Forever (15 page)

Toting the dessert, a fork and a handful of napkins, he traipsed back to where Amy waited for her sweet treat. Only fair. He’d had his.

C
hapter Seven

What a piece of work. If Amy didn’t have to lay eyes on that woman again in this life, or any others, she would count herself lucky. But Monica was her man’s mother, and if he could make himself see her when her health took another turn for the worse, then Amy would support him. Did drunks develop that kind of mean personality because of the alcohol abuse or did the booze refine it, knock all the boundaries aside? Had Monica always been like that? Dean’s childhood was probably worse than he described. He had minimized it, or maybe was in denial just to survive the memories. Amy supposed the care facility staff were paid well enough to put up with the stuff the woman spewed, maybe slipped her an extra shot of vodka or whatever her favorite toxin was, but holy shit. Monica still tried to drip her bitter poison into her son’s veins, and while he appeared impervious, Amy knew it had to make an impact.

Well, that painful visit was over and she hoped the next one was far, far in the future, or never. Dean told her they’d become more infrequent and sporadic as his mother’s periods of lucidness diminished. He’d talked with the doctors. The drive there took longer than the brief contact
, but the twenty minutes or so felt like an eternity of venomous accusations, insane insinuations and bizarre comments, delivered in a sprightly, carefree voice more suited to a kindergarten teacher. Twilight zone.

Mother Chambray took one look at Amy and took flight into la
-la land. Witch? Please. Dean shut the visit down instantly then, protective of her. It didn’t erase memory of the lined and worn countenance of the middle aged woman who stared at her out of Dean’s eyes, but it went a long way in reminding her that he was willing to make the effort to be with her, Amy. To try a relationship with a
woman
.

After dropping her off, with a hard kiss that had her wishing she’d enticed him into the condo for another, different kind of attempt at erasing the memory, Dean headed downtown on “business.” Amy didn’t think about that—she mostly liked his crew, and quite liked their women, now that she’d spent more and more time with them. Nobody talked shop, at least not around her, and working on the emotional components of this relationship took most of her energy and interest. She didn’t want to know anything further. She decided to get some work done before she started dinner. This whole housewife thing, although the actual wife part wasn’t yet in the cards, if ever, was surprisingly still comfortable, even after several months. She
liked
taking care of Dean. Her laptop glowed as it powered up and she entered her password, thinking she might invest in one of those big dough mixers and start making her own bread. A giggle escaped her and she shimmied in place. Despite the earlier visit to the bitch from hell, she actually felt
happy.

Absently scrolling through the news feeds, a name leaped out at her. The
rest of the stories flowed effortlessly across the screen beneath her frozen fingertip until she yanked it from the cursor. It took forever to find the correct feed again, so long Amy wondered if she’d actually seen it.
Brent Whittaker
. Locating the name, she skimmed the article, her belly filling with ice.
Tourist in Vegas. High roller. Mugged and severely beaten. Police searching for leads.

Up from her chair, across the room with no memory of making a move, Amy set her back against the bookcase and stared at her laptop, breath stuttering in and out of her lungs. Gone was her cautious realization
of happiness. Brent had gone back to Vegas, clearly ignoring the condition she stipulated in the settlement, because she thought she would still be living there and didn’t want to lay eyes on him again. The prick. But the fact he’d returned to Vegas wasn’t the issue.

A mugging and beating wasn’t that unusual. Brent being in that particular part of Vegas was. He liked the high profile casinos. Unless he went with a woman, or…
Amy quit puzzling and returned to her laptop, concentrating on finding and collating information until she thought she had a clearer picture. You couldn’t always believe what the newspapers reported, but her brain put the idea forward. Her belly thawed and ached in agreement. She thought hard and picked up her phone.

“Amy?” Randy’s mellow voice soothed her. “What’s up?”

“Got a question for you,” she burbled—the stereotypical blonde. She hoped it would soften Randy’s typical vigilance.

“Sure, kiddo.”

“Brent Whittaker?”

Randy was good, but he hesitated, just enough of a pause to confirm it. Holy fuck.

“Thanks, Randy.”

No hesitation then, as he tried to retrieve it before she terminated the call. “Not familiar, Amy. Somebody I should know?”

“You can drop the act, Randy. My God. Where is he? Never mind. I’ll call him.”

“He’s right here, kiddo, looking at me. Wanna talk to him?”

The decision was taken out of her hands. Dean’s deep voice filled her ear. “Sweetheart?”

