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“I’m so sorry, Atticus. I need to go home.” She wrapped her arms around herself.
Maybe if he knew her better, if she was his submissive, he’d be justified in pressing her. Unfortunately, she’d made her position clear. They were friends with benefits. Nothing more. He paused, giving her a chance to change her mind, then shook his head in defeat. “Get your things. I’ll fire up the truck.”
A few minutes later, he slowed for the turn into the Mastersons’ spread.
“Not here. My car is at the lodge.” At his lifted brows, she added, “I was visiting Kallie. She took me with her when she went to feed the horses.”
Although Kallie helped out with chores when the other Mastersons were off in the mountains, she lived at Serenity Lodge with her husband, Jake. “Got it.”
Stepping on the gas, he continued up the mountain. The gray of the road darkened with his mood; the silence was a weight all its own.
He pulled into the Serenity Lodge parking area and got out.
Gin didn’t wait for him to open her door, but jumped out on her own. “I’m sorry, Atticus. You had a horrible day, and I’m… Instead I dragged you back out. I’m sorry.” Her gaze searched his face. “I hope you sleep all right and… Well. Good night.”
She headed for her ride.
Eager to get away from him? His mouth tightened. This was bullshit. He caught up, opened her car door, and gripped her arm carefully, but firmly. “Talk to me, Gin. I’m missing something here.”
Her gaze dropped to the beaten-down earth and the flattened weeds.
He let her think. He’d wait for fucking ever if need be. What the hell was going on inside her?
After a minute, she straightened her shoulders. Her face was pale and strained as she stared at the trees. Not him. Not a good sign. “Okay, it’s like this,” she said. “I moved away from Louisiana to get away from…myself. No, to get away from the man I was seeing. He was… No, I was…” She bit her lip. “The problem is how I let him—all men—use me. It’s something wrong in me, and I left because it was the only way I could think of to stop the way things were.”
Atticus bit down on his molars until he could hear them grind in protest. Be a pleasure to meet the asshole who could make this gentle woman look so torn and lost. “So you moved here.”
“Exactly.” Her gaze finally met his. “I love it here, but I don’t want to get into…a relationship…with you. I don’t trust… No, I mean, I try too hard to… I’d do anything to—”
“What?” She didn’t trust him? The insult snapped his spine straight. Jesus Christ. “You think I’d use you?” His stepfather had used his mother. Abused her. “I didn’t ask you to cook or clean for me.”
“You don’t understand.” She shook her head. “I just don’t want to be the one giving all the time and—”
Coldness filled him. He opened his hand and released her arm. “We sure as hell wouldn’t want that to happen. Guess it’s best you cut this off now.”
Her hand rose as if she wanted to touch his face.
He stepped back. Too late. Jesus, he hadn’t even wanted her to cook, hadn’t invited her into his shower. And now she accused him of taking.
Gin felt despair filling her as the hurt expression in Atticus’s eyes changed to a bitter icy color. As if he saw a stranger. One he didn’t like.
He turned on his heel and strode back to his truck.
She stared after him, feeling the words battering at her closed throat, the memories swirling in her head. “I’m sorry, Daddy. Don’t leave. I’ll make everything pretty in the house.” But he’d walked away without looking back.
“I’m sorry I didn’t get the dry cleaning, Preston. I’ll pick it up tomorrow.”
Just don’t look at me as if I let you down.
Love me, please. Don’t leave me.
And here she was again, wanting to do anything, say anything, to persuade a man to stay. She swallowed the nausea, swallowed the words.
The truck door slammed. With a dull roar, the pickup exited the lot.
She stood, paralyzed, listening to the sound fade.
Gone.
A sob shuddered through her, and she gulped it down too. This was for the best, for both of them. She’d gotten too close to him and relapsed into her old patterns. It certainly wasn’t his fault—this was all on her. She knew better than to get involved with a man. Any man. Because what happened? She turned into a doormat. She couldn’t let herself fall into those patterns again.
