Booted (Trails of Sin 3)

I yank the phone from her hand and press it to my ear. “You’re dead, motherfucker.”

The silence on the other end yanks my attention to the car fifty yards away.

“Who is this?” Ford’s voice wobbles.

“Lorne Cassidy.”

“Oh, shit…” He gasps, and something thumps on the other end. “Fuck!”

Of course, he knows me. My trial was the biggest news story in Sandbank history.

He disconnects the call. A second later, he flicks on his headlights and races out of the lot, fishtailing as he swerves onto the road and out of sight.

“He can run.” I drop the phone and flex my hands. “But I’ll catch that dumbass son of a bitch.”

“Yeah, you do that. Right after I rip off your dumbass balls and slap your dumbass face with them.” She stomps her foot. “Dammit, Lorne. He was going to help us.”

I stab a finger in the direction of the car. “You let him grope you!”

“They’re just boobs.” She throws her arms in the air and lets them drop. “I don’t get you.”

Christ, her fucking mouth… I want to shove my cock between those shameless, taunting lips and shut her the fuck up.

I twist toward her, giving her the full force of my eyes. “Don’t ever do that again.”

“Let me get this straight.” She sits taller. “You don’t want to touch me, and no one else can touch me, either.”

“Sounds like you get me just fine.”

“You don’t own me.”

“No, but while you’re living under my roof, you’ll abide by my rules.”

“Okay, Dad.”

My hand flies to her throat, and I wrench her face to mine. “I assure you there isn’t a fatherly thought going through my head.”

She swallows against my palm, and fear blazes in her eyes. She trembles with it, but instead of pulling back or clawing at my grip, she leans closer. Not in submission, but in brazen contempt.

“Do it.” She bares her teeth and digs her nails into the denim on my thigh. “Choke me, if it makes you feel like a man.”

Fucking hell, she turns me on. I can make a homicidal inmate walk the other way with just a look. But this wisp of a woman seems to welcome my fury. I know she fears me, yet she never cowers.

I release her. Her fingers fly to her neck, and her eyes… If looks could kill, I’d be laid out in a pile of eviscerated organs.

We make a toxic pair, she and I. The sooner I get her trained and out of my life, the better. Because if she stays around much longer, I will fuck her, and it won’t be decent or reconcilable. I’ll punish her with every feral breath in my body while destroying every orifice in hers. I don’t think either of us would survive it.

She crosses her arms. “You’re such a—”

“Find something to listen to.” I toss my phone at her and shove the truck into drive.

If I know her as well as I think I do, she’s burning to tell me all the ways I’m a miserable fuck. Hell knows, I don’t need the reminder.

She scowls at the phone in her hand, her thumb slapping angrily against the screen. After a few more swipes, a snappy beat stomps through the speakers of the truck.

She’s playing Cowboy Casanova by Carrie Underwood, and given the smirk on her face, she selected the man-bashing song for me.

As I veer onto the road, she sets the phone on the seat and angles toward the passenger window.

Our last stop sits on the outer edge of town, nestled in a long one-story group of buildings. I park in front of one of several adjacent retail shops and shut off the engine.

The lot is empty, all the stores closed for the evening. After spending the day running errands and dealing with people, my patience is shot.

Society is a steaming pile of self-centered fucks. I couldn’t help but laugh at their common miseries as they huffed in the long line at the drivers license bureau, honked and road raged at other drivers, and sneered at crying children.

When I saw a baby in the phone store today, I couldn’t stop staring. I don’t care if I looked like a pedophile. She was just so damn beautiful and innocent with those big tears in her eyes. Meanwhile, the assholes in line glared and winced.

I can’t stomach the thought of being around more assholes.

So here I am, sitting in front of a glass door with a sign that scrawls Cora’s Clothier in curly letters.

In high school, Cora said she would open her own shop in this very location. I’m not surprised she made it happen.

When I called her a couple of hours ago, she was more than happy to let me in after-hours.

I scrutinize the shadows beneath the awnings, the residential homes along the street, and the unlit windows of the closed shops. If John hired someone to collect Raina, now would be the time to attack.