Runaway Girl Read online

  Still.

  What I do know is she’s…gorgeous. So fucking gorgeous and sexy in this afternoon sunshine, her eyes a little glassy from the beer she’s definitely been drinking. Nothing can detract from the stunning cornflower coloring of them, though. They match her coordinated outfit, starting with the T-shirt-looking dress and ending at her shoes. As usual, her hair is pulled back in a smooth ponytail, and my fingers itch to loosen the knot, let it fall into my palms. Drag it down my lap while she gasps at the growing sight of me.

  Much as I’d like this attraction to begin and end with a chemical reaction, it doesn’t. I liked having her at my dinner table last night. Liked it way too much. She spun some kind of magic and made me forget for a couple hours that those four walls are missing parents and a sister. That nothing is the same as I remember it and I don’t have battle to escape into. Her laughter made it okay not to dwell on the wrong last night. Made things feel okay.

  Better than okay.

  But this? Me showing up here uninvited is not normal. I can’t just stand here in front of the crowded room and stare at this woman, but it’s what I do, despite the whispering. Despite the hushed conference between guide and receptionist happening at the entrance. Rules and correct behaviors are lost on me, and I don’t know how to get them back. I just know I don’t want this woman here right now. Most of the time when this sense of not belonging strikes, I can laugh my way out of it. Or walk away pretending I don’t give a damn. I do what I want. Deal with it.

  Sometimes I can’t, though. Like when I wake from a nightmare and the only way to calm down is to sprint full speed along the water, passing motorists watching me with startled faces through their windshields. Or right now, when I’ve just barged into a room where I don’t belong and Naomi is looking at me with…not horror anymore. She seems more thoughtful than anything, her attention straying to my balled-up fists, the sweat on my upper lip.

  Before I can define her expression, she steps closer and takes my fist in her hand. And it’s like dropping from the highest point of a roller coaster.

  “Everyone, this is my friend Jason. I wasn’t sure he was going to make it.” She faces the entrance, her face breaking into a wide smile. “Could we sort out his admission fee once the tour is over? I swear on a stack of Bibles he’s good for it.”

  The guide and receptionist exchange a blank look. “Sure,” says the guide, signaling his crony who was standing too close to Naomi when I arrived. “Go ahead and get back to it, Keith.”

  Fucking Keith.

  I commit the name to memory, but I’m distracted by Naomi turning her pretty, apple pie and Cool Whip smile on me. Some reflex has me taking my hand back and crossing my arms over my chest. I don’t need someone to cover for me—and I let her know it with a look. It makes a dent in her smile, and when she moves past me, giving me wide berth, I wish she was still holding my hand.

  In silence, I follow her to the end of a long, wooden table littered with empty glasses and stand behind the stool where she perches herself, crossing those legs tight tight tight. Pink lipstick marks on five of the beer glasses proclaim Naomi as their owner, and I have to admit I’m surprised. After she cringed over a sip of Bud, I didn’t think she’d make it through the full tour.

  Naomi tucks hair behind her ear and whispers at me over her shoulder. “You can sit, you know.”

  “I’ll stand.”

  However, I do move closer to her side so I can get a front row seat to her pout. “Fine,” she murmurs, watching me. “If you want to make everybody nervous.”

  I toss a glance at the other members of the tour who are all in varying stages of drunkenness. Whether I liked Naomi covering for me or not, it worked. They already seem to have moved on from my odd entrance. “You’re the only one who seems nervous.”

  “Well I’ve never been fired before.”

  “Fired?”

  She hiccups and her cheeks go pink. “I’m drunk on a workday. I didn’t intend to be, but how was I supposed to know they made wine beer?”

  “First of all, that’s disgusting—”

  “Liar. You’re a wine-liking liar. I feel comfortable saying that since I’m fired.”

  My sigh moves some of the finer hairs on her forehead, a clue that I’ve moved closer without realizing. “You’re not fired, beauty queen.”

  “Isn’t that why you came here? To catch me in my cups?”

  She’s unintentionally given me an out—no way I’m not taking it. “Yeah, but just for fun. So I could hold it over your head.”

