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“You can’t make me run in fear,” he warned her, staring back at her, his eyes more gray than blue now.
“What have you done, Jack?” she cried out, feeling not just the anger but the hurt as well racing through her as she smacked his chest. She accomplished nothing but hurting her hand. “What have you done?”
“You have to be more specific, Poppy,” he told her, his quiet voice holding an edge of regret.
Turning away from him, she put her hand on her forehead, fighting the tears she wanted to let free.
She breathed in hard, deep, then turned back to him.
“The men that were killed yesterday morning,” she charged him. “The one they called Rollins would have slammed into my car as I came out of the alley if I hadn’t accelerated when I saw him swing around the turn. The one they called Van Nyes, he came up on me suddenly outside the store. Both men scared the crap out of me. Is that why they’re dead, Jack?” she whispered. “Did you—”
“Stop.” His hand went over her lips, his eyes suddenly fierce, his expression demanding. “Be careful, Poppy. Be damned careful. Because I won’t lie to you. Not to you. So, before you ask me a question, make damned sure you want the answer to it.”
He stepped back, releasing her slowly, his expression smoothing out once again.
“Do you want a beer? Fuck, I need a beer.” He moved for the kitchen.
“Bourbon,” she corrected him, her voice rough, those tears not far behind. “I need bourbon. I want to go home, Jack.”
She needed to go home. She needed her space, her shower. Her bed.
God, she needed that bottle of bourbon.
“You can’t go home yet.” He moved to the cabinet over the sink, opened a door, and pulled out a bottle of her favorite bourbon.
She couldn’t go home?
She couldn’t ask him questions unless she wanted the truth?
She wanted the truth—she assured herself that she did—but she wanted the truth to be far different than she knew it was.
And that was where the bourbon came in.
She could handle the truth after a couple of shots, she assured herself. She just had to steel herself for it, that was all.
She took the glass with the puny amount of liquor he poured, then silently demanded the bottle. When he handed it over, she doubled the amount before handing it back to him.
“You get drunk, then you’re not getting fucked tonight,” he warned her. “You can fuck me sober or do without.”
She snorted at the statement and glanced at the erection straining his jeans, framed by those perfect fucking riding chaps, then stared back up at him.
“Bet me,” she dared him furiously, leaning forward and narrowing her eyes on him as she made the challenge.
She tipped the bottle to her lips and swallowed a fiery, nerve-bracing mouthful of the bourbon. “I just have to stay sober enough to get my mouth on your dick, Jack Bridger, and you’ll fuck all night.”
Goddamn her.
Jack tipped the bottle to his lips and took a hard drink himself before shoving the cork stopper back into the bottle and replacing the bourbon in the cabinet.
And she was right; that was the part that pissed him off.
She’d just have to be sober enough to convince him she wanted him, and he’d be on her like a bee to honey. He’d strip her down, eat her until she was screaming for him, and fuck them both crazy.
“Like I said, I’m not a good man.” He shrugged. He’d accepted that fact a long time ago.
A good man would make sure she stayed sober.
Hell, a good man would never have allowed her to be involved in this.
