3. Grant #2
I cleared my throat and asked, “You girls shoot?” Better. “I can show you, if you’d like.” Subtle. Not castrated-by-my-best-friend’s-wife worthy.
Sophia’s brows arched. “I can shoot better than you, I’m sure.”
Confident little thing.
Glinting from her wrist drew my eyes down to where I was still holding her hand before she pulled it abruptly from my grasp.
Purple and yellow circles poked out from behind her thick bracelet as it shifted down her slender wrist. She quickly tucked her hands into her back pockets, trying to hide what she’d attempted to cover with jewelry.
I was pretty sure of what I’d seen though, and it had given my mood a one-eighty.
Being a tattoo artist, I’d seen a lot of things on skin—old scars, bad tattoo jobs, brands, you name it. I’d grown used to ignoring it and doing my job. But bruises like that on a woman? That was something that hit closer to home.
My forehead creased as I looked over the rest of what I could see of her. Her sky-blue eyes shot between Lyra, who was by Carver on the table paying no attention to us anymore, and me, like she was tellin’ me not to say anything.
My mind dredged up memories of the past, darker times that I tried to lock up real tight.
Times I wished I was strong enough to do somethin’ more before it got too far.
It was no longer my dick I was thinkin’ with.
It was my fists. Someone grabbed this beautiful woman in front of me, and for whatever reason, she was covering it up, even from her friend.
Suddenly, all I wanted was to find out who’d done it so I could ram my baseball bat into the fucker’s head.
My jaw ticked, unable to restrain myself as I murmured, “Who touched you?”
“Excuse me?” she rushed out, keeping her voice low.
I narrowed my eyes. “You heard me. Who the fuck grabbed you?”
“I don’t know you, Grant. And I don’t know what you’re talkin’ about.”
“You do know, darlin’.” I cocked my head, glancing toward her wrist that was still buried in her back pocket. “And I don’t have to know you to do somethin’ about it.”
“If I couldn’t do a thing about it, neither can you, so just leave me the hell alone.” The slight admission tumbled from her, and when it was out, her cheeks turned a shade of red. “I’ll be gone tomorrow, anyways. Just…forget about it.”
“I can’t unsee shit like that.” I covered a chuckle I didn’t feel as I grazed my knuckles across my jaw. “And now that I have seen it, I’m inclined to find out who did it. So, tell me who hurt you so I can—”
“What, be a big, scary man and take care of it for me?” She scoffed. “Look, I may look all helpless, but I’m not.”
“Yet, someone thought you were.”
“Well, fuck them.”
“I agree.”
“You don’t look convinced.”
“I’m pretty convinced I wanna kill ’em for you.”
She exhaled, searching my eyes. “I meant about me bein’ helpless. I’ll prove that I’m not.”
“You will?” I dragged my gaze down the length of her body, starting with her large blue eyes and pink, glossy lips, then moved lower to the soft curve of her waist through her tight blue blouse that dipped at her cleavage, forming a heart shape.
Those curves continued on down to her jean shorts, where pieces of shredded fabric barely covered tanned, smooth, seemingly untarnished skin.
She was good at hiding it. Too good, like it was something she was used to.
And now I’m intrigued.
Maybe Carver was right. Maybe I was a woman eater, because she looked like I could bite into her again and again.
But someone else looked at her and thought they’d hurt her.
She looked soft and sweet to me, but something about that felt all wrong as she straightened, planting her cowgirl boots firmly on the wooden floor.
“Hey cowboy, my eyes are up here.”
“Bruise-free, too.” The sharpness in her eyes softened. “How’re you gonna convince me you’re doin’ more than covering it up?” I asked.
“If I’m a better shot than you, you’ll see I’m capable of handling my own shit, and can’t ask me about it anymore tonight.”
I mulled that over real fast and settled on, “Fine.”
She straightened and pulled her hands from her pockets, adjusting her bracelet to cover what was left of the marks that were maybe a few days old by now. “I don’t know why, but I’ll trust you to keep this between us,” she whispered.
I tipped my head in a nod, keeping my eyes on hers. “Just between us, darlin’.”
A soft smile faltered on her lips until she cleared her throat and hurried away, passing Lyra and Carver as she headed toward the kitchen, asking if anyone wanted shots.
I told myself not to give a damn about her. Not to picture her being grabbed and tossed around. I’d find out who’d done it by the end of the night and take care of it and then I could forget all about her.
But then we took the girls out to shoot and my gut sank with every dead-center shot she put through the cans while I was too distracted picturing those bruises to land more than one.
