Chapter Six

Chapter Six

BABETTE

It’s the cigar smoke that lets me know my stepfather has found me.

He only smokes them on those rare nights he’s earned enough to venture into town, hit up the local bar. Which means he’s drunk. He never stops until he’s drunk, whether it’s beer or Beefeater, he just keeps drinking until he works himself into a rage. Over anything and everything. The injustice of being poor and not making enough to complete necessary repairs on the house. The unfairness of being stuck with his dead second wife’s daughter, who can’t contribute an income yet.

Most nights, he’s content to break a piece of furniture or punch a hole in the decimated living room wall. But on nights when hitting an inanimate object isn’t enough, he turns those fists on me. Just like he did to my mother, before she did the smart thing and ran away.

Before she left, though, she taught me a lesson. Never let a man pity you. Never let him see you with your head down. I hold that lesson close now, prepared to keep my silence during the whole ordeal. Determined not to shed a single tear.

My stepfather hadn’t taken to hitting me until my mother was long gone, so I can’t blame her for running away. She couldn’t have known he would turn the hatred in my direction. My mother moved us from France to Texas when I was seven years old with no money in her pocket. She’d met a man who seemed like a provider and did her best to settle down, unaware that she’d merely traded one bad relationship for another.

The older I get, the more I feel sympathy for my mother. The more I understand she just needed to be free. Free to be herself without a husband or child holding her back. And I think she trusted me to free myself, too, when I was able. Which is what I did. It’s why I responded to Dash’s ad.

Dash.My heart squeezes, my breath shortening just thinking about him. His coarse manner of speaking, his panther-like movements, and sharp, blue eyes. His body and what it can do to mine, if I just fight through a little discomfort. No one has ever been as gentle with me as Dash as he laid me in bed tonight. I think…I think what’s in my heart for Dash is more than a crush. He rescued me, brought my talent to life, and intends to keep me. Keep me for himself, and I want that so terribly.

But I must have dreamed the whole escape from home. Dash must have left me back in that dingy motel lobby back in Texas, because the cigar smoke tells me my stepfather is right out in the living room. Drunk and coming for me.

A few times, he’s made it past the barrier of my bedroom door, kicking it open and busting the lock. I’ve seen the pills in the bathroom medicine chest. I know he has a problem being a man. And those few times he’s ventured into my room, I’ve been lucky his flesh couldn’t work correctly, even if I got smacked around instead. Maybe this time I won’t be so lucky, though.

Rifling through the sheets of my bed, I throw them off and dive to the floor, yanking my knees up to my chest. “Please, please leave me alone!” I cry out at the door, knowing it’s futile. “I’m begging you, please. I’ve done nothing wrong. I don’t deserve this.”

Thisbeing anything he delivers. Because the past has proven it’ll be nothing good. He doesn’t have an ounce of good inside him.

I hear a door slam and know my stepfather has made his way inside. “No,” I scream, gathering my knees up to my clenching throat, tears pouring down my face. “You made it in. But I locked the door. How—”

“Babette. Baby.”

My confused mind hears Dash’s voice, probably trying to hold on to the dream. The perfect dream where we ran away. Where I got to sing and feel a man’s desire for me. Be held in his arms. “He’s here. He got in.” I’m babbling to imaginary Dash now, but I can’t seem to stop. It’s making me feel better, even though I’m in serious trouble. “The cigar smoke. Can’t you smell it?”

Hands close around my upper arms, and I scream, kicking my bent knees out and trying to break free. “Babette. What the—God, baby. Look at me.” For the first time, my eyes open, and I’m already wincing, prepared to see red-rimmed eyes full of hatred glaring back at me. Instead, I find the glory of Dash. His messy golden hair and ice chip eyes. That ripped up, shirtless body. “I was smoking a cigar outside, Babs. I-I didn’t realize it would bother you so much.”

A sob wracks my body, hope finding a perch inside my chest. “Dash?”

He cups the sides of my face, his eyes tender. “Who else would it be, baby?”

It’s an involuntary movement, but I flinch away from his hands, because of the repugnant smell that haunts me. Hounds me. I don’t mean it, especially because my relief is sweeping, like a cool ocean breeze. But I watch Dash pale, backing away. “Wait—”

“Just washing my hands, Babs.”

He waits for my nod, then ducks into the bathroom. There is the sound of rushing water, soap being lathered. And then he’s back. The cigar smoke smell still clings to his clothes a little, but I have a hold of myself now. It wasn’t a dream. Thank the lord, it wasn’t a dream.

