All Chained Up (18 page)

 

TWENTY

I
N THE NEAR
dark, Briar's eyes glowed amber fire.
No
. She had said no. The single word rocked him. He dropped her hand like it scalded him. Only she didn't remove her hand from his cock right away. No, she kept it there, palming him before dropping away. Knox bit back a groan.

Heat crept over her face, shadowing the apples of her cheeks, and that made his stomach clench. He'd been inside her but she still blushed like a girl on her first date. She was still so sweet and untainted. Even after him.

She was a contrast to everything he was . . . everything he had lived through, and he wanted to pull her in and have her. Again and again until he killed that need. Until he stopped wanting her so much.

He cleared his throat. “It's better if you go.” Better for her. Better for him, too.

God knows the impulse to keep her, take her, was there, pounding through him. She had become a craving, an addiction. A compulsion as necessary as food. He thought once would have been enough to break the habit. Then he could move on. But here she was and he still felt it.

“So we're done, then?” She looked so purposeful as she asked this. Like it took everything in her to school her features and voice into total blandness.

He glanced away and then back to her again—­like he needed a break from looking at her with her face all made-­up and her hair wild and flowing. Like a woman ready to party. And there were a lot of men out there that would be more than willing to party with her once he set her free from this room.

Something swift and visceral rose up in him at that possibility. He knew she hadn't been into the greasy-­haired punk, but it wouldn't be long before she was into someone else. Before she was
with
someone else. He curled his hands into fists at his sides to stop from reaching for her, to stop himself from burying his fingers in that wild hair and dragging her painted mouth to his.

“Yeah, we're done,” he lashed out. “I can't make it any more clear for you.”

She flinched before recovering. “So that's it.” Her jaw locked and something glinted in her eyes that should have warned him. Should have told him she wasn't done. Her hand came between them and cupped his dick again. “This has had enough of me, then?”

A hissed breath escaped him.

The corners of her mouth tipped up in satisfaction. “Still hard,” she mused. Her other hand popped open the button at his fly. The zipper sang down and God help him he couldn't stop her. She delved inside and circled him with her warm, slim fingers. “You don't feel done.”

“What are you doing, Briar?” he growled.

She worked her hand between them, pumping his cock in a few hard strokes.

She didn't say anything, just continued to glare at him, and he knew. He knew she wanted to prove him wrong. She wanted him to eat his words.

She tugged his jeans down his hips and dropped to her knees.

Fuck
. His hands clenched at his sides. She looked up at him from beneath heavy eyelids. Her look was all cold fury. She wanted to punish him. Her tongue darted out to lick the head of him and he was lost.

His head fell back against the wall of liquor bottles with a rattle. He moaned as she closed her lips around him, tormenting him with her tongue.

He balled his hands into fists to keep from grabbing her head and forcing her mouth to fuck him harder. Faster.

His hips had a mind of their own, however, thrusting into her mouth, but she still managed to tease him, taking only half his cock past her lips.

He looked down and met her taunting eyes. She was a siren looking up at him.

“What do you want, Knox?” she whispered, her breath fanning his wet dick.

You
. He wanted to shove deep into her mouth. Or better yet, he wanted to haul her up and seat her on his aching dick.

“We're two consenting adults. What's so wrong with this?” she taunted, her tongue sneaking out to swirl around him again. Her gaze slid sideways, eyeing one of his clenched fists. She reached out and took that fist and brought it to the back of her head . . . inviting. He held his fingers locked against all those soft strands. But he couldn't resist forever.

His fingers unfurled, relaxing into her hair as her mouth worked over him furiously. He was so close, the small of his back tightening . . . he didn't even register the sudden burst of music from the bar signaling the door had opened. Or the footsteps.

He only heard the voice. “Nice, Knox.”

His head snapped up and he looked over at Dean, one of the busboys.

Briar squeaked and let go of him, tipping sideways and falling on her hip. Her hair was wild around her, her deep amber eyes bulging. The classic red lips were gone, lipstick smeared onto her chin. In the near dark, color stained her cheeks like someone had just slapped her.

