked her over slowly, leered and licked his lips. “You might want to watch your mouth, little girl. You don’t, and bad things are likely to happen.”
“Please,” she said, “threaten me again. I’m not sure the camera captured your best angle.”
The door in back of the van suddenly swung open, a man wearing tighty-whities falling out. With the rest of his clothes clutched against his chest, he sprinted past Ryanne and down the street. The alleged prostitute—blonde, pale and thin, with wide eyes full of fear—remained inside and shut the door.
“You okay in there?” Ryanne called.
Silence.
Cigarette took a menacing step toward Ryanne.
“Stop! Anything happens to me, and the world will know who’s responsible.” As a tremor swept through her, the phone fell from her grip and thudded on the concrete. Crap! At least she still had her gun.
“We know who you are, and we know the cops hate your guts. They’ll blame you if anything happens to us,” he replied.
How did he know about her fears?
Thumping footfalls sounded in the distance, growing closer by the second. She tensed, unsure what was about to happen, when—
Jude appeared in front of the vehicles, his hands balled like sledgehammers. He squared his shoulders and braced his legs apart, his posture rigid. A precombat stance. He wasn’t panting, but he was making some kind of low growling noise, as if he were a rabid animal who’d finally found a meal.
Commando likes the taste of blood. And oh, wow, she liked this side of him. In the moonlight, he was a god. A warrior without equal.
Still, her tension spiked. If he were hurt...
To her astonishment, Cigarette and Snake immediately backed up. Cigarette slid into the sedan, and Snake climbed behind the wheel of the van. All without a word. One after the other, the vehicles shot out of the parking lot.
Ryanne lunged forward, intending to follow. On foot? Idiot! But the girl...
Jude latched on to her wrist, keeping her in place. “Don’t,” he snapped. “You’ll only get yourself killed.”
Was he mad at her?
No, no. Couldn’t be. He was mad at the world. Always.
She swiped up her phone, intending to dial 911. Instead, she paused. “Who are they? Were they selling that girl?”
“They work for a man named Martin Dushku, and yes. They were selling that girl. Have been for the past two weeks.”
The answers hit her like twin jabs to the gut. Why would Mr. Dushku sell a girl on her property rather than his own?
To blame Ryanne and get her shut down? Why not call the cops on her, then?
Maybe he only wanted to scare her so she’d sell?
“Why didn’t you tell me?” she demanded. “And why didn’t you call the cops? We need to help that girl.”
“I know all about your history with the Blueberry Hill PD. And I was handling it. You can’t help someone who doesn’t want to be helped.”
Had he tried and failed? “Clearly you weren’t handling it well enough.”
Malice radiated from him as he bared his teeth. The fact that they were straight and white made him no less intimidating. “You know there are Eastern European gangs in Texas, right? I dealt with them when I lived in Midland. They’ve migrated into Oklahoma, and like I said, the two assholes you threatened work for Martin Dushku, the guy building a club across the street. He isn’t known for his sharing and caring but his fervor to own everything. He’ll try to force you to sell or shut you down, whichever comes first.”
Gang members? Here? No freaking way.
Maybe Mr. Dushku wasn’t involved at all. He might have been a little creepy when he offered to buy her out, but he hadn’t been pushy. “How do you know this?” she asked, one brow arched. “Let’s face it. You could have arranged this little show in an attempt to scare me into hiring you.”
He stepped toward her, far more dangerous than Cigarette or Snake, and yet she wasn’t afraid. “I don’t want your business, Ryanne. I’ll never be your biggest fan, and I despise your bar. Frankly, I’d rather let it burn to the ground. If you weren’t friends with my friends, I would. And I know about Dushku because I investigate everyone who moves to my town.”
She believed him. One thing she couldn’t doubt—his loyalty to his friends, Brock Hudson and local hero Daniel Porter. The three had served in the military together, and had each other’s backs without fail.
And she wasn’t hurt by Jude’s I’ll never be your biggest fan crack. The man had terrible taste.
“I’m sorry,” she said, fear suddenly clawing at her insides. A gang had come to Oklahoma, and the leader wanted her bar. Her home.
She’d taken care of Earl here. Happy memories abounded. If something happened...