If she was so good at this, why didn’t she shoot the fucker who attacked her?
What did he mean to her? Why save him when every bone in my fucking body wanted to end him?
And again, why the fuck couldn’t I drop it?
I couldn’t get it out of my head. Not hours later, when Carver, Hayes and I went to deal with one of his demons, and not when we returned to his house later that night.
See, I had a problem with fixation. As a kid, I’d get lost in my drawings. Some days, I’d forget to sleep or eat because the pictures in my head needed to come out. I needed them there like I needed to breathe.
There were times when the world around me turned ugly, and as I got older, I discovered that my hands could do other things than preserving the beauty around me with pretty pictures.
I could also end the things that made the world ugly.
Hurt the things that tried to bring down what I wanted to protect.
And as I saw Sophia sprawled out on the floor of Carver’s living room, a pillow tucked under her head, looking rather peaceful with a throw blanket wrapped around her body, a new fixation started to take root.
One I could feel would cause more harm than do any good, but the line of fire she stood behind was too tempting not to cross.
“I’m bringing Ly to bed. Stayin’?” Carver asked, his brow arching up as I stared down at the blonde on the floor.
“Yeah.”
“Guest room is open.”
I shrugged. “Couch is fine.”
Carver glared at me, warning without words as he lifted his wife from the floor. I made my way to the couch, keeping my eyes firmly on the way Sophia’s small body curved in as she slept with a box of Chinese noodles next to her face.
“You don’t need to say anythin’,” I murmured as Carver maneuvered the pizza box with his booted toe.
“Good.”
I could tell he wanted to say more, but had held back.
The moment their bedroom door shut, I leaned forward, brushing the strands from Sophia’s face, wonderin’ how somethin’ so fragile looking could wield a gun the way she had.
I wasn’t sure why it fascinated me so much.
I swear she had a vengeance in her to right a wrong, and my two cents were on whoever caused the bruises still concealed under her bracelet.
Someone hurt her, and that pissed me right the fuck off.
It went deeper than what Carver probably thought. He didn’t know what led me to kill Kirk when I was thirteen, he just knew I wasn’t in jail right now for it, but I had been.
I grew up watchin’ my ma get tossed around, marked up and bloodied. All because some man couldn’t hold back his temper and thought it was best directed at somethin’ soft.
Someone like Sophia.
It wasn’t so much that she reminded me of her—my ma.
Sophia had it in her to be tough. But as far as I knew, she hadn’t done a thing about it.
I knew she was capable, yet nothin’ in her eyes said, “I’ve murdered before.
” She still had a look about her of innocence mixed with a fire long overdue to be stoked.
Not like mine did.
Taking a life for the first time makes you turn in a way you can’t come back from. It sucks a certain light from you that others fool themselves into thinking is still there.
I wouldn’t be fooled. That light in me was dim, if anything.
I was pretty sure it died the day Kirk did and my thirteen-year-old self grappled with what my hands could do.
Yet I didn’t regret one second of jammin’ my broken pencil into his neck while he slept.
Of watching the life drain from his wide eyes as he clawed at the wound with everything he had.
My only regret was not having done it sooner.
And that’s what irked me about this whole Sophia situation. Because that’s what she was quickly becoming as I dragged my knuckle down the curve of her neck—a situation. She could kill the fucker easily, or at least threaten him.
Maybe that’s what she did, and I was makin’ a big deal out of what she’d already handled. Maybe she threatened him and now he was done hurting her. I needed to know, one way or the other.
I scooped her up from the floor, then pulled her against me on the couch, laying her back flush to my front.
“Sophia,” I said, keeping my voice low.
She didn’t stir much, just nuzzled her cheek into my forearm. It felt kinda nice.
“Darlin’,” I purred into her ear.
“Hm?” she hummed sleepily, the smell of tequila and limes as thick as her hair tickling my face. I brushed it away, smoothing the strands back.
“Who did it?”
“Mmm?” she repeated, this time pushing her ass into my groin.
I smoothed my palm down the curve of her waist, settling it over her hip. Pulling her tighter to me, a surge of protectiveness bubbled to the surface.
“Who hurt you?” I asked, raising my voice just enough to snap her from her sleepiness.
She turned to face me, red lines branching toward the blues of her irises. “Grant?”
“It’s me, darlin’. Now, tell me—”
“Hmm.” Her lashes fluttered closed, like she was fighting hard to stay awake. “Help me.”
Blood rushed away from my dick and into my fist. “How?”