“Your brother is so stubborn. We both know he may never change his mind.”
“Without a significant slap upside the head? Maybe not,” Cage conceded. “Anything I can do to help until then?”
“Get him back to the doctor. He shouldn’t return to work until he’s been medically cleared.”
“I’ll do my best. I need to be back on the road to Dallas. My shift was supposed to start about…now.”
Brea closed her eyes as more guilt enveloped her. No, she hadn’t called Cage and demanded that he spend half the night looking for her. Cutter had done that. But if she’d looked at her phone sooner or checked in or reached out… “I’m sorry.”
He shrugged. “I could use the extra day off. I’m going to escort Mama to church this morning. Then I’ll be heading down the road. You should probably take a shower before your father wakes up. I know you don’t wear makeup often, but you might want to put on some today.”
She blushed again. “Are the marks that obvious?”
He grimaced and pulled at the back of his neck. “Afraid so. I don’t have a particular beef with Walker. I don’t even know him. But I know you. So I know the guilt is probably eating you up inside. And if you exchanged your body for my brother’s safety, I regret whatever you had to endure, but I’ll forever be grateful that Cutter is alive today.”
Then Cage was gone.
Brea swallowed, standing stock-still until she heard the soft thump of their front door closing.
God, she didn’t even know what to feel anymore. Guilty, yes. Sorry? Some of that, too. Exhaustion, worry, uncertainty. Somewhere in there, shock that the world felt so different in some ways but exactly the same in others. Still, under it all, giddiness prevailed. Pierce Walker had more than touched her. He had stolen a piece of her heart. And rather than wring her hands and wonder how on earth she’d ever get it back, all she could do was wonder if—no, how—she could spend the night in his arms again.
Chapter Seven
Tuesday, August 19
One-Mile started Tuesday in a foul mood. Over forty-eight hours had passed since he’d last pressed his lips to Brea’s—while buried deep in the sweetest, snuggest cunt he’d ever felt. Then he’d awakened alone. After cursing a blue streak, he’d tried repeatedly to reach her.
Calls and texts on Sunday morning went unanswered. Fine. He’d figured she was sleeping or, better yet, breaking up with that asshole Bryant. But a few hours later, he’d rolled up to the little white house of worship her father preached at and, from his Jeep across the street, he’d seen her talking to a group of middle-aged moms. Cutter had been fucking glued to her side, his arm wrapped around her waist as if he owned her.
Brea hadn’t objected, simply curled up against him as if she was where she wanted to be.
The sight had been a punch in the gut.
After that, his mood had rolled downhill.
By Monday morning, he’d been itching for a fight. Since he’d promised Logan he wouldn’t bring their shit into the office, One-Mile had been more than prepared to beat the shit out of the asshole in the parking lot. But the Boy Scout had been a no-show. Normally, he would have relished a day without the insufferable bastard. Not today.
Later, he’d learned the bosses had insisted Bryant get medically cleared before he darkened their door again. Whatever. All One-Mile had cared about was the fact that Brea still hadn’t responded to him.
This morning she finally had—texting him four brief words.
I need some space.
That told him where he stood. Brea had enjoyed her night of fun with the bad boy and was now kicking him to the curb. He should just say fuck it and do his damnedest to forget her. But he already knew he’d fail.
Besides, two and two wasn’t adding up. Brea hadn’t merely fucked him to save her boyfriend. If she had, she would never have given him her virginity or let him take her repeatedly Saturday night. She would never have kissed him with such innocent gusto. She would never have moaned so uninhibitedly every time her pleasure climbed. She would never have screamed so loudly when her climaxes hit. She would never have clung to him while she slept like a baby. She’d wanted him. Her needing space now? That was either Bryant breathing suspicion down her neck or her good-girl guilt barking. Maybe both.
He was going to call bullshit—and call her bluff.
Once he’d tracked her down, he’d coax, cajole, or seduce her into listening to his pitch to leave her boyfriend—who had never treated her like a woman. Then she could move in with him. Sure, it was fast. Yes, he was probably crazy. One-Mile expected obstacles. But he wasn’t wrong about them. Brea Bell was his. The more he thought about it, the more his gut told him that was true.