Brea smiled, happy that her dad had finally found a partner and helpmate after over two decades alone. “It is. I also want you to promise me that if Pierce makes it back, you’ll welcome him as a part of my life.”
Daddy sucked in a breath. “You’re asking for a lot since I don’t know this man.”
“You have a big heart. I know you’ll come through.” Brea did her best to smile for him. “But I’ll warn you now, he probably hasn’t spent a day of his life in church and he has one of the foulest mouths I’ve ever encountered. Sometimes I want to shake my head at that man, even as I say a prayer for him. But his heart is pure. He’s a good man, so put whatever Cutter told you out of your head and judge him for yourself.”
“You’re right. I owe you that much. I hope he’s everything you want and that he makes you happy for the rest of your life.”
“Me, too, Daddy.” She sighed, worry for his safety already crushing her. “Me, too.”
At DFW Airport, Cutter stepped through the revolving door from the terminal located on the far side of the bag claim, falling in inconspicuously with a group of students as he slung a duffel over one shoulder and pulled a ball cap low, his sunglasses firmly in place. One-Mile probably wouldn’t have recognized him if he hadn’t known the guy’s walk—though hampered by a bullet that had grazed his thigh mere hours ago—and the other man’s watchfulness, which came from their sort of training.
A few press types clustered around the terminal exit closest to the flight’s assigned baggage carousel, waiting for their prey. One-Mile just shook his head at them as he peeled away from the wall and followed.
When Brea’s bestie reached the sliding double doors that led outside, a gust of northern wind swept in to tug at his cap. Dressed in jeans and a short-sleeve gray T-shirt, the other guy grimaced against the chill of the mid-forty-degree weather.
“You’re not in sunny LA anymore, Boy Scout.”
Cutter whirled, caught sight of him, then huffed in irritation. “What the fuck are you doing here, Walker?”
“Is that him?” A woman’s voice sounded about twenty feet behind them.
“Right height. Right build,” answered the man with her, holding a camera and shoving a portable microphone in her hand. “I think so.”
As they darted for Cutter, the rest of the paparazzi contingency caught on to the fervor and started running in their direction, too.
“I came to take you to your car. Or I can leave you here with them to figure it out. Your call.”
“Cutter, did you shoot Shealyn West’s boyfriend in a jealous rage?” shouted one reporter dashing in his direction.
“Were you so violent because she’d kicked you to the curb?” another demanded, sprinting toward them.
“Word is you were shot, too. Who pulled the trigger?” asked yet another, quickly closing in. “What is the extent of your injuries?”
With a snarl, Cutter turned to him. “Fine. I’ll ride with you.”
“Smart man.”
“Asshole.”
One-Mile laughed. “You’re welcome. I’m parked in the garage across the street. Give me your bag.”
Bryant gripped it tighter. “I got it.”
“Oh, so you can lug it and outrun that crowd chasing you after someone took a hunk out of your thigh a few hours ago? Fine by me.”
Cutter thrust the duffel at him. “Let’s go.”
One-Mile shouldered the bag and jetted to his Jeep, unlocking it with his fob just before he wrenched the door open, dumped Bryant’s bag, and hopped in, the reporters mere seconds behind. The second Cutter’s ass hit the passenger’s seat, One-Mile screeched out of his parking spot and surged toward daylight.
“Why are you here?”
Normally, One-Mile appreciated people who didn’t waste his time with blah-blah-blah bullshit. In this instance…he’d spent his six-hour drive from Lafayette trying to figure out what the hell to say. If asking the Boy Scout for a favor had only been for his benefit, he would have skipped the whole thing. But this was for Brea, and he wasn’t letting Cutter leave this Jeep before he agreed to protect her.
“I know we’re never going to be pals, but—”
“You think?” Cutter snorted. “If I had my choice, I’d do the world a favor and kill you. I told you never to put your hands on Brea—”
“I’m in love with her. There was no way we weren’t going to happen. Do I know I’m not good enough for her? Sure. I’ll spend every day I have left on this earth trying to be worthy of her. But I’m not giving her up—not for you, her dad, or anyone else. And before you cast stones and tell me I should never have touched her, I’d be willing to bet the bosses told you to keep your hands off Shealyn West. But you didn’t listen; you took her to bed anyway. Why?”