Can't Hardly Breathe Read online

  Another clench of muscle low in his gut. "No, thanks. I'm good."

  "Oh, sugar. I'd bet my unmentionables that you're very, very bad." Hooded gaze locked on him, she leaned over to flatten her hand on his shoulder, and he had to hide a jolt of surprise. The warmth of her skin burned through his shirt, the scent of fresh strawberries and cream enveloping him. Made him think of strawberry shortcake, and his mouth watered.

  "What do you think you're doing?" he demanded.

  "Don't think. Know. I'm wondering why you look so hungry. Positively ravenous."

  He stiffened in places he shouldn't. Had she just insinuated that he hungered for her?

  He didn't. He wouldn't.

  She winked at him, all coy femininity and smoky charm--and he did hunger, shit, he did. "Stay right there. I'm going to satisfy your appetite," she said with another wink, and off she went, those hips swaying with even more vigor.

  His hands curled into fists.

  Brock whistled under his breath as he watched her go. "That is one mighty fine woman."

  Of course he'd think so. She was his type. The kind of female who would tick off his parents.

  Teeth gnashing again...

  Don't care who my friend wants to nail.

  "She's a trooper," Daniel said with a sly glance at Jude. "We're in a tri-city, right? Between Strawberry Valley, Blueberry Hill and Grapevine. In all three towns, her mother was known as the get-around girl. Remarried a couple times, but in-between marriages she stole the husbands of other women. Even slept with one or two of Ryanne's high school boyfriends."

  Having done his homework, Jude knew a lot of people disdained Ryanne for her mother's behavior, and he sympathized. His own mother had been the town pariah back in Midland. Poor as dirt, so desperate to keep her family farm going, she sold herself to any man willing to help her.

  But Daniel wasn't done. "When Ryanne moved in with one of her former stepdads, hot damn. Even the residents of Strawberry Valley went crazy. Earl Hernandez used to own this bar, and Ryanne was seventeen, I think, maybe eighteen. Countless people called her a slut and a whore. Parents forbid their children from spending time with her, fearing she was just like her momma. Fact was, she'd moved in to care for the guy. He had cancer."

  Yeah. Jude knew that, too. Damned if you do, damned if you don't.

  Not that he would allow Ryanne's past to matter to him. He would keep his eye on the prize: her survival.

  He'd already briefed the guys about Dushku's move to town, so he used their minutes alone to explain his plan for camera placement inside and outside the bar, with twenty-four-hour monitoring. A necessary component considering Ryanne lived upstairs.

  "The Scratching Post falls into Blueberry Hill jurisdiction, so we shouldn't involve the cops just yet," he added. "There's serious bias against Ryanne, Dorothea and Lyndie. Lyndie was married to the former chief, and Ryanne helped her leave him."

  "It's true. I wasn't here, but I remember my dad's shock when the seemingly happy couple split," Daniel said. "Apparently he was beating the shit out of her."

  Brock tensed, his hands balled, ready to strike. "Where is he now?" The words were laced with so much rage, Jude had no doubt Chief Carrington would be beaten to death if he walked through the door.

  "Don't know, and I'm not going to try and find out, because I have a feeling you'll get yourself sent to prison," Daniel said. "As for Dushku, we don't want to stay on the defensive. We need to go on the offensive as soon as possible."

  Jude rubbed the back of his neck, unable to alleviate the tension there. "The Dushkus are merciless."

  "We put the fear of God in them now," Brock said, "and we'll save ourselves trouble later."

  Or start a war.

  Who was he kidding? The war had already started.

  "I'll take care of this," he said. He'd keep his friends--and their women--out of it.

  "We'll all take care of it," Brock corrected. "Together."

  All for one, and one of all. The story of their lives. Even still, Jude would take the lead on this. When things got bad, and they would, he would be the sole target.

  Wasn't like he had anything to lose.

  He said none of that, however. His friends would only argue. What they couldn't do? Stop him.

  Ryanne arrived with drinks, a bowl of popcorn with sesame-glazed pistachios, soft pretzel sticks with beer cheese fondue, and a plate of bacon-wrapped French fries. "We call this the One Night Stand. Expect an orgasm in your mouth. This is the Horizontal Tango, and this one is known as the Porking. If you'd like to add a plate of Thai-coconut chicken wings, which we refer to as the Boneyard, just let me know." Smiling as Jude nearly choked on his tongue, she presented him a bill. "Enjoy," she said with a wink.

  He expected her to leave, but once again she leaned toward him, her elbows resting on the bar between them. "Well? Taste everything, and tell me again about the amount of salt in the food."

