Driving Whiskey Wild Page 10

  His mustache lifted with an almost smile.

  There was no denying that they were on the opposite end of the communication spectrum, but her curiosity had grown to something much stronger, and she wanted to try to get to know him better. Though she wasn’t sure he’d ever really open up to her. But she’d been trying to ignore something that had been nagging at her, and she didn’t want to wonder about it anymore.

  Swallowing hard, because she was a little afraid the answer might only be sexual, she asked, “Why do you like me, Bullet? I see you with someone much tougher.”

  He was quiet for so long, she didn’t think he’d answer. When he finally spoke, his tone was warm and certain. “I’m not going to lie to you. At first it was purely physical. Your sweet little body and that smile knocked my boots right off, and your eyes. Jesus, Fins, your eyes fucking kill me. And then you were all ballsy and pushy, which totally turned me on.”

  Heat spread across her cheeks, and she lowered her gaze.

  He lifted her chin with his finger and said, “But then I saw you around town, and I swear you lit up the streets. You lit me up inside, and it’s been a damn long time since I’ve felt anything but darkness.” He shrugged. “How could I ignore the glow of an angel?”

  “Bullet,” she whispered, completely taken with his honesty. “How can you be so hard one minute and so romantic the next?”

  “I don’t know a damn thing about romance. I just say what I feel. I can’t explain it, and I’m no wordsmith, but when you stood up to me in the bar and you didn’t care how big I was or what I could do for you, like most people, you demanded my respect. I’m sure this isn’t what you want to hear, but I’m not used to women giving a shit about why I do things or what I really want, and honestly, I don’t usually have to talk at all. One look is enough to…” He shrugged, his gaze sliding up to the sky. When he looked at her again, he said, “I’ve unknowingly hurt you twice, Finlay. That’s not the man you deserve, or the man I want to be.”

  “Well, not that it’s okay to hurt me, but you did tell me this afternoon that I’d misinterpreted what you’d said. That you weren’t calling me stupid, and tonight it sounds like you were a hero, so how can I not forgive you?”

  “I’m nobody’s hero. I told you that.”

  He was frustratingly modest, and that was another thing she wanted to understand, but for now she set that aside. She needed him to understand where she was coming from. “I don’t know if I’ll be okay with coming second, or seventeenth, or last in a long line of people who need you. That’s a hard concept to grasp, a little like accidentally putting salt in whipping cream instead of sugar. It could be a deal breaker, but that would be on me, not you. And I won’t know unless we try. But on the other hand, you might not want to be with a woman who is afraid of dogs and motorcycles.” Disquieting thoughts whispered in her mind. “We don’t make much sense.”

  His arms came around her and he lowered his lips to hers, kissing her so tenderly, it felt like a dream.

  “Nothing in my life makes sense, Finlay, but you fucking wreck me. I don’t know if I can give you the answers you need, but that’s on me,” he said, throwing her words back at her with a coy smile that warmed her all over. “And I’d rather try with you than walk away.”

  They stared at each other for a long moment, quieting her troubled spirits enough for her to realize they were still standing in her front yard—and that in the space of an evening, everything had changed. She took his hand and led him up the porch steps. “Let’s get you cleaned up, and maybe we can salvage our first date.”

  He stepped over the threshold, and she felt his hesitation, saw a mask of discomfort come over him like a veil. Her table and counters were covered with cookies, cupcakes, and tarts. “I cook when I’m having a hard time,” she explained as she carried the flowers he’d brought her toward the kitchen. She filled a vase with water, and as she put the flowers in it, she realized he hadn’t moved from the doorway. He was gripping the doorknob like a lifeline. “What’s wrong?”

  He cleared his throat, his eyes darting around the room. “I can’t be in here, Finlay. I’m sorry, but I can’t breathe. I need space.”

  Her heart pitched, but could she blame him? After everything he’d been through? “Okay, then—”

  He strode past her, opened the doors to the deck, and stepped outside. He gripped the railing as she had earlier, and his head fell between his shoulders. His silhouette looked even more imposing against the bluish hue of the moonlight, and at the same time, she sensed something subdued within him, like an injured wild animal.