  “You have a weird idea of fun.” She breathes in and slumps a little—which is a whole hell of a lot for this woman. “I probably would have been able to stop at one, but I had a phone call with my mother.”

  I go still. I’ve been unsuccessful during our first three meetings to get anything out of Naomi. Apart from her pageant titles and zip code, she remains a complete mystery. I feel almost guilty taking this chance to find out more, since she isn’t the textbook definition of sober, but I might not get another opportunity like this, and dammit, my curiosity is growing by the minute. “Oh yeah?” I take a glass of beer off a nearby tray and sniff it, drain it, almost spit it out when it tastes like chocolate. “It didn’t go well?”

  Naomi catches the chocolate-inflicted suffering in my tone and presses her lips together. “Sticking with Budweiser?”

  “I’ll never stray again.” I stab the table with a finger. “Phone call. Go.”

  I’ve learned she doesn’t like taking orders from me, but she seems to have drowned that aversion with beer, because she doesn’t hesitate to continue. “I bet you think girls walking around with books on their heads only exists in old movies, don’t you? Not true. I got so good at balancing Moby Dick, I used to forget it was there.”

  It’s a testament to my curiosity that I completely forgo a dick joke. “What does this have to do with your mother?”

  A man in an Orioles hat turns to tell us to be quiet but thinks twice about it when I give him a dark look. “Because she’s three hundred miles away and I can feel the whale on my head right now.”

  I swallow the urge to guide my hand over the crown of her head. To let her know there’s nothing there. “She puts pressure on you,” I say quietly. “Why? About what?”

  “Decisions I’ve made.”

  “You don’t seem the type to make bad decisions.”

  “I almost walked in here with dusty shoes.”

  “Well, call the goddamn firing squad.”

  She laughs into her wrist and something heavy moves in my stomach. “You seem like you’re feeling better.”

  That catches me off-guard. “Who said I wasn’t feeling fine?”

  “You had the shaky sweats when you blew in here.” I’m still trying to decide how to feel about her noticing my weakness and pointing it out—pissed off or less pissed off—when she lays a hand on my shoulder. “My granddaddy used to get the shaky sweats and the only thing that helped was telling war stories. Isn’t that ironic? I remember them all like the back of my hand. Do you want to stop trying to scowl me to death so I can tell you one?”

  “I’m fine now,” I rasp.

  “But you weren’t fine before and the first step is admitting it.” She tucks her hands under her chin and blinks innocently. As if she isn’t the first person who’s ever been brave enough to call me on…anything. I should get in her face and tell her to back off. Instead, I just stand there staring at her tempting, bow-lipped mouth, waiting for more words to come out. “Let’s go with the First Battle of Bull Run—it was the first major battle of the Civil War and it resulted in Stonewall Jackson earning his nickname—”

  “Could you please speak a little louder?” Orioles cap stage whispers from down the table. “I want to hear this.”

  Turns out, so does everyone else. Thirty seconds into the recitation of the battle facts, everyone has turned to face my sister’s pageant coach, beers poised in front of their mouths, and Keith is watching her with a
dreamy smile, obviously more than happy to be interrupted. I have to grip the edge of the table to keep from snatching Naomi up and taking her to a quiet corner, so I can have the story—and her—all to myself. In the end, though, I just want her to keep going. I’m interested in hearing every last detail. And damn, she’s even more beautiful when she’s excited. There’s a peachy flush on her cheeks from having everyone’s undivided attention and being wrapped up in the story herself, although she seems surprised when she finally comes up for air and finds everyone watching in rapt silence.

  “‘There is Jackson standing like a stone wall. Let us determine to die here, and we will conquer. Rally behind the Virginians.’ Brigadier General Bee said that first part about Jackson—that’s where he got the nickname.” Naomi takes my chocolate beer and drains the reminder of it. “His pep talk didn’t really make sense, though, did it? Unfortunately, he was shot through the stomach right after and died the next day. So no one really knows what he meant. Maybe he didn’t even know.” She stares down at the empty glass. “Did I just drink this?”

  “Time to go.” I pluck the glass from her hand and set it on the table. “Come on, beauty queen. You’re going home.”