  Daniel snagged a French fry, and Brock grabbed a pretzel. Jude hadn't had a real appetite since...in a long time, but he couldn't stop himself from tossing popcorn and pistachios in his mouth. The sweet and perfectly salted flavors hit his tongue, and he moaned.

  Next thing he knew, he'd emptied the bowl.

  "Guess my snacks are delicious, after all." Ryanne laughed, the magical sound somehow turning the food in his stomach to rocks. "Tips are encouraged or the next round might come with an extra special topping."

  With one more of those annoying winks, she wandered off to do what she did best: charm absolutely everyone.

  Before his brain registered his intention, Jude found himself on his feet, stalking after her, finally jumping in front of her. "You're being nice to me." Flirting with him. "Why?"

  "I realized I'm now your boss." Cheeks glowing a lovely shade of rose, she beamed up at him. Whether she was flushed from the temperature of the room or pleasure, he didn't know. "My word is law, no matter how much you protest."

  So beautiful. But then, a devil never appeared with horns, holding a pitchfork. A devil appeared looking like everything you'd ever secretly wanted but knew you shouldn't have.

  He crossed his arms over his chest. "You actually think you're in charge."

  In the muted light, her dark eyes glittered like jewels, tempting him to--nothing. "You said you were doing this for your friends. I know how much you love them, how much you don't want to let them down. I'm willing to play the part of happy employer, but it's going to cost you."

  Blackmailing him? "The price?" he grated.

  "Praise. One compliment a day. Two if you're being particularly snarly."

  You've got to be kidding me. "An unearned compliment is a lie."

  "And you never lie?"

  "Never." Truth was too precious.

  Her head canted to the side, her study of him intensifying. "So you can't think of anything positive to say about me?"

  "I--" Could. Denying it would have been a lie.

  She'd well and truly trapped him, an impressive feat. One worthy of the compliment she desired. Unwilling to give up an inch of ground he'd won, he said, "If you want your business to come out of this alive, you'll do what I say. End of story."

  She took a step toward him, those glittering eyes threatening to hypnotize him into submission. Then her breasts brushed against his chest, earning a gasp from her and a hiss from him. Like a coward--an aching, throbbing coward--he took a step back, severing contact.

  "Are you afraid of me, Jude?" She took another step forward, so close her warm breath rasped over his skin, over the racing pulse at the base of his neck.

  "No!" His back bowed as the denial roared from him. Over the years, he'd been shot, stabbed and had part of an appendage blown off. Fear a slip of a woman? "No," he repeated more calmly.

  "Well, I'm sorry to hear that." As graceful as a ballerina, as erotic as a pole dancer, she flipped her silky hair over her shoulder. "I think I would have enjoyed soothing you."

  The words astounded him. Had she just com
e on to him?

  Jude pulled at his collar, suddenly sweating. Ryanne Wade was too hot, and so was his blood. His body was in serious danger of overheating, a physical reaction he hadn't experienced in a long time, thanks to another woman. My Constance.

  Memories fought for his attention. The way Constance had smiled at him each morning when she'd woken in their bed, as if overjoyed to find him home. The way she'd somehow ruined every meal she'd ever cooked, but had looked at him with adoration whenever he'd cleaned his plate. The way she'd cried over Hallmark commercials.

  Suddenly the air was too thick to pull into his lungs. His chest tightened, and his limbs shook.

  Time to go. He didn't bother saying goodbye to Ryanne or even to his friends. He rushed out of the bar, never looking back.

  *

  JUDE THREW HIS truck in Park, half the vehicle in the grass, the other half in the driveway of the cabin he and Brock leased. Still fighting for breath, he exited and headed for the porch, but he only made it halfway across the yard before falling to his knees, the pain and grief he sometimes managed to hold at bay exploding through him all at once, filling him, killing him.

  A lie. He wasn't dying. Death would have been a mercy, and mercy had long since abandoned him.

  As he screamed obscenities at the sky and punched his fist into the grass, crickets quieted, fireflies vanished. Hanks of dirt flung this way and that. A rock sliced into the side of his hand, the sting a minor inconvenience compared to the fire seeming to pour through his chest, ashing his heart, charring his lungs.

  This was his life now, a series of minutes and days that bled into months and years. He existed, nothing more. Except for moments like this, when waves of pain and grief overtook him. Deep down, he resented every second he spent on this earth.

  But what rankled most? Part of him didn't want to fight. Pain had been there for him on the worst day of his life. Grief had hugged him close and kept him focused on what he'd lost: his entire fucking world.

  He would have eaten the barrel of a .38 a long time ago if not for a promise he'd made to Constance. Shy, sweet Constance, his high school sweetheart.