Who was she kidding? Something would happen. Martin Dushku and his associates were bad people, willing to do bad things. What if they hurt her patrons, innocent people who’d done nothing wrong?
Biting the inside of her cheek, she sheathed her gun and extended a shaky hand to Jude. “Congratulations, Mr. Laurent. You’re hired.”
CHAPTER TWO
JUDE LAURENT IGNORED the delicate hand being offered to him, his mind remaining on high alert. He’d provoked two predators tonight. At some point, both men would return, and they would act out in an attempt to save face.
“I’ll be back tomorrow,” he told Ryanne. “Nine a.m. We’ll go over details and prices then.”
Sputtering, she dropped her arm to her side. “Nine a.m.? No way, no how. I don’t go to bed until four a.m., and I’m never up before noon.”
“Nine a.m., Miss Wade.” When their meeting concluded, he’d have to make a two-hour drive to the city to purchase whatever equipment they’d agreed upon. And, to be perfectly blunt about the matter, he didn’t care if she got her beauty z’s or not. “Not a minute later, or you’ll be on your own with Dushku.”
A cool breeze blew in, caressing strands of inky hair over the delicate rise of her cheek. Motions clipped with irritation, she hooked the strands behind her ear. “Remind me who will be paying whom.”
“Remind me who will be saving whom.”
Now she anchored her fists on her hips, the picture of feminine pique. “Well, this is just freaking perfect, isn’t it. We’re not going to drive each other crazy at all.”
“If you do what I say, when I say, we’ll get along fine, guaranteed.”
She bristled, pricklier than a porcupine. Perhaps she believed he was acting like a hard-ass. Too bad. He wasn’t acting. People could take him or leave him. He didn’t care about that, either.
“How about we split the difference and meet at ten thirty?” Once again she offered him a fine-boned hand. “Deal?”
This time, ignoring her hand proved more difficult. Her nails were square-tipped, painted soft pink and glittered in the moonlight. A surprise. As tough—and sexy—as she was, he expected bloodred or jet-black.
A series of calluses marred the tips of her fingers, and on her wrist was a small but elaborate tattoo. An antique lock without a key, surrounded by emerald ivy, as if her arm had a hidden doorway to paradise.
His wayward gaze traveled over the rest of her, unbidden, as if drawn by an irresistible force. Her hourglass figure sizzled with carnality, and he suspected everyone who’d ever looked at her imagined her stripped naked and spread over a bed. Or any flat surface, really.
He certainly had, and he hated himself for it. Desire Ryanne Wade? No. Hell, no. The twenty-five-year-old single woman was the bane of his existence: a bar owner who threatened his control. But he’d told her the truth. His friends loved her. She was close to Dorothea Mathis, who was engaged to one of his buds, Daniel Porter. She was also close to Lyndie Scott, who was desired by Brock Hudson, Jude’s only other bud.
That made Ryanne Wade a double whammy.
At the end of the day, Jude would do anything for Daniel and Brock, who had served with him overseas, saving his hide more times than he could count. Which was why he’d added their names to the massive tattoo on his chest.
They, along with a rare few others, were the only people who mattered to him.
Jude forced his gaze to lift at last, meeting rich brown eyes so often filled with joy he could no longer understand. Those eyes were framed by curling dark lashes somehow sweet and sultry at once. Long raven hair surrounded a face that belonged in a movie. She had smoky eyes, high cheekbones, a pert nose and pouty red lips.
Beauty, brains and bravery. The whole package.
“Well?” she demanded. “Judging by your silence, I can only guess you’re blown away by my brilliance.”
“I’ll meet you at nine a.m. and not a minute later,” he croaked. Then he backed away, and motioned for her to get her ass inside. Any time she brought her “sassy tone” into a conversation, he had only one option: retreat. That tone twisted him up, and sometimes even hollowed him out.
She stood in place for a long while, different emotions sweeping over her exquisite features. Anger, irritation, frustration, but finally resolve. Decided his services were worth the hassle, after all?
When she trudged into the bar, he followed close on her heels. As he moved, phantom pains shot through the calf he no longer possessed. He should go home, remove his prosthesis and relax for the first time in...never mind. He didn’t know how to relax. He should work, the best distraction from his toxic thoughts.