  She’s about to protest but thinks better of it. “That’s probably for the best.” I catch her elbow as she slides off the stool, throwing off her balance with a wave at her adoring crowd. “It was lovely spending the afternoon with all of you. My favorite was the wine beer. What was all of your favorites—”

  “You’re not finding out today,” I say, guiding her to the exit.

  “Oh.” She gives another flutter-fingered wave. “Next time, then!”

  “Bye, Naomi,” they chorus as one.

  Keith’s voice reaches us as we walk out the door. “Storytelling gets you a discount next time you come back. How about Friday—”

  I smack the door shut behind us, cutting him off.

  We settle up my admission ticket at the front desk, the receptionist still clearly miffed that I didn’t respect her authority. Naomi gets her smiling in no time, though, leading to a longer conversation about local boutiques, and it’s another fifteen minutes before I get Naomi to my truck. She stops just short of climbing into the passenger side. “Oh, no. Thank you for the offer, Mr. Bristow—”

  “Jason.”

  “But I think a walk sounds lovely.”

  “Get in.”

  “That’s okay,” she says breezily.

  My eyes narrow. “Are you nervous about getting into the car with me?”

  A hand flies to her throat. “No, of course not. It’s just…oh, now you’re just making me feel impolite.” With a grumble, she climbs into the car and engages her seat belt with a dainty hand. “Happy now?”

  I leave her with my grunt and circle to the driver’s side, but something still isn’t right. For one, Naomi is tense as all get out. Her knees are going to pop if she presses them together any harder. Palms rake nervously up and down her thighs, which is pretty fucking distracting, considering she’s wearing a T-shirt for a dress and it’s leaving those endless, tanned thighs exposed. The kind of thighs one associates with pristine, white tennis skirts. Enough with those thoughts. She’s nervous driving with me for some reason, the least I can do is not fantasize about fucking her, now that she’s trusted me enough to get in the truck.

  The farther we drive, the less I require a distraction for my lecherous thoughts. The route we take absorbs all of my focus. We drive well out of the downtown area in the direction of the interstate. We’re on the edge of town when chain motels begin to appear, which I sure as hell don’t turn my nose up at, but they grow more and more rundown with every passing block. That’s when my jaw starts to bunch, along with my gut. “Beauty queen…”

  “Right here is good.” She points to the sidewalk of the deserted road and shoulders her purse. “This is perfect, thank you. I can walk the rest of the way.”

  “You don’t want me to see where you’re staying.” Those bolts in my stomach tighten all the more. “That’s why you didn’t want to get in the truck.”

  “I’m proud of my accommodations, but I know you’ll want to ask me questions, and…” She bottoms out with a gusty sigh. “I’ve had too much beer to be cagey. It’s just ahead on the right. The Budget Max.”

  “Jesus Christ.” After pulling into the parking lot, I cut off the truck’s engine and look around. Peeling paint. Unmarked doors. A sign advertising hourly rates. There isn’t a fucking chance I’m leaving Naomi here—but hell if she doesn’t already have a defensive chin raise thing going on. It makes me want to drag her across the console and lay bites on that jawline until it goes slack. “I’ve slept in war zones nicer than this,” I mutter, my hands flexing on the steering wheel. “We’re about to be neighbors, baby.”

  “Pardon me?”

  “I’d rather saw my arm off than leave you here.” I shove open my door and climb out. “Let’s go get your shit.”

  “What?”

  She hops out and I spring into action to cover her, my heart clamoring up into my throat. Fuck. Calm down. Calm down. There’s no immediate threat. I’m in Florida, not Afghanistan. Talking myself down only helps partially, though. And hell, maybe there is an immediate threat. Her name is Naomi and she looks ready to tear a strip off my ass. Beating her to the first word is the only offense I have.

  “Mr. Bristow—”

  “Jason. I’m Jason. You’re Naomi and…” I’m out of practice being sincere, so it takes me a lot of throat cleaning to continue. “You’re going through something and I want to help.” My words take some of the fight out of Naomi. “I need to help,” I finish quietly.

  Her head tips to one side. “Why?”