But, she’d hurt him. Made him angry. Oh, she’d never meant to do that.
Everything in her told her to follow. To apologize. Atticus wasn’t Preston, wasn’t her father. In fact, he was so, so special. Which made her want even more to give him everything. Anything he wanted.
She mustn’t. She knew better.
“I’m not going to slave for a man,” she said aloud. Firmly. But she kept seeing the unhappy look in his eyes. The hurt. What had she done?
She took a step forward. She needed to explain.
No. She’d go right back to him and give up her entire being—that’s what would happen. What always happened.
But loving him would be worth it.
No. Her thinking was wrong. Girl, you are so screwed up. “No man is worth—”
“That what you think?” The harsh masculine voice snapped her head up. Becca and Logan stood beside Becca’s car.
Becca looked dismayed.
But her husband… Logan’s deadly expression rivaled the granite mountains behind him. His condemning gaze held Gin’s long enough to shrivel something inside her, and then he jerked his chin. “Beat it.”
The rest of his words remained unspoken, but clear. “You’re not worth it.”
Her breathing hitched painfully. Without looking at them again, she got into her car. Turned the key. Stepped on the gas pedal.
Branches scraped the passenger door.
Oh Atticus, I’m sorry. I hate this. Hate what I’ve done. Blinking the tears from her eyes, she found the gray concrete road, cold and barren, leading her back down the mountain.
Chapter Fourteen
Shouting came from outside Atticus’s office. One of the uniforms must have brought in a noisy drunk.
Atticus rubbed his beard. Needed a trim. One of these days. He tried to concentrate on the report he was filling out. Items stolen from a hotel room. Platinum earrings. A diamond necklace.
He’d never given Gin any jewelry. Why did he feel as if he’d let her down? She’d be beautiful with—
No. They’d been friends with benefits. Right? Not jewelry-bestowing lovers.
But if they were only buddies, why did he feel as if he’d lost something…essential? As if he’d been gutted and left to die?
Since she’d fled his house, the days had run into each other, dark and gloomy in the drizzling spring rains. It’d been over a week, maybe a week and a half. The others in the police station avoided him. Not that he’d punched anyone out, but maybe he wasn’t as…polite…as normal.
Atticus backspaced on his shit-excuse for a computer. Necklace and bracelet and earrings. Another robbery. Four this month. And a rape. An assault. Felt like he was living in a goddamned city, even though tourist season wasn’t even in full flood.
Virgil walked into the office, kicked the door shut with his boot, and set a coffee on Atticus’s desk.
Atticus eyed it. “What’s the occasion?”
“Just being a good subbie.” As Atticus stiffened, Virgil dropped into a battered chair, ignoring the wood’s complaint at his heavy frame. He nodded at the coffee. “What, you don’t like service?”
“If you’re not here about police business, then how about you head out,” Atticus said in a carefully level voice.
“How about you tell me what happened?”
Atticus’s lethal stare bounced right off the bastard. Like Atticus, Virgil had two obnoxious brothers and had undoubtedly developed excellent shields. Unfortunately, beating the shit out of the
lieutenant might be considered unacceptable in a police station.
“Atticus, Summer’s upset.” Virgil ran his hand through his hair. “She likes Gin.”
“Not a problem.” Atticus heard the strain in his voice. “I wouldn’t step between her and Gin.”
“First, Gin’s not taking calls from her friends. Second, Summer happens to love you.” Virgil clarified, “Like a brother, mind you, but she’s worried about you as well as Gin.”
The warmth of friendship didn’t melt the ice residing in his gut, but helped. He cleared his throat. “Thanks.”
“I’d like to know what happened.”
Persistent bastard. “Fuck if I know. It was after the Bowers homicide. Think she felt sorry for me. She told me she’d come over if I ate what she cooked. She offered—and gave—shower sex. She cleaned my kitchen while I was upstairs.” He yanked at his lengthening beard. “Then she tells me how men use her and she won’t have anything to do with them. Or me.”
