Page 17 of Driving Whiskey Wild
STREETLAMPS SHIMMERED OVER dark hollows on the lifeless residential street where Bullet sat alone in his truck. Meanwhile, on the main drag, traffic lights blinked on endless timers and empty cars lined the streets like soldiers awaiting their next missions while their owners slept safely tucked away from the elements, blissfully unaware of the tragedies and crimes around every corner. Trees swayed in the breeze along the quiet road, reminding Bullet that fall was bearing down on the last of the lingering summer heat. He’d walked these roads as a teenager, driven them in the middle of the night in search of answers. Answers that had come years later, when the military had sent him overseas, the perfect place to unleash his demons. He’d come home a different man, and now traveled these same city streets with the sole purpose of eradicating trouble.
But tonight, for the first time in his life, he hadn’t been searching for a damn thing. He wasn’t looking for answers, or meaning, or fucking trouble. He gripped the steering wheel with bloodstained fingers, swallowing the metallic taste that lingered like an unwanted ghost. His chest constricted, and his breathing quickened as memories came at him like a hurricane, fast and unrelenting. His eyes slammed against the sounds of the babies crying, the mother screaming, and her brother gurgling, struggling to get to his family. Drawing upon the grounding techniques he’d learned to manage the rare and horrific occurrences when events triggered flashbacks to the war and they crept up on him like demons out of the darkness, he fumbled for the radio, turning it up loud enough to give him something to focus on before they could take hold. He let the music pound through him, obliterating the rage, the fear, and the goddamn taste and smell of death.
Minutes passed like hours, elongated and painful in the wake of the trigger, but the music and his mental fortitude did the trick, keeping the flashback at bay. This time. If only he’d been in the right frame of mind to have halted it earlier.
He turned the radio down and grabbed his phone from the seat beside him. The message light blinked like a beacon, as it had been doing since he’d gone back to the scene of the accident to retrieve it. He didn’t have to look to know sweet Finlay had tried to track him down. He didn’t need to hear her voice to know she was probably furious and hurt. He owed her an explanation, and an apology, but giving it would mean risking another flashback. Finlay didn’t need a man with demons he couldn’t slay.
He set the phone on the seat beside the flowers he’d brought for her and started the truck, taking one last look at Finlay’s house. His heart thundered wildly, memories of the hurt in her eyes from earlier clawing at him like an animal burrowing into his soul. He punched the dashboard, furious at his vulnerability. How many times had he driven away from a woman and never looked back? Once and done, that was the motto he lived by when it came to women. Hell, it’d be easier to count the number of times he’d given a shit about them.
Once.
The goddamn angel in that little house was the only one that mattered, and he’d fucking screwed her over again. He knew he should walk away, knew she didn’t need the weight of his past hanging around them like a noose waiting to tighten. But he couldn’t leave without giving her an explanation. He couldn’t take the hurt he’d caused and drive it deeper.
At least that’s what he told himself as he cut the engine, grabbed the flowers, and climbed from the car at too-long-after midnight. He strode through the darkness, telling himself to take every bit of shit she handed him, because he fucking deserved it.
Chapter Seven
BEYOND LOSING HIS family, there wasn’t much Bullet was afraid of, but as he stood on Finlay’s front porch, fear gathered in his gut, which was fucking ridiculous. He’d suffered through wars, looked down the barrel of more guns than he cared to remember, seen more death than any man should. Yet the idea of seeing the hurt he’d caused in Finlay’s beautiful eyes again had him tied in knots. What was worse was that he had no idea if telling her the truth would cause another flashback.
He eyed the steps. He could just fucking leave, lock himself away behind the steel walls he’d erected practically since the day he was born. Brush her off tomorrow so coldly she’d never look at him again. His hands fisted, nearly crushing the bouquet.
He wasn’t a goddamn coward.
He knocked much harder than he meant to, and leaned his hand against the doorframe, staring at his boots, which were speckled with blood.
“Bullet?” he heard through the door, then the rattle of the chain, the click of the dead bolt.
Finlay opened the door, blinking sleepily. His gaze swept down her pretty dress, and his heart stumbled.
The color drained from her face, and she pulled the door open wider, bracing it against her hip. “Oh my gosh. You’re bleeding. Are you okay? What happened?”