  The truth is not an option here. There’s something about this woman that raises the bar on my protective nature. I get jealous thinking of her with other men. I’m attracted to her like crazy. Fuck it, I like her, even when we’re taking swipes at each other. She comes off like an ice princess. Then before I can blink she’s soft and kind of silly. Getting drunk in the middle of the afternoon and telling war stories. There’s something about her. There’s a lot about her. But there isn’t a chance in hell I’m telling her any of that.

  If this afternoon reminded me of anything, it’s that normalcy still escapes me. My sense of propriety and social cues haven’t returned and they probably never will. Especially since I’m planning to reenlist when Birdie is graduated and independent. Naomi is the epitome of social grace. She’s coaching my sister on how to charm, how to be diplomatic. We’re like chalk and cheese—which is a moot point, since she’s shown no signs of interest in me.

  Better to go with a slightly different version of the truth. A valid truth. One that leaves out the fact that I need her where I can see her…because she makes me feel things.

  “I was overseas for a long time. I haven’t really been able to turn off how I lived. How I operated. I’ve got all these signs when it comes to you, beauty queen. You changing in your car, living in a rundown motel a long way from home when you clearly come from some kind of money. You don’t want to be found. Something is wrong and I don’t know how to leave your safety to chance. What I know how to do is fix and protect and prevent bad things from happening.”

  Unsure if I want to see how my blind stab at sincerity landed, I tip my head back and squint into the sun. “Can you please just let me do that?”

  I don’t realize she’s come closer until she murmurs, “Where would I…reside, exactly?”

  The softening of her voice, her nearness, knits a tight pattern at the back of my neck. “There’s a guesthouse above the garage. Nothing fancy, but it beats the hell out of this.”

  “That is so kind of you, but I like being on my own. I like being able to make my own decisions.” She reaches out and squeezes my hand. “Thank you for the offer, but no.”

  “Plan B it is.”

  Before she can question me, I’ve thrown her over my shoulder. “Which room?”

&nb
sp; “Mr. Bristow!”

  “Jason. Which room? You’ve got three seconds to tell me before I start kicking in doors.”

  “This is outrageous!”

  “Three, two…”

  “Second floor. The one in the corner! There’s a potted plant. O-or there was before it died…some time ago, by the look of it.”

  I head for the staircase. “You tried watering it, didn’t you?”

  “I am not having a conversation about horticulture while you’re carrying me over your shoulder, Blackbeard.” Her ribcage expands on a huff against my shoulder. “Did you even mean that whole speech about wanting to fix and protect or—”

  “Don’t say things I don’t mean.”

  “You lied about disliking my Sauvignon Blanc,” she grumbles.

  “Is that what it’s called?”

  “Yes. It’s my favorite. I never order anything else. Ever.” For some reason, talking about her choice in drink seems to be upsetting her. Even more than me carrying her over my shoulder like the fucking lawless ogre that I am.

  Getting her to the top of the stairs costs me no effort—until she starts to wiggle. Holding on to her is the easy part. It’s ignoring the way her sexy backside shifts under the thin cotton of her dress that drops the hammer in my pants. It takes a single instant for my throat to grow dry as dust. My hands, which were holding the backs of her thighs to keep her steady on the upstairs trek, are now fighting with the hem of her dress. To keep it down. What I’d really like to do is lift the airy, blue thing to her waist and run my palms over the smooth hills of her ass cheeks. I bet she wears no-nonsense, white cotton panties, just waiting to be torn off in my bare hands. Bet she’d gasp and press those thighs together to hide her pussy.

  I bite back a groan when we reach her door. She’s still shifting around, trying to get down, and I let her slide off now, steadying her in front of me. Those blue eyes are spitting fire and she’s preparing to unload on me when she stops. She stops, clearly interpreting the unchecked hunger on my face. It has been there since she showed up on my doorstep and grown in power every time I’ve been in her company. Now we’re standing outside a motel room in a clandestine part of town, and that alone calls sex to the stage. The thought of it. The possibility of it. And Naomi is thinking about it now. With me. Can’t tell if she finds the idea off-putting or appealing, but at least I have her looking at my mouth, my chest, my hands, which have moved of their own volition to grip her elbows.