Ryanne maneuvered through the crowds, being sure to give her hips an extra sway. Witch. Whistles preceded her, and catcalls trailed her.
Jude cursed the circumstances that had brought him here. Ignore her. Ignore everyone. He had work to do, and a very short time to do it.
The Dushku motto: Don’t Bend, Break.
As soon as the family had moved into Blueberry Hill, only minutes from Jude’s home in Strawberry Valley, he’d done background checks on every member. His motto? Can’t Be Too Careful.
Ryanne was in serious danger. Years ago, Dushku moved to a small town in Texas. He offered to buy out every bar, restaurant and liquor store in the area. Soon after, anyone who’d refused to sell suffered a tragic fate. Some were arrested for a crime they swore they’d never committed while others were injured in some kind of accident.
Dushku was never charged.
On edge, Jude counted the number of cameras and lights he would need, and tested the reliability of every lock. Something he’d done several times before, as he’d waited for Brock to finish drinking and say the magic words: take me home. He repeated the process, checking and double-checking his findings. His analysis remained the same. Anyone with a tire iron and a couple minutes to spare could break in without difficulty.
How had Ryanne survived so long?
His gaze sought the beautiful brunette unbidden. She’d settled behind the bar, her attention locked on Daniel and Brock.
Daniel had dark hair, though not as dark as Ryanne’s. His eyes were light brown and there was a slight bump in the center of his nose. That nose had suffered one too many breaks.
Overall, he looked like the soldier he was: rough, tough and solid as a rock.
On the other hand, Brock looked rougher and tougher with multiple piercings and arms sleeved in tatts. His jet-black hair was cut close to his scalp, and a thick five-o’clock shadow darkened his jaw, a complete contrast to the pale green eyes that often reflected skepticism, disdain and warped cheerfulness.
Brock had grown up filthy rich, but as the old saying went, money hadn’t bought him happiness. Just like a lack of money hadn’t been the source of Jude’s problems. Wealth had nothing to do with emotion. Both he and Brock had parents who never should have had children.
Daniel hadn’t been rich or poor, but he’d had the kind of childhood most people only dreamed about. He’d been born and bred in Strawberry Valley, Oklahoma, adored by his parents, cherished for the boy he’d been as well as the man he would become.
He was the reason Jude and Brock had moved to the speck-on-the-map small town. Any time their military unit had gotten stuck in a shit storm, waiting for escape or death—whichever came first—Daniel had spun fairy tales.
Dude. Check it. Strawberry-scented air.
All the peace of a beach without sand in your ass-crack.
Magazine perfect. If there’s heaven on earth, it’s Strawberry Valley.
Unwilling to go back to Georgia, where Jude had been stationed after joining the army, and equally unwilling to return to Texas, where he’d grown up—where beloved and hated memories waited to torment him—he’d moved to Oklahoma with his friends.
Ryanne’s eyes flashed with merriment, and Jude almost smiled. Had anyone ever loved life with such abandon?
Part of him hated her for that abandon.
Damn it! When had his focus slid back to her?
Daniel spotted him and waved him over. “There you are.”
Ryanne smiled with feline satisfaction, as if she’d discovered a particularly juicy secret.
A muscle clenched low in Jude’s gut.
Though he would rather avoid the bar owner until he’d calmed from whatever she continued to do to his emotions, he closed the distance between them.
The scent of strawberries and cream filled his nose, courtesy of Ryanne. Every time he neared her, he was reminded of his favorite dessert, strawberry shortcake, and his mouth watered. When his mouth watered, his teeth gnashed, because a wave of crackling heat always followed, as if—
No. I do not want her.
Daniel patted him on the shoulder. “Ryanne said you’d taken off.”
“Ryanne isn’t always aware of her surroundings,” he replied, flicking her a cool glance. “She’s usually too busy flirting with customers.”
She puckered those red, red lips and flipped her glorious fall of hair over her shoulder. “If I can convince just one more man to buy another penny beer, I might be able to afford that solid gold bi-deet I’ve been wanting. Fingers crossed!”
Brock snorted at her—purposeful?—mispronunciation of bidet. “What are you doing here, anyway, my man?” he asked Jude. “I thought you were staying home tonight.”