“Women have screwed-up logic, but that takes the cake.”
Atticus growled. “Tell me about it. Thing is, she looked happy right up to that point. She’s a service sub, for God’s sake.”
“Appears to me like she needs help getting her head on straight.” Virgil propped his big boots on Atticus’s desk. “What you going to do about that, boy?”
“This.” Half rising, Atticus smacked Virgil’s feet off the desk so forcefully that Virgil almost tipped out of the chair. He watched Masterson resettle—feet on the floor—and added, “Oh, you meant about Gin?”
“You got a nasty temper there. Yes, about the subbie.” Virgil gave him a level look. “Any chance your past is interfering with your thinking?”
“Get real.” As if he’d let… His past. He saw his mother’s battered face. Saw her frantically cooking something before her asshole of a husband got home from work. Saw her scrubbing the already spotless table as if it would keep her from being slapped around.
Gin had said, “I’d do anything to—” But she hadn’t completed her sentence. He had, in the way his mother would have—I’d do anything to keep from being hurt.
Only, he’d never hurt Gin. She knew that.
He frowned. The stubborn little counselor didn’t react as a physically abused woman would. So, what exactly had she meant? “I might need to talk to her again,” Atticus said slowly.
“Might be.” Virgil rose. “Let me know what happens. If she gives you too much grief, I’ll send Summer over to read to her from the good book.”
“The good book? Jesus, you’ve got to stop reading old Westerns.” Atticus shook his head, then when Virgil reached the door, he added quietly, “Thanks.”
“What friends are for. And hey, next week, all us ladies are goin’ for pedicures. Wanna come? Jake said to invite you ’specially so we can share our feelings.”
Virg was quicker than he looked. He had the door closed before the stapler hit it.
* * * *
Preston had called from a Bear Flat restaurant. The phone call had made Gin so angry, she’d thought her head would explode, but within minutes, her mood had fallen back into darkness.
She parked her car in the gathering twilight, feeling as if she were dragging herself through the motions of living. She needed to get over this. Get over Atticus.
Yesterday, the grocery store guy had glanced at her face and hadn’t even joked with her as he usually did. People in small towns knew everything. Like when a woman spent her evenings feeling forlorn and cuddling with her dog.
Get Over It. Furiously, she thumped her head against the neck rest of the seat—which only made her head hurt.
Honestly though, this was pitiful. After years of college and grad school, years of telling other people how to manage their lives, somehow she kept screwing up her own. The adage was true—plumbers didn’t fix their own faucets; counselors couldn’t figure out their own emotions.
But she had. Kind of. She’d managed to figure out that her reactions to men were wrong. That she went overboard trying to please them and be needed. Surely it was sensible to avoid relationships until she got her head on straight, wasn’t it?
Only hurting someone in the process was unforgivable. And she had.
“I wish I could tell you how sorry I am for being such a mess, Atticus.” She shook her head. Why couldn’t she have met him in another five years, when she could love him the way he deserved to be loved? And without tripping over her own issues.
But life wasn’t so easy, was it?
And now, lucky her, she had to deal with her ex-fiancé. She slid out of the car and slammed the door. At least being grumpy had put her in the mood to kick some ass. Her footsteps thudded on the boardwalk like an angry metronome.
Scowling, she shoved open the black oak door to the Mother Lode. Although still early, the restaurant had started to fill with people celebrating the arrival of the weekend.
A second of nostalgia made her pause. Summer and Kallie had joined her for lunch once, for stories and laughter. Now, along with Atticus, she’d lost her new friends. They hadn’t given her up and had called constantly, but she didn’t answer. Their husbands were buddies with Atticus and worked with him. Better that she kept a distance.
The loss of their companionship created an aching sadness. Becca, so pulled-together and bossy. Summer, with her kindness. Kallie, competent and funny. She’d always had a girl gang, but these…these women had become what she thought sisters might be.
