The Junkyard Cowboy (Tall, Hot & Texan Book 3) Page 7

  Two hours later, he drove by Jennifer’s other two friends’ places, and damn it to hell and back if there hadn’t been a parked car with cop-looking folks in them, too.

  Thankfully, it’d been dark, and the cops hadn’t made him in the new car. He’d come back to the hotel to come up with a new plan. He was not going back to prison, but Ted Bundy didn’t quit a job. When he started something, he finished it.

  He rolled over on the mattress. It was too damn soft and sucked him in.

  Because he knew the cops wouldn’t be inclined to look for him at a five-star hotel, he’d rented a room in the best one this side of town. Who’d have guessed he’d sleep better in a cheap hotel than a nice one. Then again, after seven years of sleeping on a piece-of-shit cot in prison, his back probably rebelled against luxury.

  He rolled over again. “Screw it!”

  There would be no sleeping tonight. He shot up, got dressed, and took off. He wasn’t dumb enough to go back to one of her friends’ places, but he could take care of another matter.

  That damn junkyard guy.

  Bundy didn’t know if the guy lived there, but it appeared to have rooms in the back. And chances were if he didn’t live there, he lived somewhere close by. And Bundy had seen the black Chevy truck parked out front. He could drive around that entire postage stamp of a town and find the ball-busting piece of shit.

  At least he’d have that taken care of.

  • • •

  Exhaustion made Jennifer’s bones hurt and her brain heavy. Yet, she couldn’t sleep. Just closing her eyes brought on flashbacks of running from a bald guy and of Clay naked. Neither induced sleep. He wasn’t exactly an exemplary host. Not that she blamed him. She’d pushed herself on him. And now she could clearly see why he’d wanted to refuse.

  She did another roll to the other side of the bed. Pete had been right. The sheets were as smooth as a baby’s butt, but she couldn’t get comfortable. It wasn’t so much the bed.

  She rolled again. Well, it was the bed. But in truth, the biggest problem with the mattress wasn’t the occasional lump, but that it wasn’t memory foam. Since Charles had moved in and brought his bed, she’d gotten accustomed to foam-induced sleep. It hadn’t dawned on her before now that she would lose it. Surely, Charles was going to take his bed with him.

  How sad was it that she’d miss his mattress more than him?

  Very sad. A voice deep inside her said. But it didn’t mean that much.

  Her feelings for Charles would’ve grown if they’d actually tied the knot.

  Or would they? Would he have married her and then bolted? Charles was a nurse. That career had a high divorce rate, so maybe their relationship had been doomed from the start.

  Her phone dinged with a text. She snatched it from the bedside table, curious to see who was texting her this late.

  Savanna.

  Woke up to pee. Gut says you aren’t sleeping. Hope I’m wrong. But wanted to say I love you and I’m so damn glad you’re okay.

  Smiling, Jennifer texted her back. Your gut was right. I love you, too.

  The phone dinged again with an incoming text. Did your host lose his attitude?

  They’d texted right after dinner and she’d mentioned Clay’s hostile outlook.

  He served me wine.

  Ding. He’s trying to seduce you.

  She typed back, I don’t think so. He’s pissed I forced him into this. He had to buy new sheets.

  Ding. New sheets? Now I know he’s trying to seduce you.

  LOL. Get some sleep.

  Ding. Don’t count him out just because he isn’t a funeral director and has a large joystick.

  She laughed. You are bad.

  Ding. Good night.

  Jennifer set her phone down, counting her blessings for such good friends. She wished she had as much luck in her love life.

  All of a sudden, her bladder announced itself.

  Getting out of bed, she tiptoed to the door. It opened with nothing more than a nighttime whisper. She gazed at the sofa where Clay was sleeping and saw the silent lump covered with a blanket.

  Obviously, the man didn’t snore. In fact, she wasn’t even sure he was breathing.

  She eyeballed the door to the kitchen where the one bathroom was located.

  She tiptoed through the corner of the living room, never looking at Clay, and darted into the bathroom. The flush of the toilet caused the pipes to groan and she flinched,, afraid the noise might have woken him.