  “Are you all right?” she asked as she came outside. “Listen, Bullet, if what you said out there isn’t true, or you just said it so I wouldn’t be pissed, I get it. You don’t have to lead me on if I’m not what you want. You can walk away without any hard feelings.”

  Without a word he pulled her into his arms, folding them around her like a vise, and held her. He didn’t speak, resting his cheek on top of her head. She didn’t know what to make of him, but she knew in her heart this was his way of saying he meant what he’d said. He held her there, with light spilling out the glass doors, rough decking beneath her bare feet, and the cool air sweeping over her back. But she wasn’t cold or uncomfortable, because after the initial awareness of those things, they fell away, overshadowed by the sound of his heart beating, the potent scent of his body, and the strength of his arms embracing her.

  “Nothing in my life has ever felt real,” he said, holding her so tight it was as if he thought she might run away if he didn’t. “You do.”

  “Then let me in,” she said softly.

  Silence stretched between them. She tried to lean back so she could see his face, but he kept her there against him, cradled within his arms, beneath his cheek.

  “I want to,” he said gruffly, “but it’s going to fuck with my head. I can’t be confined.”

  “Confined as in, by me, or…?”

  “Not you. I need space, but not from you. I need air, room to breathe, to deal.”

  She tried to push from his arms again and his grip tightened. “Let me see you, Bullet,” she said firmly, and he reluctantly eased his hold. She gazed up at his stormy eyes. “Are you okay here on the deck?”

  His fingers curled around her waist. “You should probably tell me to leave.”

  “Your words say I should, but you’re holding me so tight that I don’t believe you want me to.”

  “Because I don’t. But you fucking should.”

  She couldn’t help but smile. “You’re so rough and demanding. How about you let me make the decisions about who I spend my time with? Take that bloody shirt off. I’ll throw it in the wash and get something so we can clean you up, because I’m pretty sure if you can’t handle my living room, then you can’t handle my tiny bathroom.”

  His gaze dropped to her dress, and he uttered a curse. “I got dried blood all over your dress. I’ll buy you a new one.”

  She’d forgotten she was even wearing it, and as important as it had felt earlier, now it seemed almost insignificant. She could buy a new dress, but he could never erase the tragedy he’d witnessed tonight. “It’s okay. Give me your shirt.”

  He flashed a cocky smile.

  “Is there ever a time you don’t think about sex?” she teased as he tugged off his shirt and leaned his butt against the railing.

  His eyes locked on hers, instantly dark and serious. Tortured? She didn’t have time to decide as she was riveted by the ink covering his body and the scars that lay beneath. She gasped at the fresh gashes on his abdomen and upper arm.

  “Why didn’t you…?” She couldn’t finish her sentence, and didn’t need to ask why he hadn’t had his wounds tended to at the hospital. She instinctively knew he’d been too focused on the family he’d saved and the woman he was trying to console to worry about himself.

  Even through his chest hair, it was like his tattoos screamed for her attention and tried to scare her away simu
ltaneously. His left pec was covered with writing. What looked like hundreds of names ran together, overlapping, crisscrossing, some completely unreadable. Two sets of unseeing eyes came out of billowing smoke on the right side of his chest, obscuring two Mardi Gras–like masks, complete with a single black ribbon on either side. Behind each one were darker shades of gray, as if the rest of their heads were missing from the tortured men’s masklike faces. She followed a halo of birds from behind the masks to his collarbone, where the word Blessed was tattooed in script along one side and Destroyed on the other. Each image sent a spear of pain rattling through her like chains being dragged beneath her skin.

  She didn’t think as she touched a dark tattooed cave at the juncture of his rib cage. The sun’s rays radiated from his shoulders and the outer edges of his chest, beneath the other tattoos, leading into the darkness. A hulking figure stood like a pillar of strength before the lower edge of the cave, arms extended, its back covered with an evil face. Dark eyes, fanglike teeth, and sharp brows disappeared into wispy drawers hanging low on its hips. Two broken angel wings hung from the shoulder blades.