Dash scoops me up off the floor, cuddling me on his lap at the edge of the bed. For the first time since fully waking up, I notice the panic lingering in his eyes, the shortness of his breath. “I knew there couldn’t be someone in here with you, but Jesus, it sounded like you were being—” His big chest shudders. “You want to tell me what that was all about?”

The concern in his eyes almost forces me to tell him everything. That I lied about having this amazing home life with loving parents. That, instead, I ran away from a perpetual nightmare and I was lucky to have no bruises when his ad showed up in the paper. Otherwise I never would have gotten away with the lies. The years of torture and fear would have been visible.

The reminder of the advertisement is what keeps my mouth shut, though. Tonight, I proved to Dash and myself that I’m capable of this life on the road. If I tell him about my stepfather, I’ll break down and cry. Heck, I’m already crying from thinking my stepfather found me. Is that why he looks concerned? Is he already wondering if he made a mistake bringing me along? Yes. Probably. And he’ll regret his decision even more if I turn into a big old crybaby on day two.

Dash needs strong. Tough. I need to grow up and be those things. Now. Before he realizes he took on a whiner instead of a partner.

“It was just…a stupid nightmare.” I turn and wipe my cheek on his bare shoulder. “Must be the new surroundings. It’s over now.”

Those intelligent blue eyes are steady on me, a crease forming between his eyebrows. “You’re sure that’s all it was?”

“Yes.” I swallow any remaining grief, and smile, knowing I need to distract his too-smart self. “Don’t you have nightmares, Dash?”

He winks at me. “Nah, I’m usually in people’s nightmares, baby.”

My laughter makes his lips pop open on a rasping inhale. “Tell me at least one you’ve had.” I draw a circle in the middle of his broad chest. “It’ll make me feel better for freaking out on you.”

His warm grip closes around my wrist, halting my movements. “You can freak out on me if you need to, Babs. You hearing me? I want everything you got so there isn’t a drop left for anyone else.” Those eyes tick back and forth, as if trying to read my expression, but I think all I’m doing is swooning. Not giving him anything important. “Every once in a while, I have a nightmare about sharks.”

His confession catches me so off guard, I giggle. “Sharks?”

“Damn right, sharks.” He shivers underneath me. “I dream they’re in a motel pool with me, swimming around…” He gives me a pointed look. “Biting things they shouldn’t. Valuable things.”

“Your—”

“Yes, dammit.” He turns and lays me on the bed, running lazy fingers down between my bare breasts, circling them around my belly button. “I see you wanting to laugh, baby. I like the sound of it.”

I’m so carefree and happy in that moment, I let out the biggest laugh I can muster, and he falls down beside me, his face the picture of awe. Or as awestruck as a shrewd man like Dash Kelly can be, anyway. On anyone else, the slightly upturned lips and sparkling eyes wouldn’t be noticeable, but on him, they’re amazing. “I bet you don’t scream when you have a nightmare, do you?”

“No, I smoke a cigar,” he answers in a low voice, brushing my hair away from my face. “Looks like I’ll have to find another way to cope now.”

My eyebrows lift. “You had a nightmare tonight?”

“Yeah,” he murmurs. “But the sharks had legs and they were after you, not me. Guess sharks aren’t the scariest thing in my world now, huh?”

There’s a racing, lifting lightness in my chest that I can barely stand, it’s so overwhelming. My body takes over and I’m reaching for Dash, pulling his mouth down to mine for a kiss. I feel his rough groan down deep in my belly, thrilling across my nerve endings. Same way Dash does everything, he moves fast, settling between my legs, the kiss turning wild, our tongues fighting for the best taste. But when he rocks his hips, I release his mouth and gasp, a rush of pain blindsiding me.

Dash’s face is flushed, his eyes bright as he looks down at me, studying, analyzing. “Can’t make you hurt twice in one night, little girl. Can’t do it, no matter how bad you make me ache.” He moves to his side, drawing me up against him, molding our bodies together with a low, male groan. “Time is stretched right out in front of us, Babs. No need to rush a thing, now that you’re mine.”

*     *     *

DASH

There’s my proof,then. I am a fucking goner.