  Not a peep of noise came from the sofa. A sudden rumble from her stomach was a reminder of the dinner she’d left uneaten.

  Maybe there was something in the kitchen to tide her over until morning. She eased over to the cabinets, opening two doors before she found cups.

  Cup in hand, she inched forward to the fridge, opening it slowly to make sure the light wouldn’t flow directly into the living room. It didn’t. Snagging the milk, she had the door a fourth of the way shut when a figure loomed on the other side.

  She screamed. Jumped. Managed to hold on to the milk, but the cup went flying through the air.

  “It’s just me,” Clay said.

  She hadn’t stopped gasping for air, when another loud crash echoed from the living room. Following that clatter came a deep-aged voice. “Move, and I’ll blow you to smithereens.”

  She didn’t dare move. Clay didn’t take marching orders as well. He shot in front of her.

  “It’s us!” Clay snapped and hit the light switch.

  Brightness exploded in the room. Pete stood perched in the doorway. Jennifer’s first shock came from the shotgun pointed right at them. The second related to the man’s attire. Or his lack thereof. Pete stood naked with the exception of a pair of tighty-and-not-so-whities that looked two sizes too big and begged for a splash of bleach.

  “Put the gun down!” Clay seethed.

  Pete lowered the barrel. “I thought someone broke in.”

  “Well, they haven’t.” Clay exhaled.

  “Good night, then.” Pete turned.

  Jennifer watched the bare and bowlegged old man walk away. Her eyes widened at the sight of the baseball-sized hole in the back of his undies that exposed something loose and dangling. Pete finally reached the bedroom and shut the door.

  Clay moaned and pushed his palms into his eye sockets. “I can’t unsee that.”

  She laughed and then covered her mouth to keep the sound from bouncing all over the kitchen.

  Then Clay laughed and coughed to hide it.

  Their eyes met, and they laughed again.

  When they sobered, she suddenly realized he was shirtless. He looked really nice shirtless. She simply hadn’t appreciated it enough last night.

  His gaze lowered to take in her nightshirt. When his face rose, his right eyebrow lifted ever so slightly.

  She recalled there had been something written on the nightshirt, but hadn’t read it. Looking down she read, This is my sexy lingerie.

  “This isn’t mine,” she blurted out before she meant to. “Macy and Savanna . . . uh, sent some things they knew I could wear.”

  Then she realized how that might have sounded. As if she wanted him to know she did wear sexy lingerie. “I mean, I didn’t . . .”

  He grinned. “It’s good.” Night silence filled the kitchen and with it came awkwardness.

  “I should get back to bed.”

  He nodded.

  She’d almost gotten out when . . .

  “Uh, Jennifer?” His soft deep voice had her turning around.

  “Yes.”

  He held a glass in his hand. “Can I have a glass of milk before you go?”

  It took her a second to realize she was heading to the bedroom with his half-gallon of milk.

  Swallowing the embarrassment, she spoke, “I guess I could share.”

  His eyes lit up with laughter. “Why don’t you join me?”

  Her gaze shifted to his bare chest. “Oh,” he muttered and set his glass on the table. “I’ll get my
shirt.”

  That might help. She grabbed a cup and settled into a kitchen chair. The man could multi-task, for he walked and dressed at the same time. Eyes wide, she watched as he slipped the tee over his head, tugged it over his shoulders, slid it down, past his flat abdomen, past his navel until it covered up his treasure trail of hair disappearing behind the zipper of his jeans.

  He dropped into a chair beside her and picked up the milk and filled his glass and her cup. “Can’t sleep?” he asked in an appropriate middle-of-the-night whisper.

  “No,” she said.

  His chair scuffed across the floor when he popped up. “You want me to heat your milk up?”

  She stared, still thinking about his treasure trail. “How did you know I like it hot?”

  Moving to the microwave, he stuck her cup in. “You had a cup, and my mom is an advocate of the hot-milk-sedative club.”

  “And you’re not?”