“Nothing,” he mumbled. “I just came by to apologize—”
“Nothing? Bullet, your shirt is torn, your arm is cut, and it looks like you have blood all over your clothes. Were you in an accident?”
“No, please, let’s not do this. I’m sorry I—”
Her eyes went cold. “Let’s not do this? You stand me up after hounding me to go out with you. Then you show up looking like you’ve been in a fight, and you don’t want to explain? I don’t know what other girls consider okay, but this is not all right with me.”
“Goddamn it.” He gritted his teeth. He’d gone through enough shit tonight. He didn’t have the energy for any more.
“Is this part of your club, or whatever? Because if it is, I don’t want any part of it. I can’t sit around worrying about if you’ve been hurt or killed, or if you just decided to blow me off.”
“Forget it. I’m sorry I fucked up your night.” He handed her the flowers and headed down the steps.
“That’s it?” she called after him. “You’re leaving? Without any explanation or anything?”
He turned, his gut twisting and tightening like it was being wrung out, and he stalked back up the steps, chest tight, every muscle constricted. “You just told me that you want nothing to do with me. Fuck me for saving a family’s life. I’m sorry I messed up your evening. I’m sorry I didn’t call you, but I was tending to more urgent matters.”
Her mouth opened, then closed. “I’m…You saved…Oh my gosh, Bullet. I’m sorry. I had no idea.”
“Would it have mattered? Because it could just as easily have been club business that called me away. I’m not Prince Charming. Hell, lollipop, I’m not even the fucking toad. But I always do the right thing. And it just so happened that the right thing meant staying at the hospital with the woman whose babies and brother are in fucking critical condition until her goddamn sister could be there with her. Should I have called? Yes. Could I have? No. I dropped my phone after calling nine-one-one so I could get the family out of the fucking car before it went up in flames. But the truth is, I wouldn’t have left that woman to make the call. Not for anything. Her babies’ and her brother’s lives were hanging on by a thread. You don’t leave someone alone in that situation, even if it means losing something you want. This…” He pointed to the space between them, shaking his head. “This either will or won’t happen, but either way, we’ll see each other around town. That woman—Sarah Beckley—may never see one of her children breathe again.”
Fear and regret filled her damp eyes. “I’m sorry. That poor family. That’s awful.”
“Yeah. It was. And so was leaving you hanging. But you’re right. You don’t need a guy like me messing up your life.” He headed for the steps again.
“Wait!” She ran after him, snagging the back of his shirt as he descended the steps. “Please don’t go. I’m sorry. I was hurt and worried about you, and…” His forward momentum sent her tipping forward.
With his heart in his throat, he circled her waist with his arms so she wouldn’t fall from her precarious position. In her bare feet, she was even more petite, reminding him of just how delicate and fragile she was, despite her confidence and demands for respect. She was a mighty force of good, pure and kind in ways that made him want to be closer to her, to find a way to be a better man for her. But he wasn’t a dreamer, and when he gazed into her eyes, he knew what he had to do.
“Finlay, you just told me you didn’t want any part of my lifestyle, and I don’t blame you. Look at you, all dressed up like a princess, more beautiful than any woman I’ve ever seen, and this is what I am.” He waved at his bloody, torn T-shirt and jeans. “You’re warm sunshine, and I’m a winter storm. That’s not going to change. Trouble happens, and I go. Even if I could change it, I wouldn’t, sweetheart. I can’t watch others suffer, or know someone’s in trouble and not do something.”
She looked down at her feet, and this time he didn’t lift her chin, didn’t try to change her mind, because this was his reality. And probably the end of the line for them.
FINLAY HAD ALWAYS considered herself a selfless, giving person, but Bullet Whiskey brought new meaning to the word selfless and to the saying double-edged sword. There was so much goodness about him, as everyone had told her, but to be with a man like Bullet meant being okay with coming not second, or even third or fourth, in his life. It meant taking a backseat not just to a career, like most men, but to an entire town full of people, and it clearly didn’t end there. She thought she’d never met anyone like him because he was so gruff, but she’d witnessed enough of his softer side to know it existed. And now she was starting to understand where all that hardness came from. Carrying the weight of his family, their business, and the safety of the town on his shoulders had to take its toll. Did anyone have Bullet’s back the way he had everyone else’s?
