Serving Trouble (Second Shot 1)

Oh no, Josie, no. Discovery is not your enemy here.

“Hey, Noah.” She forced a smile. Her voice was low and rough, bordering on sultry. Or maybe that was his imagination. “Any chance we could pretend you didn’t see me today?”

“No.” His tone a helluva lot sharper than he intended. “I have to be honest, Josie. I’m seconds away from speed-­dialing your dad at the station, followed by your brother.”

Her smile vanished, leaving behind a mask of worry. “Calling the cops because I snuck out on a Saturday afternoon? I don’t think they can arrest me for not listening to my dad. I’ve been grounded for the past three weekends. I had to get out.”

Snuck out?

And what the hell was up with her raspy voice? Was she trying to charm him into pretending he hadn’t nearly crashed his truck when he spotted her?

“I saw Travis.” He struggled to keep his tone level and kind. The last thing she needed was another big guy offering hostility. Sure, it had been four years since Noah had traded

his quarterback jersey for a job at his dad’s struggling country western bar, but he still had the strength and height to hurl the ball a lot farther than the damn kid who’d hit her.

I’m going to fucking kill Travis Taylor.

It was one thing to suspect, to nearly hit a mailbox hoping he was seeing things or that he’d get there in time to stop the asshole from raising his arm a second time. But to see the proof on Josie’s face? Noah would hunt the town’s hero of the hour down and make him hurt. Shit, he’d probably land his ass in jail for his trouble. And earn a dishonorable discharge before he even set foot in basic training.

Was that even possible? Could the marines kick him out before he arrived? Would going after Travis wipe away his chance to earn the steady paycheck his family needed to stay afloat?

“He’s kind of the reason I slipped out of the house,” she said, raising her right hand to her neck. “I needed to talk to him. We’re going to different schools in the fall. I thought it would be better if we ended things now. He’ll be here and I’ll be in Portland.”

“You’re breaking up with Travis because of the distance?” This time he couldn’t keep the heavy dose of what the fuck out of his voice. Portland was only an hour, maybe two with traffic, from the Willamette Valley.

“That was my plan,” she murmured.

“Just because he didn’t want to break up, that doesn’t give him the right to—­”

“I know,” she said sharply, her hand still rubbing her neck.

His gaze narrowed, studying the way her long black hair fell over her shoulders. Her pale skin offered a stark contrast to her dark locks. Except around her neck. The area beneath her fingers appeared red. He had to look hard to see it. But a series of scratch marks stood out against the creamy white skin. As if she’d been trying to tear something away from her neck—­or someone. Like the person who’d left behind those angry red marks.

“Ah hell, Josie.” He moved closer and drew her into his arms. At first it was like hugging a two-­by-­four length of wood. But gradually, she relaxed and wrapped her arms around him. And he just held her, not trusting himself to speak. If he opened his mouth now words like “I’m going to make sure no one ever hurts you again” would tumble out. But he couldn’t make that promise. He couldn’t stay by her side, ready and willing to save the day. His dad and grandmother were depending on him to show up at basic training and go wherever the hell the marines needed him.

“Please don’t tell anyone,” she whispered, her cheek against his shoulder. “Not my dad. And please promise me you won’t breathe a word about this to Dominic.”

“Josephine.” He drew back and looked down at her. “Travis hurt you. He deserves to rot in a cell for what he did.”

“It’s his word against mine,” she said softly.

“I saw him,” he ground out. “His hand raised above you—­I saw him.”

“You’re leaving in two weeks. And then it will be just the same as it was after the homecoming dance when we were caught in the hay wagon.”

“What?” His brow furrowed. He couldn’t draw the parallel between two teenagers discovered in a somewhat compromising position—­and they’d both had most of their clothes on—­to a two-­hundred-­pound man slapping his girlfriend and wrapping his hands around her neck.

“Everyone saw Travis holding my underwear and thought, ‘Boys will be boys,’ ” she said. “But then they looked at me and thought, ‘Slut.’ I swear there are still some ­people in this town who think I hypnotized him with my breasts and made him follow me to that wagon. He couldn’t help himself. And it will be the same thing this time. They’ll take one look at me and think, ‘No! Not our football star!’ ” She delivered those words in a familiar high-­pitched, condescending tone.

“Josie—­”

“Face it, Noah. As soon as you leave, Travis will take your place as the town Golden Boy. He’ll be the hero everyone pats on the back. They’ll tell the story of his winning touchdown at that game leading up to the state championship over and over just like they told yours.”

“We won state my year,” he pointed out. But after four years, the thrill of the win had faded. He hadn’t been able to afford college. And while he’d been the best in a small town, he wasn’t good enough for a full scholarship. He stayed in Forever along with his two best friends, all lost in a town they’d lived in their whole lives.

Now they’d finally settled on something. Military ser­vice. A career with purpose, challenge, and a steady paycheck. They were going to do something good and become heroes for something other than throwing a piece of pigskin.

“Travis will be untouchable,” Josie continued. “And I’ll still be . . . me.”