  He leaned against the counter while the hum of the appliances filled the room. Running a hand through his hair, he looked sleep-mussed and sexy. “Milk’s supposed to be cold.”

  The microwave dinged and he pulled it out. “But hey . . . to each his own.” He set the cup in front of her.

  “So you still have your mom?” she asked.

  Settling back into a chair, he paused just a flicker too long. “Yeah. She lives in McAllen, Texas. She calls me religiously every Sunday.”

  “You don’t see her?”

  “Yeah, I mean we’re both busy. I saw her . . . a couple of years ago.”

  Jennifer read some between-the-lines issues, but didn’t push. “You’re lucky . . . to still have her.” Jennifer pulled the milk closer.

  “Your mom?” he asked.

  “She . . . passed away when I was sixteen.”

  “What happened?” His voice lowered.

  She took a small sip of milk. It must be whole milk because it felt and tasted like warm cream on her lips. “A drunk driver happened.”

  “Sorry.” His voice lowered even more.

  “Me, too,” she answered quickly, set her cup down and made fast work of finding a conversational U-turn. “Jake told me your grandfather recently passed. Sorry.”

  He turned the milk in his hands. “Not recently, but thanks.”

  “Oh, I thought you inherited the place.”

  “I did. I . . . He died three years ago. It just wasn’t the right time to move then.” He took a sip of milk. His glass hadn’t landed back on the table when he asked, “Do you own your own interior design business?”

  Since she’d just taken a U-turn, she recognized his. She couldn’t complain.

  “I worked for an agency for three years after I graduated. But the owner kept design control over everyone’s work. She was good, but more times than not I preferred my ideas to hers. So, I quit and hung out my own shingle. It was slow for the first year, but a couple of my old clients looked me up and word of mouth spread and soon I was needing to turn down clients. This is the slowest I’ve been in five years.”

  “Economy?” he asked.

  “Blacklisted.”

  “By who?”

  “Mitchell. The child abuser I’m testifying against.”

  “Shit. But he’s been charged.”

  “Innocent until proven guilty.” She slumped back in the chair, turned her cup, and said something she’d been worrying about lately. “But honestly, there’s a part of me that’s afraid it might not make a difference.”

  “Why would you say that?”

  “The really wealthy—who are a big portion of my clientele—have secrets. They don’t want someone coming into their home and exposing those secrets. That’s what I did. I sort of broke the unwritten code of ethics of interior designers.”

  His gaze held hers. “And yet you did it anyway.”

  “It’s not like I had a choice.”

  He exhaled. “Yeah, you did. A lot of women put their careers first.” The sound of the fridge humming seemed loud in the flicker of silence. “It sucks that it had to happen.”

  “Yeah. But I’m not really sorry I did it. I knew the day I reported it that it’d probably be like this. But if things don’t pick up, I’m going to have to either find a new career or find a way to reinvent myself.”

  “I wish I could tell you I believed doing the right thing always paid off, but I don’t. Sometimes the right thing can turn out to be a wrong thing. Good deeds don’t go unpunished.”

  Their gazes met and held again. His words were like an appetizer to the story he wasn’t telling. “What happened?” she asked before she realized she might be stepping on toes.

  Glancing down at his half-empty glass, her question hung in the air unanswered.

  “I’m sorry.” The apology fell from her lips. “That’s none of my business.”

  Hesitation hung in the air and moved to awkwardness.

  “It’s late.” She reached for her cup. “We should—”

  “I’ll answer if you will.”

  There was a challenge in the green pools of his. Bright green, the same color as her cat’s. She missed her cat. She loved her cat. And she always loved a challenge.

  “What do you want to know?”

  Chapter Seven

  Clay had a brief moment of panic. Did feeding his curiosity merit spilling his guts? “If you’re tired, we can just—”

  “No,” she said. “I’d rather talk.” She folded her fingers around the coffee mug. “What do you want to know?”

  Her diamond caught his eye. His curiosity weakened his own defense. “For starters, I heard you broke up with your fiancé. Yet you’re still wearing the ring. Are you thinking you two will get back together?” With that question out there, another rolled out. “Is that who’s been texting you tonight? You understand the rule of not telling anyone where you are includes him.”