He looked back at Dean. The way he leered at Briar made Knox feel like breaking his nose.

“Get the fuck out of here!” he snarled.

The guy held up a hand. “I'm going! I'm going!” He picked up a case of beer and hurried back out into the bar.

Knox stuffed himself back into his jeans, turning his back on Briar. He was still aching for her. Longing for relief so much that he physically hurt.

She made him forget about the world, and he couldn't do that. If she wasn't smart enough to see that, then he would have to be smart enough for both of them.

He spun around, putting several paces between them, staying clear of her touch, but he didn't have to say anything. Her expression stopped him.

She looked stricken, her eyes liquid-­dark like some wounded animal as she rose to her feet. “You're right. This is crazy. What am I doing? Someone saw us . . .” Her voice faded and she shook her head, searching his face.

Now was the time. If he wanted her to stay, if he wanted to make things right, he needed to say something now.

He held silent.

“I'm out of here,” she whispered, and rushed from the room. A brief punch of Creedence Clearwater hit his ears as she passed through the swinging door.

Well, he'd handled that like shit. But at least she was gone. It needed to be done. He reached down and adjusted himself, still aching. He sucked in a deep breath and waited for his erection to subside. A hissed breath passed through his teeth. He counted to twenty before following.

Ignoring the hollowness in his chest, he stepped back into the bar. It was even more crowded than half an hour ago.

He scanned the crowd, looking for her, still wanting to assure himself that she was all right after what just went down.

He couldn't spot her, but he found her friend parked at a table. Shelley wasn't alone anymore. She was laughing with two other men, a row of shots in front of them. Suddenly, Briar was there, stopping before her. He watched, his stomach knotting as the laughter faded from Shelley's face. He knew Briar was telling her that she wanted to leave. Because of him. Whether she said that last part or not, her friend could figure it out.

Shelley patted her shoulder and nodded sympathetically. Without another word, Briar turned and wove through bodies until she was out of the bar. As though she couldn't stand to be even in the same vicinity with him.

Which was just as well.

He watched Shelley follow after Briar, ignoring the sinking sensation in his chest and shoving away the deep ache that whispered he was making a mistake. Shaking his head, he told himself that it was the right thing to do. He might be a free man, but he wasn't free enough. Not free to be with her. He was trying to get his life together and he didn't need a complication like Briar Davis. She made him feel like he was unraveling at the seams.

The next hour passed in a blur.

Aunt Alice appeared before him with a huff. “Okay, that's the third drink order you messed up. At this rate I won't have any tips tonight. Clearly your head's somewhere else.” When he opened his mouth to protest, she held up a hand, cutting him off. “Nope. Not gonna hear it. Ever since that pretty thing showed up and you disappeared with her in the back, you've been distracted. Why don't you take off early? Jimmy and I will lock up.” She waggled her eyebrows at him, clearly indicating she thought he should go after Briar.

“Aunt Alice, I got this—­”

She pointed in the direction of the door. “Go on now. You been here almost every day this week. Don't come back tomorrow. I'll see you Monday.”

With a sigh, he nodded and stepped around the bar, exiting through the back. He could at least check in on Uncle Mac. Hopefully, he'd eaten something besides Hostess cakes for dinner. Knox had made spaghetti yesterday so he wouldn't have to resort to his usual junk food dinner.

Aunt Alice had done her best to take care of him over the years, but she had her own family to look after, in addition to working at Roscoe's. Now that Knox was out, he was hoping to ease some of the burden for both his uncle and aunt. He had a lot to make up for.

He sat in his truck for a moment before starting the engine. He stared vacantly into the back parking lot. Some of the perimeter lights were out and he made a mental note to take care of that this week.

The old farmhouse where he grew up was only ten minutes from Roscoe's. He drove past the fallow fields that Uncle Mac, North, and he had planted and harvested growing up. The sight of it in the moonlight, darkly barren with only patches of wilted grass, settled like rocks in the chest.

