Wild Kisses (Wildwood 2)

JT grunted; rasped, “Fucker”; and grappled for room to take another swing.

Before he got the chance, Trace grabbed the front of JT’s shirt, yanked him upright, and drove his fist into his face. That sickening, flesh-on-flesh sound only dragged Trace deeper into the darkness of his past. He shoved JT up against the car and glanced toward Wildwood, hoping for headlights. For salvation.

Before he could focus, JT shoved Trace back with both hands, and he used his body weight to take Trace to the ground. The bare skin of his back hit the asphalt and burned like fire. Trace yelled first; then the pain stole his breath and gave JT the opportunity to get in a couple of good shots to his face. But once Trace found his equilibrium, he pulled out all the stops.

He rolled JT to his back and punched him until the bastard didn’t have the strength to hit back. Then Trace held him down as lights approached and sirens sounded in the distance. A car screeched to a stop, and the door opened.

“Holy fuck, Trace.”

Zane.

“Took you long enough.” With his chest heaving for air, Trace sat back on his heels as Zane swung out his cuffs. With the headlights shining directly on them, Trace got his first good look at JT. His face was cut and bloody, lips split, eye already bruising. Sickness rolled through Trace’s gut. Had he really inflicted that much damage? To avoid the uncomfortable answer to that question, he asked Zane, “What the fuck were you doing?”

“Me? What the fuck are you doing? Jesus Christ, I can’t tell who’s hurt worse. Do you need an ambulance?”

“Yeah,” JT coughed, “he—”

“Shut up,” both Trace and Zane said at the same time. Then Trace added, “You’re getting nothing but a trip directly back to Folsom, fuckin’ prick.”

&nbs

p; Zane spoke into a handheld radio, telling the deputy on duty he had the suspect in custody and was bringing him back to the café, then looked at his brother. “You need a trip to the ER.”

“As soon as I get these”—he glared at JT, whom Zane had pulled to a sitting position—“stolen appliances worth twenty grand back to their rightful owner. That, you piece of shit, would be considered grand theft, which I’m pretty damn sure would amount to a felony—and your fuckin’ third strike. Take a big, deep breath of air. It’ll be the last you get outside prison.”

Zane jerked JT to his feet. The man leaned toward Trace. “You’d better hope I don’t get out, ’cause I’ll be coming back for you, Hutton. And next time I won’t be keeping my hands off that bitch that’s got a ring through your nose.”

Trace saw red. He lunged for JT and caught his neck just as Zane jerked the man back and out of Trace’s grip.

“Shut your fucking mouth,” Zane said in that cop tone Trace had heard far too often during his life. “Or I’m gonna give you back to him.”

Avery was normally pretty good under pressure. She’d had many occasions as a military wife to support other members of military families in times of crisis. But she was, admittedly, not doing so well now.

As soon as the first deputy’s car showed up at the café, Wildwood residents seemed to appear out of nowhere. Some wandering over to ask if she was okay, like Mark, who still hovered nearby despite Avery’s suggestion he go home. Now there were three cruisers in front of the café, lights blinking in the 2:00 a.m. dark. The last to show up, just minutes before, was Austin. He’d climbed from the car and spent several minutes talking to the other two deputies before starting toward her.

And, God, her nerves were already shot. She didn’t have the patience for him. All she could think about was the look on Trace’s face when he’d left. His anger so sharp, so intense, she’d been pacing with all sorts of horrible thoughts and fears and insecurities filling her head.

Austin paused his slow swagger about eight feet away. “Zane found Trace and JT.”

Avery’s footsteps stopped and her stomach seized up. Something about the way he’d phrased that made Avery cold. “JT?”

“You didn’t know it was JT who stole the van?”

“No, I didn’t see the driver.” And now Avery’s fear intensified. A fear that cut so deep, she couldn’t process it in the moment. So she slapped a Band-Aid on and asked the hardest question of her life. “Are they . . .” She had to force air into her lungs to speak. “Is Trace okay?”

Headlights turned onto the driveway. Avery’s gaze jumped that direction but didn’t find the Jeep Trace had taken or the truck JT had stolen. She found Ethan’s truck turning in. And her heart fell.

“Austin,” Avery said, drawing his gaze back. “Is Trace okay?”

Austin’s gaze returned to the road, where Zane’s black SUV slowed and followed Ethan’s truck. “Well, here comes Zane. I guess we’ll see.”

Her focus jumped to a third set of headlights behind the SUV and found the rental truck coming in behind Zane. All Avery’s air whooshed out in relief. A second driver meant Trace had to be okay.

She didn’t get a chance to think about anything else before Ethan and Delaney parked and her sister rushed to her, wrapping Avery tight. “Are you okay?”

Suddenly she wasn’t so sure. “I just want to make sure Trace is okay.”

As the other cars made their way to the café, Avery explained what had happened. And by the time Zane stood from the driver’s seat, Delaney and Ethan wore the same grim expression.