Wet and Reckless (Private Pleasures 4)

The knowledge left a stupid little ache in her chest. Stupid, because she’d see him later, for God’s sake, but not really surprising, because there was a lot of stupid going on with her lately. It was stupid how her heart tripped into a drum cover tribute to “Breakdown” whenever he walked into the diner. It was stupid how she of the rampant insomnia found sleep easily when she spent the night in his arms. It was crazy-stupid how often she caught herself weaving plans for the future—daydreams about sneaking kisses behind the bandstand in the town square during the Labor Day festivities next month, or taking turns giving out candy to pint-sized Avengers and Elevens over Halloween, or snuggling in front of the fireplace in his living room while the first snowflakes of winter settled softly on the windowsills.

She wouldn’t be there on Labor Day or Halloween, and she sure as hell wouldn’t be spending the winter. She couldn’t. One of these days—probably soon—her luck would run out. She knew this. If she stayed put, Randy Boudreaux would find her, or worse, Uncle Billy, and for West’s sake as much as hers, she couldn’t let that happen. She was already on borrowed time.

Since that thought sent a jolt of panic right to her stupid aching heart, she took her bow as applause washed over her and made a beeline through the kitchen to the back door, only stopping long enough to snag her emergency cigarette and lighter from her purse.

She slammed out the screen door, out of the clatter and steam of the kitchen, and into an equally steamy night. Even with shaking hands it took less than ten seconds to light the cigarette and savor the first deep kiss of nicotine, the instant loosening the vice clamped across her chest. On the long exhale, a calm born of deep breathing and soothing habit settled on her. She closed her eyes and cleared her mind. The sounds of the kitchen carried, but the scents of fried food and beer faded, replaced by the smell of smoke and…she inhaled again and frowned…garbage, stewing in the dumpster parked against the wall to her left.

The view from the small, mostly empty back parking area didn’t improve matters. Poorly lit by one miserly bulb dangling from an off-kilter pole, encroached on all sides by tangles of brush, it bore all the signs of neglect. There’d been a time in her life when she would have happily spent the whole night right there, impervious to the foul smell and dingy setting, focused solely on the high. Now they turned her stomach so drastically she stubbed out the cigarette with a disgusted sound and started to head back into the pub.

A thump, followed by a sudden, broken wail, stopped her. The sound came again, louder and longer, followed by the low staccato of a male voice.

An angry male voice.

Roxy made her way toward her best calculation of the source of the sounds—an old Chevy pickup parked at the edge of the lot. As she neared, she heard the scuff of boots on asphalt followed by the hollow thud of a body blow. Another inarticulate whine immediately followed, not quite loud enough to cover the string of harsh, curse-peppered threats. “Git the fuck out of here. Git, or I’ll kick the shit out of you.”

Peering around the bed of the truck, she saw a big, dark figure looming over a stubby-legged black dog straining toward a to-go container someone had dropped by the front tire of the truck. Oblivious to his audience, the man lifted his foot and prepared to deliver another blow to the cowering animal.

Had the part of her brain in charge of impulse control not switched off at that moment, Roxy might have thought to run back into the pub for backup, but outrage and adrenaline took her down a quicker, risker route. She ran at the man, yelling, “Don’t you dare kick that dog!” and jumped on his back.

The gut-level satisfaction gained from his breathless, “What the hell?” soon spiraled away as he whirled and slammed her into the corner of the cab. The impact emptied her lungs and loosened the chokehold she had around his throat. Before she could catch her breath, he slammed back again, harder. “Git the fuck off me!” he said as big, meaty hands dislodged her arms. She tumbled to the asphalt.

“L-leave the dog alone!” Scrambling to her feet, she lunged forward to protect the animal, still cowering by the spilled food.

“Leave me alone,” he growled and jerked the driver’s door open.

The edge of the side mirror connected solidly with Roxy’s forehead. The parking lot took one sickening whirl before her vision blurred. Her body went weightless.

A disembodied voice grunted, “Rawley can kiss my ass. Deal’s off if he can’t keep a stray dog and a crazy bitch out of my way.”

And then, for Roxy, the lights went out.

Chapter Eighteen

West steered the cruiser toward town, listening to Shaun’s side of a phone conversation with Sheriff Malone, while calculating they’d make it to Bluelick in time for him to catch the back half of Roxy’s second set.

The prospect had him nudging the needle of the speedometer a little closer to seventy than it ought to be. He was in the process of easing it back down to sixty-five when Shaun said, “Hey, Malone, I’ve got a call on my other line. Can I hit you back tomorrow to work out the logistics? Thanks. Later.” Then he switched to the incoming call with a brisk, “Buchanan.”

The voice on the other end was indistinct to West’s ears, but as it warbled on, Shaun sat up a little straighter and glanced at him. “When?”

Something in the look made West’s insides twist. “What?” he mouthed.

Shaun ignored him. “Who made that assessment? Okay. That’s good. Where is she now?”

And just like that, West’s heart shot into his throat. He knew with bone-deep certainty the “she” was Roxy, and something that didn’t resemble “settling in pretty well” had happened. Shaun ended the call and took a deep breath, while West fought not to come out of his skin. “I know it’s Roxy. Just tell me.”

“First off, she’s okay—and that’s according to Ellie, so you can rely on it. They’re at her office right now. Hudson’s with them, trying to get a complete statement, but from what I glean, Jeb found Roxy unconscious in the parking area behind the pub, and—”

“She didn’t eat. Dammit.” He took the turn toward Main Street. “How careless can one woman be when it comes to her own well—”

“No, not faint, unconscious. She got into some kind of altercation. She’s a little bruised, a little banged up. Took a blow to the head and it punched her clock for maybe a minute, by Jeb’s estimate. But she’s recovering now, and Ellie says she’s going to be fine.”

West tried to focus on that last part, but it didn’t stop his anger from boiling over. “Who? Who hit her? I want a name.”

“We don’t have a name. No, I’m not stonewalling you,” Shaun added when West opened his mouth to interrupt. “Best description we have right now is a ‘big guy with an old Chevy pickup’ who was harassing a dog. Roxy didn’t recognize him, but then again, she didn’t get a real good look.”

“Someone else must have seen the guy. Jeb or—”

Shaun shook his head. “No witnesses. Roxy was alone when it went down. She finished her first set and stepped out back to take a break. While there, she heard the dog fussing, went to investigate, and then jumped in to intercede. Literally, as it happens. She jumped on the man’s back and tried to get him in a chokehold. He employed countermeasures and took off. The lot was empty by the time Jeb took a load of empties to the dumpster and found her.”