The porch light was still burning brightly as he drove up. Sandy hopped down the steps and barked at him as he pulled next to his uncle's pickup. Uncle Mac didn't use it much these days—­the stiffness in his left leg getting to be too much even for a simple drive into town. He added getting his uncle's truck inspected to the to-­do list growing in his head.

It wasn't even midnight yet, but Mac kept odd hours. His various medications kept him up at night. Unsurprisingly, his uncle was camped out in the living room in front of the television watching a rerun of
Mash
.

“Uncle Mac,” he greeted. “How's it going?”

He waved from his recliner. “Good. Not closing tonight?”

“Alice offered to.”

His uncle nodded and glanced at the clock. “Eleven-­thirty on a Saturday. In my day, the night would have just been getting started.”

His uncle wanted him to have a life outside of work and looking after him, and he didn't bother disguising that fact.

“Alice mentioned that you've got a few admirers at Roscoe's.”

Knox laughed once, shaking his head. Of course they were talking about him and his nonexistent life, as they deemed it. Those admirers were regulars and had more mileage on them than his uncle's old Dodge. He wasn't interested in any of them. Briar flashed across his mind. Fresh-­faced and smelling of pears. Shit.

He patted his uncle on the shoulder. “Can I get you anything?”

“No, I'm fine.”

Knox made a move toward his bedroom down the hall, but his uncle's beefy hand shot out to grab his arm. His grip was still surprisingly strong. Even after the stroke, after losing Katie . . . after Knox and North went to prison and Aunt Sissy died, his hands were still strong. So capable.

They were the same hands that had picked up Knox and his brother when they'd fallen off their bikes as boys. He was the only father they had ever known. Knox wouldn't fail him. He couldn't. Not again.

He met his uncle's rheumy gaze. “You can't run from life,” his uncle said. “From living. I don't want that. Neither would Katie or your aunt.”

Knox sucked in a breath and blinked suddenly burning eyes. It was the first time his uncle had mentioned Katie or Aunt Sissy in years. Certainly the first time since Knox had gotten out of prison. It frightened him a little . . . in addition to making him want to blubber like a baby. It was one thing knowing they were gone, but another thing to talk about them being gone, lost forever, so openly. He didn't talk about it with anyone. He never had. It tore him up too much.

He blinked fiercely, feeling so damned weak and small. He had a flash of himself when he was seven years old and his mom had driven them all the way from Plano to drop him off at her brother's place.
Uncle Mac's gonna take care of you and your brother now. Don't cry. Be brave.

And Uncle Mac had taken care of them. He took Knox and North in when their mom went to live with some deadbeat that didn't want kids. He and Aunt Sissy fed them casseroles, got them haircuts, and drove them to little league. A year later his mom had died of an overdose.

“You need to make a life for yourself,” Uncle Max said gruffly. “A little happiness. Believe it or not, you deserve that. Find someone to spend your life with . . . to love. A woman. Kids.”

He shook his head, “Uncle Mac—­”

“Nothing's worth anything unless you have that.” His voice dipped deeper. Rougher. Like he was battling emotion, maybe holding in tears. Knox hadn't seen him cry since the night they found Katie in the bathroom, an empty bottle of pills next to her. He hadn't cried at her funeral.

Knox hadn't been there when Aunt Sissy died four years ago, but when Uncle Mac called to tell Knox and North the news, there had been no tears in his voice. Only weariness. A weariness that Knox took deep inside himself. Because it was all his fault.

If he had kept his shit together all those years ago, maybe Katie would still be here. Maybe Aunt Sissy would never have been so weak that winter and she could have beaten the pneumonia. Maybe, the following year, his uncle wouldn't have had that stroke. It was a horrible chain of events. A domino effect that Knox blamed himself for starting. He had been the first one to drop, after all.

“You've never disappointed me,” Uncle Mac said gruffly. “But if you quit on building a real life for yourself, you will have.”