  Her shaky fingers moved down his body to the image of an eagle flying across his stomach, over water and land, a limp body suspended by its talons. On the opposite side, she touched birdcages with people crouched down low inside them, spanning the breadth of his rib cage. She traced indiscernible patterns below his belly button and above the waist of his jeans, where the word Family was surrounded by shields and guns, hearts—broken and whole—and surprisingly, a bed of flowers. The only colors on his torso were red roses and green vines winding around the tail of the F and Y in Family.

  The heat of Bullet’s stare burrowed beneath her skin, chasing the pain the images had brought. She was too captivated by the frightening canvas before her to look away. Swallowing hard, she forced her attention to the puckered scars just below his right shoulder and near his ribs. Her gaze trailed lower, to more scars peppering his side.

  Her insides ached for what he must have gone through. Not just tonight, which must have been horrific, but for whatever had led to the mural of agony before her. She tried to mask her expression but knew from the worry in his eyes she looked as pained as the images emblazoned on his body.

  “I’ll go throw this in the wash.” She reached for his shirt and he reached for her, tossing his shirt onto a lounge chair.

  “My shirt’s history.”

  His warm hand pushed gently beneath her hair to the nape of her neck, drawing her closer. He widened his stance, bringing her between his legs, and touched his forehead to hers.

  “I’m a lot to take in,” he said.

  “It’s fine,” she said quickly, although it wasn’t fine.

  “Finlay, it scares you. I see it in your eyes.”

  “Okay,” she relented. “It’s not fine. Nothing about this is fine. It’s terrifying, but I’m not scared of you. I’m scared for you, for whatever you went through to cause so much pain to be permanently inked on your body. I hurt in here.” She put her hand over her heart.

  “Don’t be scared for me,” he said sternly. “There’s nothing I can’t survive.”

  That only made her hurt for him more. She gazed into his eyes, which were colder now. His walls were going back up. “Surviving and living, being happy, are two totally different things.”

  BULLET FELT THE weight of his and Finlay’s worlds colliding as she disappeared into the house. He pushed from the railing and paced, trying to wrap his head around the look he’d seen in her eyes and the things she’d said when she’d seen his scars and tattoos. He’d never given a thought to his tats around women, but Finlay wore her heart on her sleeve, and he’d seen all the conflicting emotions as she experienced them. The shock, fear, and worry had coalesced when she’d gazed into his eyes, and for the first time, he’d considered what the mass of demons on his torso looked like. It was bad enough that he’d had to bolt out the back door because he’d hit enough triggers tonight to be on edge, and being confined added the likelihood of a flashback if, or when, he told her about the accident.

  He didn’t want to chance adding to the darkness she’d already seen, and hoped he wouldn’t need to go there.

  Finlay came outside wearing a pink crewneck sweatshirt with FINLAY’S emblazoned across the chest in white script and gray shorts that were made of the same soft material, a matching logo across her left thigh. He’d rather that sweatshirt said WHISKEY’S—or that it was black without the girly script and he could wear it. Because damn, being hers would be amazing.

  She set a plate of cookies and cupcakes down on the table and held up one finger, looking deliciously sweet herself. What miracle had occurred for him to deserve this chance with her? He wasn’t the kind of guy who found himself unworthy of a damn thing, but he couldn’t help worrying about burdening her with his baggage.

  “I just have to grab the stuff to clean you up, but I thought you might be hungry, and I have a house full of goodies, thanks to you.” She took a step toward the glass doors and turned back, flashing a bright smile. “What can I get you to drink? I don’t have beer, but I have wine coolers.”

  “Whatever you’re drinking is fine, but I can get it.” He took a step toward the house and she held up a hand, stopping him.

  “No. You stay put and eat some of the hip plumpers you caused me to make.”

