His photo was everywhere—TV news, newspapers, online tabloids—and because reporters were ruthless fucks and people today craved juicy gossip, I’d been dragged into the mess. I was The Son. The only living relative of Dennis Seaborn, the guy who’d lied about murdering Cutthroat’s own, Erin Mills.
They’d tried to get me to talk. I had zero to say on the matter. I hadn’t seen my father in almost twenty years, hadn’t spoken to him once.
I wanted nothing to do with my father. Never would.
I had no idea why he’d done it. Why the fuck would he admit to a crime he hadn’t committed? It made no sense to me or to anyone else, including the police.
But the reporters were like raptors over small prey, sinking their claws in and going for the kill. I was the perfect fodder. They knew I worked with Lucas, Erin’s brother. They knew we’d been best friends for years. I’d given them the perfect story on a silver platter.
Cyrus Seaborn: Best friend’s sister murdered, father falsely admits killing her.
I didn’t tell those fuckers anything, only aimed my rifle their way until they left.
I’d been there for Lucas through the shitstorm, the funeral, dealing with his parents, working through his loss. Still. And he’d been there with me through the fiasco with my father, even though Lucas had every right to hate me for what the bastard had done. Just like everyone else in town.
And since dear old dad hadn’t bashed Erin’s head in after all, it was important to find out who had, not just for Lucas, but for myself, too. The police had no new leads. Lucas had been keeping me updated since they weren’t interested in hearing from anyone from the Seaborn family. I didn’t blame them. They had a hard enough job finding the killer without someone misdirecting them. My father had wasted their time when they could have focused on finding the real killer.
All that shit was why I had no intention of heading into Cutthroat until the interest in Dennis Seaborn died
down. I’d made it three weeks, so far.
That was a long time without seeing a woman. It had been much longer since I’d fucked one, but Lucas seemed concerned I was spending too much time alone, my hand as my only source of companionship. He knew what depression was like since he suffered from PTSD, helped other vets through it.
So, he’d what, hired a hooker? That was a new kind of therapy, for sure.
She didn’t look like one, although I wasn’t expecting her to pull up in fuck-me heels, a tight latex skirt and red corset either.
“Yeah, that’s what I thought you said,” I replied, scratching my beard.
Dust rose in the distance indicating a car coming down the drive. I looked that way, and she followed my gaze.
“Hopefully, that’s Lucas,” she stated, her shoulders relaxing slightly.
I didn’t say anything else until he pulled up and parked. Lucas had all the answers.
He climbed out of his truck, went over to her and kissed her. Didn’t even give me a chin lift as a hello. He only had eyes for her.
What. The. Fuck?
He gave her a smile, then slung an arm around her shoulders. Then, only then did look to me.
“I see you’ve met,” he said.
“I’m not hard up enough to need a hooker, you fucker,” I told him.
His eyes winged up, then narrowed, jaw clenched. “We might be best friends, but I won’t hesitate to beat the shit out of you for calling my woman a fucking hooker.”
What the fuck?
I sighed, let it out. Okay, so she wasn’t a hooker. She was worse. His woman? What the hell did that mean exactly? Girlfriend? Friend with benefit? Fiancée?
I was surprisingly disappointed. I’d wanted this woman, wanted to fuck her as that was what she’d said she was here for, to find out what made her hot so her mind would go blank, so that brazenness would be spanked out of her, softened to just whimpers and moans. She’d be putty in my hands.
I told my dick to stand down.
Lucas had told me he’d met someone, that she was incredible, that what they had was special. I could see it. They looked good together. I could see the heat and chemistry between them from where I stood on the porch.
Even though she belonged to my friend, I could see being with her, too. She hit every one of my hot buttons, and a few I didn’t know I had, and I didn’t even know her fucking name.