And wasn’t it perverse how much she wanted Atticus to hold her while she cried over her lost friends.
With an effort, she set her problems aside and turned into the bar area with its high-topped tables.
A simmering anger blossomed as she looked around the darkly paneled room for Preston. Several tables were pushed together for a TGIF group of women. A flannel-shirted logger near the entrance whistled at her, looking as if he’d started happy hour early. At the bar, men were intent on the televised basketball game.
And there he was at a table, a tall man with sandy hair in his usual tailored suit. He rose with a pleased smile.
She wove through the tables to join him. “Preston.”
Unfortunately, she got too close. Really, after working in a prison, she should have better instincts.
Taking her hand, he pulled her into his arms. “There you are. I missed you, Ginny.” He burrowed his face in the corner of her shoulder and neck.
Her irritation rose with each whiff of musk and balsam aftershave. How she’d loved his scent. Once. Before he’d flattened her love like a sleet storm in a garden.
“Let go,” she muttered, then gave him a strong shove. “Let go.”
With marked reluctance, he did, and like the gentleman he was, held her chair. “I’m sorry, darling. I’m just pleased to see you again.”
“What are you doing here?” Her chest cramped. He looked exactly the same. Clean-cut, well groomed, the image of a successful executive. “How did you find me?”
“The receptionist at your old job gave me your address.” With a smug smile, he took her hand.
She tugged.
He didn’t let go.
“Hey, Gin, how are you?” Barbara walked up to the table, pulling her pad from her spotless apron. “What can I get you?”
Preston squeezed her hand. “My fiancée will have a Jack Daniels.”
“No, I won’t. Nothing, thanks, Barbara.” Gin glared across the table. “Fiancée? Seriously?”
“We might have had a little misun—”
“Do you see a ring on my hand?” Gin yanked her hand free and held it up. “No. Because I threw it at you when I found you screwing your ‘associate.’”
His well-groomed brows drew together. “Ginny, please. Annalise and I were only talking. I told you what happened.”
She glanced at Barbara, who hadn’t moved. “It’s good he explained. She couldn’t get a word out—not with his dick halfway down her throat.”
Barbara made a stifled so
und and hurried away. Her laughter was drowned out by the basketball viewers cheering a basket.
“Ginny, was it necessary to share our problems with a waitress?”
“I like honesty.” Not a term in his vocabulary, unfortunately.
“Well. Fine.” Obviously forcing himself to remain calm, he smiled at her. “At least we’re together now. I want to apologize for my…mistake.”
“Mistake?”
“Yes, I had a lapse in judgment. But it didn’t mean anything.”
“So you thought it was all right to screw someone else because your feelings weren’t involved?”
He cleared his throat and stayed silent.
How about that—he was listening to her. Too little, too late said her weary heart. No fiery passion or heated emotions remained. “You’re forgiven. Now, go home.”
“Ginny. I can assure you it will never happen again. In a way, it’s good because I came to realize how much I love you. How much I need you.”
She shook her head. She’d known their relationship was dying. Yet, despite her nagging misgivings, she’d written her vows for the wedding and planned to go off birth control.
And then she’d come home early. Seen them. She’d stood there… Her knees almost buckling, tears blurring the room, holding her chest to keep her heart from tearing apart. He’d been the one who was supposed to love her. The man who she could love with all her being. Only he wasn’t.
She’d thrown his ring at him. And as her dreams shredded into tatters, she’d cried.
Now, thinking back to the indescribable pain of that moment, she knew her response had been inadequate.
She should have thrown a cast-iron frying pan.
Staring at him, she had to wonder what had happened to the man she’d thought she’d known. As her friends bucked her up, she’d realized his cheating was one more indication he hadn’t cared. And still, she’d fought the desperation to crawl back. To be loved. Needed.
Yes, being needed was a drug to her, and like any addict, she’d had to go cold turkey. Needed to continue to avoid the drug and the triggers.