Stop Me (Last Stand 2)

Now all she had to do was appropriate something to wear and get warm.

After a quick search of Romain’s drawers, she came up with a thick cotton Tshirt and a pair of boxers, both of which smelled as fresh as any laundry she’d ever done. Teeth chattering, she pulled them on, then piled her own clothes in a sack and put them by the back door. She wasn’t sure she’d ever be able to get them clean and doubted she’d want to wear them again even if she could. They’d always remind her of the cellar and what she’d found there.

Putting on a heavy coat of Romain’s that’d been hanging on a hook by the front door and a pair of his boots, she clomped out to turn off her headlights and decided to move her car. His house was about as remote as a house could get, but people might come by to wish him a merry Christmas and she didn’t want her car to be spotted. She’d rather go unnoticed until she felt strong enough to venture out again.

After she returned to the house, she put Romain’s coat and boots where they belonged and nearly climbed into his bed. Lord knew she was tempted. That was where she’d feel safest. But even if he was out of town for Christmas, moving into his private space felt a little forward—like Goldilocks in The Three Bears.

After dragging some bedding from a closet at the end of the hall, she curled up on the couch instead and, as soon as she grew warm, fell asleep.

The Gatlin boys had done a damn fine job. They’d bloodied his right cheek, probably bruised a few ribs, and caused him to bust up his knuckles worse than he’d wanted to. But the patrons of the Flying Squirrel had taken a vote and called it a draw so he still had his money.

Groaning as he got out of Croc’s truck, Romain squinted through a skull-splitting headache as he looked back at the old man. “Thanks for the ride.” At least he’d get a good night’s sleep. According to his watch, it was barely ten-thirty.

“What the hell were you trying to do, kill yourself?” he snapped.

“Maybe,” Romain muttered, and shuffled toward the porch.

Croc waited, giving Romain the benefit of his headlights, and Romain managed to cross the uneven ground without falling. It wasn’t until he reached the front steps that he realized something was different. Someone had been at the house.

The flashlight he left out for after-dark returns was gone.

He tried the door. Locked.

But he rarely bothered to lock the door….

Straightening, he gazed back at Croc, wondering if all the booze he’d consumed was playing tricks on him. But then he spotted something else. A car sat off to the side of his drive, parked back in the trees.

Croc rolled down his window and stuck out his head. “Everything okay?”

Romain held up a hand. “Fine,” he said. But things weren’t fine at all. He was pretty sure that car was the rental Jasmine had been driving—and she was the one who’d ruined his Christmas to begin with.

Reluctant to let Croc know he had company, especially female company, he waited until the bar owner had gone before taking his hide-a-key from under the porch and opening the door. He didn’t want to see Jasmine, and he didn’t want her to see him. At least, not like this. His behavior didn’t always make sense, even when a therapist tried to explain it. He knew because the judge at his trial had ordered him to have weekly sessions with a psychologist to “help him deal with his anger.” She said he suppressed his feelings until they couldn’t be suppressed anymore, and then he acted on them in counterproductive ways. But, as far as Romain was concerned, all that talk had been a waste of time. He already knew he wasn’t coping with his feelings well, didn’t need anyone to tell him that. And he still felt better after five minutes with his fists than hours of trying to explain why he wanted to use them.

The shrink didn’t seem to understand that talking wouldn’t make him the man he once was: the proud soldier, the doting father, the loving husband. She kept pointing to what he could give the world, claimed he could still have everything he ever wanted. But it wasn’t just the fact that he’d lost his wife and daughter that ate at him. It was the way he’d lost them, especially Adele. Moreau’s actions had stripped him of the confidence he’d always possessed that he could protect his own. Now the pursuit of happiness seemed more like a crapshoot. What good was anything that fragile?

It was pitch-black inside, and he was slightly unsteady on his feet, but he had no trouble navigating the furniture. Where was Jasmine? If she had to be here, she’d better be in his bed. Even if he was too banged up to make love to her at the moment, her warmth and softness pressed up against him might ease his aches and pains, help him relax. And there was always the possibility that he’d feel okay later on….

But she wasn’t in his bedroom. Once he lit a lantern, he found her on the couch. “What are you doing in my house?”

“Romain?” She stirred, squinting against the light.

“Does someone else own this place?”

“Can you turn that off?”

He was about to blow out the flame. But what he saw made him hesitate: she had almost as many injuries as he did. “What the hell?”

“The light!” She put up her hands to block it, but he ignored the complaint.

Lifting her chin, he shoved her hair out of the way so he could get a look at her.

“What happened to you?”

She gazed up at him, now fully awake, her eyes focused on his own injuries. “I could ask you the same thing.”

“I had a little trouble at the Flying Squirrel.”

“Someone jumped you?”

“It was more like two someones. And I asked for it. Your turn.”

Shivering, she drew the blanket higher. “It’s so cold in here.”

“Does that surprise you? It’s winter, and you came to a house with no utilities.”

“I’m already regretting it.” She tried to pull away, to get up, but he pressed her to the couch with one hand on her shoulder.

“I asked you a question.”

“I fell, okay?”

He set the lamp on the table and took her hands, studying the scrapes and gouges and broken fingernails he’d glimpsed when she’d tried to swat the light away.

They looked as if she’d clawed her way out of a coffin. “This happened when you fell?”

“That and more.” She folded back the blanket to show him, but the first thing he noticed was that she was wearing his clothes. His body reacted with a significant rise in hormones. But he was too concerned about the injuries on her knees and feet to mention the fact that she must’ve gone through his drawers.