  They'd met on a double date he'd attended only because his friend had begged. Constance had been as pretty and delicate as a cameo, and at moment one she'd sent his adolescent hormones into a tailspin. He'd wanted her more than he'd ever wanted anything, and she'd wanted him too, willingly shucking convention to go steady with the poorest boy in town. The boy who'd once nailed more tail than Brock on his best day, all in an effort to prove he was wanted--worth something.

  You're worth everything, Jude Laurent. Do you hear me? Everything!

  They'd married the week after graduation, and soon after he'd joined the military, determined to provide a good life for her.

  Before he'd shipped out the first time, she'd wrapped her arms around him and said, Promise me no matter how hard it gets and no matter what happens, you'll never give up.

  I promise. I'll never give up. Now give me a kiss. Remind me of what I'll be missing.

  If he could have lived inside the fabric of his happiest memories, he might have had a halfway decent chance of becoming the man he'd once been. But reality was a determined foe, as unstoppable as the pain and grief, clawing and kicking for rights to his mind. Dreams offered no succor; any time his subconscious took over, he relived a moment he hadn't actually witnessed, a night forged in blood, fire and death.

  The night his wife and twin daughters had died.

  In the present, hot tears poured down his cheeks, leaving raw, stinging tracks in their wake. Two and a half years ago, a frat boy had drunk too much at a local bar, climbed into his car and drove away. No one had cared enough to stop him. Only nine minutes, twenty-three seconds later, he crashed into Constance Laurent's minivan, ruining Jude's life forever.

  Constance died on her way to the hospital. The twins, Bailey and Hailey, died on impact.

  The entire world should have ceased spinning that--very--second. The galaxy should have mourned the loss of such beauty, laughter and light. Rare treasures, his girls.

  Dance with me, Daddy. I found my moves and my grooves!

  Daddy, I'm not joking and I'm not playing. I need chocolate right now or I'm gonna lose it.

  Lose what, little sweet?

  I don't know. It.

  In the ensuing weeks, people had offered him what they thought were words of comfort. Meant to be. No stopping fate.

  More lies. Fate hadn't poured alcohol down Frat Boy's throat, and fate hadn't put car keys in his hand.

  Besides, nothing comforted Jude. The only arms capable of offering him solace were now rotting in a grave.

  All he had were memories of a life he'd adored. Memories he both loved and despised. He remembered the way Bailey's nose had crinkled when she'd giggled. The way Hailey had twirled a strand of hair around her finger when she cried. The way Constance had blown him a kiss every time he'd walked out the door, whether he'd been headed for another mission or to the grocery store.

  He had nothing left...was nothing...hoped for nothing.

  Yet another lie. He had friends who'd swooped in the moment he'd called. Gone...they're just...gone.

  What he lacked now was a purpose.

  Perhaps he'd found one in the Scratching Post? At least a temporary one. By saving Ryanne and the bar he despised with every fiber of his being, he would save Daniel and Brock from losing someone they cared for.

  Through the trials of war, they too had walked hand-in-hand with pain and grief, sorrow and loneliness. Overseas, they'd lost friends in a thousand different ways. They'd overcome great odds to save Jude on the bloodiest of battlefields, carrying him away when he couldn't even crawl, his leg nothing but a butchered stump, gunfire raining all around them.

  Jude wiped his face with the bottom of his shirt and fell back on his haunches. He loved his friends, but he missed his family more than he missed his leg. Sometimes he had phantom pains, allowing him to pretend the leg was still there. At no time did he ever forget he was a family man without a family. Essentially alone.

  He wished he could be more like Ryanne. She lived in the moment, enjoyed the highs and rolled with the lows. Embraced them even, learning from her mistakes and basking in her triumphs.

  Irritation pricked at him. Be like a bar owner? A person who served alcohol to potential motorists? Never.

  He would go on as always, pretending to live, breaking down, pretending to live again.

  I'll never give up.

  Don't miss CAN'T LET GO by New York Times bestselling author Gena Showalter, coming soon wherever HQN Books and ebooks are sold.

  www.Harlequin.com

  Copyright (c) 2017 by Gena Showalter

  ISBN-13: 9781459294974

  Can't Hardly Breathe

  Copyright (c) 2017 by Gena Showalter

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  This is a work of fiction. Names, characters, places and incidents are either the product of the author's imagination or are used fictitiously, and any resemblance to actual persons, living or dead, business establishments, events or locales is entirely coincidental. This edition published by arrangement with Harlequin Books S.A.

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  , Can't Hardly Breathe

  (Series: Original Heartbreakers # 4)