Jace (Kings of Country 1)

“Of course you do.” Travis grinned.

“You two are spending too much time together—you’re doing the same thing.” She pointed between them. The posture. The eyebrow. The slightly condescending half grin. “All of it.” They were even starting to look alike.

They loaded up into the big black SUV with Sawyer behind the wheel. It was a tight fit, but no one complained.

“I left my purse.” Emmy Lou squealed from the back seat.

“We’ll go around,” Sawyer offered, driving around to the back of the amphitheater to the lot behind the row of trailers set up as temporary dressing rooms. Since their bus, the Kings’ Coach II, hadn’t been fully detailed this afternoon, Krystal and Emmy had used the dressing rooms. She didn’t mind the whole communal dressing room thing, but it did get crowded. And, for whatever reason, women tended to overshare a lot when they were getting their hair and makeup done. She’d been all too relieved to see their bus parked and ready, their own personal oasis from the enthusiastic chaos that was the Austin Country Music Festival.

“I’ll get it,” Krystal offered, closest to the door. “Five minutes. Then cake.” She was still smiling when she ran into the dressing room.

The empty boxes, used tissues, makeup wipes, powders, and every sort of hair implement and torture device had been tidied and stored away. Which meant Krystal had to dig through cabinets and shelves before finding Emmy’s large multicolor fringed purse. It was tucked under a box of hot curlers on the far corner of the counter. A bright pink sticky note with Emmy Lou’s name on it hung from the designer label. She was headed back to the front door when something made her stop. A noise. Something bumping into a wall? A slap. Something muffled and shuffling and—another slap?

Noises. A man. Definitely sex noises.

“Gross.” She spun, hoping to sneak out undiscovered, only to trip on the metal foot of a makeup chair. She fell, landing on her knees and dumping Emmy’s bag all over the linoleum floor. She was on her knees, shoving everything back into the purse when the restroom door opened.

Becca.

Crying hard.

Makeup smudged down her face. Her too-bright pink lipstick smeared.

Behind her stood Tig. Eyes closed. Leaning against the wall. Panting hard.

His pants around his ankles.

Krystal was frozen, processing, fighting what she saw. Fighting the truth. She wound up sitting, staring at Becca, so many words clogging her throat. “Becca?” she whispered. “Are you okay?”

“Oh.” Becca floundered, wiping at the tears streaming down her face. “I…um…”

Of course she wasn’t okay. Krystal knew that—knew exactly what this girl was feeling. Fear. Confusion. Shame. And no one to tell, no one to turn to—no one to believe her.

She has me. Krystal stood slowly, sliding Emmy’s bag to her shoulder. “We’re going to get something to eat. You should come.” There wasn’t a thing she could do about the tremor in her voice.

Becca shook her head.

“Please, Becca.”

“I can’t,” she whispered, glancing toward the open bathroom door. She was terrified.

“Yes. You can.” Krystal held her hand out. “Believe me, you can.”

Tig chose that moment to push the bathroom door wide. He was buckling his belt, breathing hard and sweaty and completely oblivious to Krystal’s presence. “That was good. Real good.”

For the first time, she wasn’t afraid. Inside, she was raging. Ears roaring, eyes stinging, lungs aching to scream—long and loud and in his face.

But Becca was crying softly, her gaze falling to her feet. She wouldn’t thank Krystal for becoming her avenging angel, not yet. Right now, she was too caught in it. Trapped in her fear.

“No more of that now, Becca, honey.” He sighed. “You know you’re my—”

“Special girl?” Krystal finished, the words all too familiar. “Come on, Becca. Let’s go.”

His shock was more than a little empowering. Mouth gaping, eyes searching, looking beyond her… To see if she was alone? His gaze locked with hers, his surprise and panic fading as his brows scrunched together. “She’s not going anywhere with you. She’s right where she wants to be.”

Bastard. “Yes, she is.” Krystal stepped forward, still holding out her hand. “Becca?”

“Becca? We talked about this, remember?” Tig whispered. She knew that sweet, cajoling voice all too well. Damn him, climbing into her head—Becca’s head—and making her doubt that what he’d done was wrong. After all, how could someone so sweet, so caring do something so bad? Those words had run through her head long before her mother dared to say them out loud.