  He watched her gorgeous hips sway in those sexy shorts on her way back inside, feeling a little lighter than he had just moments earlier. He eyed the treats, but the only thing he wanted to get his hands on was currently carrying a bowl of soapy water outside, a roll of paper towels tucked under one arm, cloth towels tucked under the other. He grabbed the bowl and paper towels and set them on the table.

  “I can clean up in your bathroom, Fin. You don’t have to go to any more trouble. I’m doing better now.”

  She rolled her eyes. “No way. I just got all this stuff ready. Now you’re going to sit your butt down and let me clean that mess up.”

  “Damn, babe. I like this side of you.”

  With a shy smile that conflicted with her bossiness, she held up a finger again and darted inside one more time, returning with two wine coolers. He’d never had a wine cooler in his life, but when she handed it to him with that sexy smile, he was so mesmerized by her, so grateful for her, she could have handed him lighter fluid and he would have sucked it down.

  She set her drink on the table and pointed to the chair. “Sit down and let someone take care of you for a change.”

  He gritted his teeth. As much as he wanted her to touch him, he hadn’t needed to be taken care of in so many years, it went against every fiber of his being to let her do it. She tilted her head with a sweet smile as she dunked a washcloth in the bowl, and his insides turned to frigging mush. He lowered himself to the chair.

  She wrung out the cloth and moved so she was standing between his legs. “You have to tell me if it hurts, okay?”

  “You can’t hurt me.” Even as he said the words he knew they weren’t true. If she’d let him leave tonight, it would have hurt like a motherfucker.

  “Okay, tough guy.” She leaned in close as she gently washed the area around the wound on his arm. Her eyes flicked to his face, then back to the wound. She rinsed the cloth, carefully cleaning the gash. “You okay?”

  He nodded.

  “But you’re really tense. Are you sure I’m not hurting you? This cut’s pretty deep.”

  “I don’t even feel it.”

  “Then why are you all knotted up?” She paused her caretaking and looked at him. “Your hands are fisted. Is the water too warm?”

  He looked at his fisted hands and made a conscious effort to unfurl them. “No, but you’re perfectly hot in those little shorts.” He ran his hand up her thigh. Her skin was warm and soft, the perfect distraction from her efforts.

  She smiled and continued cleaning out the cut, stealing glimpses at the left side of his chest. “What happened to you?”

 
“I told you. There was an accident and I had to get the family out of danger.”

  “No, not the accident. What happened to you? How did you get all those scars?” She put the washcloth down and patted his arm dry with a paper towel. When he didn’t answer, she said, “Bullet?”

  He lifted a shoulder. “Military.”

  “Bullet…” She sighed, her shoulders dropping.

  “You don’t want to hear this, Finlay.” He looked away from her pleading eyes.

  “I do,” she said so earnestly, he was drawn to her eyes again. “I want to understand what you went through. Why you can’t be inside the house without feeling confined. How else can I know what other things might bother you, or help you move past it? How can you move past it if you keep it all bottled up inside?”

  He pressed his hands to his thighs, channeling all the dark energy there.

  She set the washcloth down and placed her delicate hands over his. “Do you never talk about it?”

  He didn’t respond, and he knew by her empathetic expression he didn’t need to. Her fingers curled around his hands.

  “Have you ever?”

  He swallowed against the acidic taste moving up his throat. “Bones knows a good deal of it, but nobody needs to hear the details about the hell that goes on over there.”

  “How long were you in the service?” she asked carefully.

  “Too long, and not long enough.”

  “Bullet,” she whispered for what felt like the hundredth time. “How long have you been out?”

  “Seven years.”

  “And you’ve never shared the hard parts with anyone other than Bones?”

  “Finlay…You don’t want to go there.”

  “But the things you must have seen. The death and destruction, it will eat you alive if you don’t get it out, won’t it?” She squeezed his hands. “You should talk about it to someone. It doesn’t have to be me, but you shouldn’t carry the weight of the world around like that.”