Page 8 of Rough Daddy
Exceptnothaving her next to me for the next few minutes would turn me into the kind of monster I'm pretty sure I already am.
She doesn't argue. She climbs into the truck, and I reach in to fasten her seat belt. Might only be a hundred yards, but I'm not taking chances. I climb behind the wheel and drive us back to her Tesla. When I've helped her out, I nod at the overpriced car. "Pop the trunk."
"Why? I’m so confused."
"You're staying up at my place. I assume you have stuff you need."
"What? I'm… No." She shakes her head. "The hotel can't befullybooked. There must be somewhere. I can't stay with you."
"You can. Pop the trunk, or I'll use my crowbar. Your choice."
"This is…" She moves to the back of the car, heels clicking, those ridiculous green boots nearly making me smile. "This is ridiculous. I don't know you."
“My name is Beau Boone. I grew up in Wildfire. You can ask anyone that passes by about me. I have three asshole brothers. You just met one of them, his name’s Cade. I’ve owned this garage for twenty years, my brothers and I chased my father off when I was twenty-one for raising a hand to my mother. We took care of her from then on until she died five years ago. I have three sisters-in-law as well that will vouch for me. You want me to call them? Trust me, they’d ball it over here to meet you and see why I’m asking for a character reference for a gorgeous girl—”
“Okay.” She squeezes her eyes shut, throwing her hands up in surrender. “No need to pull out the sister-in-law card.”
When she reaches in her back pocket and pulls out the key fob and hits the button, the trunk pops and I groan a string of curse words.
Her trunk practically vomits out brown and gold expensive-looking suitcases.
"Fuck me." I cock a brow. “Did you say you were moving here?”
That thought spins heat down into my DNA. Why is she here in fucking Wildfire, Michigan, anyway?
I assumed some content creation opportunity, but why here? And why thirty-fucking-thousand suitcases?
"I need everything," she says defensively.
She’s running.
It’s the only thing that makes sense. The new hair, the fake name. She got canceled by the very world that propped her up since she was in a training bra. She's been hurt. Judged.
Anyone tries to pull shit with her again, I’ll bundle the bones of their fingers together, which I’ll remove with a Sawzall, then turn them into a custom-made ass-crack scratcher just for her.
I start hauling suitcases to my truck, possessiveness pounding in my chest.
She reaches for a little square case next to the bigger one I’m pulling out, and I snarl before I can stop myself.
"Don't," I snap.
She pulls back like she just got burned. "I was just—"
"I said don't fucking touch it. I’ll do it. You just stand there and look beautiful."
Her face flushes pink as she steps back. “I’m more than a pretty face.”
She smiles, but her eyes don’t. It makes me angry, ready to put myself between her and whatever might upset her, past, present or future.
But if she touches me right now, if her fingers brush mine reaching for the same handle, I'll drag her into the back of this truck and show her exactly what Daddy does to disobedient little girls.
Five minutes later, my truck bed is full, everything is strapped down, and she's perched in the passenger seat like a lost little bunny. Her legs are crossed, those crazy green boots screaming she’s not from around here.
I want to run my tongue along the creamy skin at the base of her throat. Bite it. Mark it.
My knuckles go white on the steering wheel.
"Where is your place?" she asks as I palm the wheel, taking the last turn onto the dirt road up to my cabin.