  She sipped her milk as if contemplating his questions. “Yes, I broke up with my fiancé. No, I’m not going back to him. And no that wasn’t him who texted me. That was Savanna. At nine months pregnant she has to pee every hour. She guessed I wasn’t sleeping. I apologize if that woke you up. I’ll turn my phone’s volume down.”

  She held up her hand. “And this . . . It was a half-size too small. Charles was supposed to get it resized. He never got around to it. I tried to take it off.” Turning it, and the skin bunched up around her knuckle. “If I used soap and worked with it, I could get it off. But I’ve been kind of busy being on someone’s hit list.”

  Her answers were logical and made him feel a little illogical for asking. Pushing that aside, he asked, “You want it off? I’m an expert at that.”

  She looked puzzled. “An expert at removing too tight engagement rings? What do you do? Break couples up, or just dig rebound chicks.”

  He laughed. “Not quite. I’ve assisted in four ring-removal ceremonies with my mom. She gets thin, marries, puts on weight, then divorces.”

  Jennifer bit down on her lip. “Your mom’s been married four times?”

  “Five. This last one might stick.” He flippantly tossed it out there.

  “Sorry,” she said as if she’d personally gone through it herself. Or if some old childhood hurt had leaked out.

  “That was a long time ago. Let me see your hand.” He held out his.

  “How old were you when your parents divorced?”

  “Eleven.”

  “And you went through that many step-fathers?”

  “Not really. I mean, I stayed with my dad.” He wiggled his fingers.

  She slipped her hand into his. It felt small, smooth, the contours of her palm fit against his like pieces of a puzzle meant to come together. He got tingles in places that a simple touch shouldn’t bring on.

  He turned the ring. “It’s tight. Are you swollen?”

  When he looked up she was staring right at him. “Maybe . . . because of my wrist. Dishwashing soap might work,” she said, her voice soft as the night. As soft as her dark hair looked brushing against her ch
eek.

  “Actually, that’s not the best thing.” He stood and looked in the cabinet to see if they had any Windex or glass cleaner. They didn’t. In his fifty-dollar cleaning supplies shopping spree, he hadn’t worried about the windows.

  He went into the bathroom. There wasn’t any in that cabinet, either. Then he remembered the best ring removal elixir there was. It had been the last resort before taking his mom to the jewelry store and having the thing cut off. He opened the medicine cabinet.

  And smiled. “Thank you, Pete.” Luckily it was a new tube, too.

  Stepping out, he squirted a big dollop into his hand. After dropping the tube on the table, he picked up her hand and massaged it onto her ring finger.

  Gently, he moved the ring up and down.

  “It needs to stay on there for a second. It shrinks things and controls swelling.” With even strokes, he kept rubbing her finger.

  She lifted her hand and sniffed. “What is it.”

  He tried not to smile, unsuccessfully. “It works. That’s what’s important.”

  Her brows wrinkled, she looked curious and adorable. “What is it?”

  A laugh escaped his lips. “You don’t want to know.”

  “Yes, I do.”

  He pushed the tube over to her, but he didn’t let go of her hand. She read it and jerked her hand away from his and started flapping it up and down.

  “You put hemorrhoid cream on my hand? Ewww. Yuck.”

  Laughing, he caught her hand, and with one quick twist removed the ring. “You may wash your hands now.”

  She stared at him, and suddenly his humor must have been contagious. Laughter slipped off her lips. “I can’t believe you . . .” Rushing to the sink, she washed her hands. He went to stand right behind her and instinctively noted she didn’t even come to his shoulders. Normally, he went for taller women, but . . . now he wondered why.

  She looked back and up. “That’s gross.”

  “It was a new tube.” When she moved away from the sink, he dropped the ring into his jeans pocket, soaped up his hands, and rinsed.

  When he turned around, she was still standing there, flapping her wet hands in the air to dry and grinning.

  Chin held high, she grinned. “I guess I’ll have to buy you another tube.”