I’ve got the hottest girl on two legs sharing my bed and I’m more concerned about her feeling a hint of pain than I am about getting my rocks off. When I heard her screams while standing outside smoking my cigar, I thought I was going to bleed out through my eye sockets. Everything inside me clenched together like an angry fist, the oxygen snatched clear out of my lungs.

Truthfully, I’m still not over it. That gripping fear that Babette could get hurt while under my watch. Sometimes I see families piling into Winnebagos at rest stops or eating happily in a park together and wonder what it means to care about someone. Once upon a time, I must have felt affection for my parents, but I’ve blocked most of those memories. Banished them to the furthest regions of my mind. Dwelling never did me any good, especially when nothing good came from remembering the before. Not when the after was so dark.

I’m surprised to find that part of me—the one capable of caring—ain’t broken. Can’t be. Not when I’m lying side by side with Babette, counting her breaths, making sure they’re steady. Not when I’m making note of the locations of her freckles and wondering if an ice pack would make her cunt feel better.

“I have some painkillers in the car, Babs.” Why the hell didn’t I think of it before? “Just going to head out and grab them.”

“No, it’s fine.” She stays me with a hand on my forearm, and I lower back down to the bed. “Us lying here is making me feel better.”

“Yeah.” I throw an arm over her waist, drawing her back against me. “Yeah, it’s making me feel better, too.”

Her breathing slows. “Was something wrong?”

“No. I just meant…in general.” Christ, I’m not accustomed to speaking so plainly. Or even telling the truth. “I’m feeling a hell of a lot better than before you came along. That’s what I’m trying to say.”

The pleased smile she throws me over her shoulder could cause a ceasefire during the fiercest of wars. If she only knew I’d toned down my explanation. She was the last thread of air in my oxygen tank and every minute in her presence felt like one long inhale, trying to preserve, trying to hold on to the promise of life.

But, God. This is the wrong life for her. Being with me means doing things that are beneath her. Dangerous things.

I left behind a great life. A big house with a pool and a waterslide. Supportive parents who cooked all the time. We even went on a vacation to Mexico once.

I pull her tight against me, trapping her lower half with my heavy leg. As if the universe might deem me unworthy and pluck her straight out of my arms. “Tell me about the best dream you ever had.”

She’s quiet so long, I wonder if she fell asleep. “My good dreams don’t stick as much. I don’t see them as clearly.” Her slight curves lift and fall with a gentle breath, her exhale slow and dreamy. “But…well, maybe this is silly…but I have this fantasy where I’m sitting in one of those fancy parlor chairs. There’s a matching table and mirror—all white—and I have little bottles all over it. Perfume. Frames with pictures inside them, so I can remember good times. And I can just sit there and think about my plans for the day. Or write a letter.”

I can see her there, in a silk robe, brushing her hair. Smiling at me in the mirror as I approach. My chest burns with the injustice of not being able to give her those things. Not yet, anyway. “Didn’t you have a mirror and table back in Texas?”

Another long pause. “No, I guess those are the only things I didn’t have.”

Now all she has are scratchy sheets and uncertainty. I need to promise I’ll give those things back to her, but I won’t say the words. Not until I know I can deliver. Not until I figure out how. Right now, all I have to offer her is the warmth of my body. A reprieve from her nightmare. But I need to do better. I need to be better so I can deserve this treasure that curls into me with such blind trust I haven’t earned. “You sleepy yet, baby?”

“A little.”

I rub the heel of my hand against her hip, breathing into her ear. “Sing me something.” My tongue skates over the curve of her neck. “Just for me.”

She turns over, the swell of her ass rubbing my stiff cock in the process. I hide my agony behind a smile, though. The poor thing is miles from anything familiar, just had her virginity taken, completed her first robbery, and woke up from a nightmare. All in one evening. The least I can do is wait until tomorrow morning to slake my ever-growing lust.

Babette hesitates for a second, then tucks her head beneath my chin. As if she thinks there’s an actual chance I might resist. Then her sweet voice drifts up, smoky and angelic all at once. It slides into my chest and wraps around my heart, giving pressure from all sides. Mother of God. Swallowing just isn’t happening, either. I’ve never been a man who falls asleep easily. Hell, most nights I don’t rest at all, feeling the need to plot, get moving. But damn if her voice doesn’t contain some kind of magic that makes my limbs go loose, my eyelids grow heavy.

I wish I knew what the next morning would bring us. If I did, I might stay awake longer and savor the sound of her voice.

Just in case I never get the chance to hear it again.