“Changed my mind.” More and more, he’d had trouble avoiding the Scratching Post, knowing Dushku could strike at Ryanne at any moment. “LPH will be taking over security here.”
“Well, it’s about time,” Daniel said with a nod.
Ryanne batted her lashes at Jude. “Can I get you another water with lemon, Mr. Laurent?” Her voice was sugar sweet, but strangely, also as mean as a rattler.
“And let you charge me another two fifty for roughly five seconds of your time?” He shook his head. “At your rates, I’ll owe you nine thousand dollars for an hour of our meeting tomorrow.”
She winked at him, sensual, erotic—so beautiful it hurt to look at her. “Trust me. I’m worth that and more.”
Raising an empty bottle, Brock told her, “Before you guys go and drag me into this odd little mating dance you’re doing, I’ll have another of those penny beers. Please and thank you.”
Jude bit his tongue in an effort to remain silent, annoyed by both the comment and the request. Mating dance? Hell, no. He and Ryanne argued, nothing more. And though he’d never asked his friends to give up alcohol, he’d wanted to, which made him loathe himself a little more. Their pasts were as painful as his own, and they needed an outlet.
“Daniel?” Ryanne asked. “Another ginger ale?”
“Yes, please,” Daniel replied with a grin. “I’m Brock’s designated driver tonight.”
“Well, then, I’ll make sure your sacrifice is rewarded and add a cherry and a lime wedge free of charge.” Slowly, languidly, she leaned toward Jude. “You see anything you want, Mr. Laurent?”
Another clench of muscle low in his gut. “No, thanks. I’m good.”
“Oh, sugar. I’d bet my unmentionables you’re very, very bad.” Hooded gaze locked on him, she flattened her hand on his shoulder. He had to hide a jolt of surprise, the warmth of her skin burning through his shirt, the scent of fresh strawberries and cream strengthening.
“What do you think you’re doing?” he demanded.
“Don’t think. Know. I’m wondering why you look so hungry. Positively ravenous.”
He stiffened in places he shouldn’t. Had she just insinuated that he hungered for her?
He didn’t. He wouldn’t.
She winked at him, all coy femininity and smoky charm—and he did hunger, shit, he did. “Stay right there. I’m going to satisfy your appetite.” With another wink, she took off.
Those hips swayed with more vigor, and his hands curled into fists.
Brock whistled under his breath as he watched her go. “That is one mighty fine woman.”
Of course he would think so. She was exactly his type. The kind of female who would tick off his parents.
Teeth gnashing again...
Don’t care who my friend wants to nail.
“She’s a trouper,” Daniel said with a sly glance at Jude. “We’re in a tri-city, right? Between Strawberry Valley, Blueberry Hill and Grapevine. In all three towns, her mother was known as a get-around girl. Remarried a couple times, but in between marriages she stole the husbands of other women. Even slept with one or two of Ryanne’s high school boyfriends.”
Having done his homework, Jude knew a lot of people disdained Ryanne for her mother’s behavior, and he sympathized. Back in Midland, his mother had been the town pariah. Poor as dirt, so desperate to keep her family farm going, she’d sold herself to any man willing to fix tractors, repair barns or feed cattle.
But Daniel wasn’t done needling Jude. “When Ryanne moved in with one of her former stepdads, hot damn. Even the residents of Strawberry Valley went a little crazy. Earl Hernandez used to own this bar, and Ryanne was seventeen, I think, maybe eighteen. Countless people called her a whore. Parents forbade their children from spending time with her, fearing she was just like her momma. Fact was, she’d moved in to care for the guy. He had cancer.”
Yeah. Jude knew that, too. Damned if you do, damned if you don’t.
Not that he would allow Ryanne’s past to matter to him. He would keep his eyes off her curves and on the prize: her survival.
He’d already briefed the guys about Dushku’s move to town, so he used their minutes alone to explain his plan for camera placement inside and outside the bar, with twenty-four-hour monitoring. A necessary component, considering Ryanne lived upstairs.
“The Scratching Post falls under Blueberry Hill jurisdiction, so we shouldn’t involve the cops just yet,” he added. “There’s serious bias against Ryanne, Dorothea and Lyndie.”