Chapter 16 #2
She stepped around to join the injured woman. “Are you all right, ma’am?”
“Police, motherfucker. Stay down.” Virgil kicked the feet out from under one assailant. The crash and yelp of pain was pleasing. “Sunny, can you help Mrs. Ganning?”
Atticus shoved the other asshole face down in the cans. Both bastards had racist tats on their shaved heads and necks. “We got an infestation of skinheads around here, Virg.” He tossed Virgil a zip tie, secured his perp, and called the station for pickup.
“My day off and now I have paperwork,” Virgil muttered. “I got these assholes. You want to check the women?”
“Will do.”
Sunny had disappeared.
Sitting on the floor, Gin had an arm around the waist of the elderly woman. “Don’t try to stand up yet, ma’am.”
“Mrs. Ganning.” Atticus knelt on one knee. He gently touched at the swelling on the side of her face. “They got you good, huh?” Bastards. The old librarian might weigh a hundred pounds on a good day.
“Detective.” She reached out and patted his leg with a shaky hand. “You have a very brave woman here.”
Damn straight. “I would have to agree with you there.” His smile brought pink to Gin’s cheeks. “Are you hurt anywhere else, ma’am?”
“Oh, I’ll have some bruises, I fear. Those two followed me from the street, making”—her expression sickened—“filthy comments.”
“This would be the one time I’m not in the front.” Greaves appeared, jaw clenched with anger. “I’m sorry, Maud.”
“No need to fret. I was rescued quite nicely by these young women—and our law enforcement.”
Sunny trotted around the corner. Gently, she applied a towel-wrapped ice pack to Mrs. Ganning’s cheek.
“It’s good we were here, Greaves,” Atticus said. “I doubt the assholes would have backed off for one man.” They’d have flattened him and robbed the place as well.
The thump of boots heralded the arrival of the uniformed officers along with Fire and Rescue for Mrs. Ganning. As they bore off their various charges, Atticus guided Gin out to the street.
“You…” He could only shake his head. “That was one of the bravest, most ballsy things I’ve ever seen. And you scared a goddamned decade off my life.” He opened his arms.
When she hugged him without a single hesitation, his chest tightened.
Jesus, he was still scared. “What the hell were you thinking?” he growled, pulling her completely against him.
“Well, there wasn’t much choice. I could hardly let them beat her up.”
Far, far too many people would have. And she hadn’t even considered walking away an option. Truth: he loved this woman.
And she thought on her feet. He kissed the top of her head and smiled into her silky hair. The story would be all over town tomorrow: Skinheads downed by Campbell’s soup. The heroes—two terminally cute women.
Gin lifted onto tiptoes to say quietly in his ear, “By the way…”
“Mmmhmm?”
“Thanks for coming to my rescue.”
His arms tightened around her. She hadn’t had enough rescues in her life. Not enough backup. Too many people had abandoned her. With a good mom and two brothers, he’d been the lucky one. “Of course I rescued you.”
She was his now to care for and protect—and she needed to know that. He lifted her face up and met her eyes. “Virginia, I’ll always come after you. I keep what’s mine.”
He could see the declaration strike home. See the gleam of tears in her eyes. See her love.
Oh yeah, it was there, even if she hadn’t said the words.
“Virginia, I’ll always come after you. I keep what’s mine.” For the last few days, Atticus’s words had played a continuous loop in Gin’s head.
She set her journal on the coffee table and pulled her feet up on her small couch, jostling Trigger. He set his head back on her thigh and fell back asleep.
“Always.” Such a wonderfully reassuring—yet frightening word. Atticus was implying they had a…a future. Which meant she’d have to invest herself.
And—darn Shrink Atticus—as she’d journaled, a theme emerged. She not only thought she had sacrificed herself in a relationship, but she also believed that any man would leave her eventually.
Not a good revelation. She scowled. She should have realized this before.
Then again, how often had her clients been blind to the cause of their problems?
The mind tended to avoid thinking about past pains.
And without sharing its reasoning, the subconscious would try to prevent any re-creation of traumatic events.
She had been making choices based on avoidance. That time was over.
She scrubbed her hands over her face. At her movement, Trigger set a paw on her thigh.
“Thanks, my friend.” She stroked his big head, grateful for his presence. “You know, you’re far, far better company than Preston ever was.”
Trigger whined his agreement. He thought he was superb company.
“You do realize Atticus is wonderful too, don’t you?”
Trigger’s tail slapped the couch. He adored Atticus.
So did Gin.
Her lips curved as she considered the man. Such a whoa, honey all-man sort of guy.
The kind who didn’t think twice about risking his life to help others. The ease with which he’d subdued the creep had been intimidating and, later, when she’d stopped shaking, extremely hot.
She grinned. Being all man, he’d enjoyed the way she’d shown her gratitude for her rescue.
He was also the type of guy who’d automatically clicked to whatever sport was on television. At least, he enjoyed snuggling on TV nights. And, he loved classic Westerns. In turn, she enjoyed his contemporary modern-day police and detective thrillers. They’d found common ground.
Mostly. Getting him to watch a chick flick had required a bribe of chocolate cake.
His “family room” was a testosterone-laden rec room. And awfully fun. She couldn’t yet beat him in pool, but she’d slaughtered him in Ping Pong.
Yesterday, he’d made her trim his roses, insisting all Southerners knew how to tend flowers. The idiot. Even worse, she did know how…
She’d paid him back by making him dig her an herb garden, saying digging wasn’t ladylike and pitchforks fell squarely into the guy arena. He’d not only dug the bed, but also helped plant the basil, oregano, and chives.
Sunday morning, he’d found the spot on her ribs that sent her into incontrollable laughter.
In turn, she’d discovered his feet were ticklish.
The ensuing wrestling match was amazing, although she’d lost. Rather than demanding a blowjob for his prize, he’d insisted she learn to ride Molly, the mare he’d brought with Festus from Idaho.
After her lesson with the horse, Atticus had dumped her in the hay…and taught her how to ride a human. “Cowgirl position.” But she sure hadn’t mastered “posting a trot,” as he called it.
On the walk back to the house, her legs had wobbled so badly he’d had to hold her up. Riding was tiring. Climaxing a kazillion times? Totally exhausting.
And then he’d helped her cook supper since he’d worn her out.
She frowned. The man did too much for her.
In household work, they ran about even. True, he did more yard work, if given a choice. But inside the house, he always picked up after himself. His socks hit the laundry basket, not outside. Unlike some of her lovers, he put his dirty dishes in the dishwasher. So they balanced in that area.
But in sex? Was it stupid to want him to ask…more…from her during sex? And maybe other times too. Actually, not to ask, but to demand.
Okay, yes, he was in charge in the bedroom, but it was all about mutual satisfaction. If anything, she came out ahead, since she’d get off more than once.
But there were times she just wanted him to use her, to be a little selfish and take his own pleasure without thinking of hers.
She wanted to…serve…him. How weird was that?