Maybe this was better than face
-to-face because she had absolutely no idea what she was feeling and was terrified to explore it. “Brent Whittaker.”

“That douche bag.”

“Why did you do it?”

“Because he hurt you, could have killed you.”

“You didn’t even know me, then!”

“I know you now
, and he wasn’t getting away with it. He won’t raise his hand to another woman again.”

Deciding she didn’t want to know what
that
meant, Amy didn’t respond. Instead, she picked something mundane to try to right her world. “I’ll see you at dinner.”

Silence. Then, “That’s it? See me at dinner?”

“Don’t know what else to say, babe.” She punched the end-call button and hunkered down on the floor. The cell immediately shrilled. Dean.

“You okay?”

“I don’t know.”

“Coming home.”

“No. I’ll make dinner. It won’t be ready for awhile.”

“Amy, I’m on my fucking way. Don’t you leave or call Sandra. This is for you and me to talk about.”

“You didn’t talk to me about it before!” Her voice climbed the higher registers and she concentrated on her balance, her thigh muscles beginning to ache from the position.

“It wasn’t something I thought you’d find out.” The sound of traffic in the background didn’t mitigate his blatant honesty
, although why he’d withheld this from her...

Speechless, she gulped in air. “I’ll be here.”

“Will I need to watch that throwing arm of yours?”

Ah, humor. Amy supposed she should recognize how their way of relating had progressed. Pity she wasn’t feeling in the mood to joke. She clicked off again, and dragged herself to her feet to go make a pitcher of margaritas
, taking her time, forcing herself to calm down as she measured and double checked every ingredient. Maybe Mother Monica had something right after all.

The first swallow tasted wonderful against her tight throat. She figured she’d wait until Dean got home before sorting through her jumbled reaction
. Knowing him, he’d be flying along in that truck of his.

Scrutinizing the frosty glass didn’t make things any clearer, and her outrage hadn’t been calmed by either concocting the drink, or drinking some of it. She took another swig.

“Crack me a beer, sweetheart.” Dean came through the door, a man on a mission. Amy halted the next lift of the frosty glass to her lips, the anticipation of more of the sugar-rimmed edge, followed by the tart taste thwarted.

Despite the shock of what she’d learned, the sight of him in those tight, faded jeans, leather jacket swinging loosely to reveal another fitted, black tee stirred her senses.

Gray eyes watchful, he leaned down to pull his boots off. She got him a beer and set it on the coffee table. She made to sit in the leather chair but Dean forestalled her.

“Ass on the couch, sweetheart. You’re not pulling away from me.”

Well, shit. “You aren’t going to soften me up, Dean,” she warned, and defiantly took the far corner of the couch.

“Didn’t think you’d find out, like I said, sweetheart, but I’ll say my piece.”

She interrupted him. “Randy figured it out. You told him what you learned from me and he put it together, found out who Brent was. I asked you to leave it alone.”

“And I considered it, for half a second. That kind of man, preying on women, he wasn’t going to stop, Amy. And the fucker hurt you.” The intensity in his voice made her flinch, and she took another drink before putting the glass down beside Dean’s beer. She’d lost the taste for it.

“When did you find him?”

“Couple of weeks after you told me—we had some other stuff going on or it would’ve been quicker. Randy can find anyone
. He’s got contacts everywhere.”

“Why Vegas?”

Dean shrugged and reached out a long arm to snag her wrist, pulling her up against him. She didn’t resist, wondering why she didn’t. Maybe she was one of those people who secretly lusted for revenge and didn’t want to admit it? Maybe she was secretly thrilled that Brent had got his. “That was one of those things. Got word he was going, I know people there.”

“And if it gets traced back to you?”

“Never happen.”

“And if it does? Just supposing?
What if they connect the dots?” She could hear the bitter sarcasm in her tone and he pushed a hand through her hair to tip her head back. Instead of the icy glare she expected, the tenderness reflected in his gray eyes shut her up, until his next words.

“Sweetheart, nothing’s going to happen to you.”

Tearing herself out of his arms, she bumped the table, and her drink slopped every which way. Dean’s beer tipped over and she snatched at it, and then gave into her spiralling emotions. She hurled the bottle across the room, where it shattered with a gratifying smash and clatter, and tinkle of glass. Dean’s shocked face nearly drew laughter from her overworked brain, and she bit down against it, aware of how insane she would sound. Taking advantage of his apparent immobility, she jumped to her feet and set both hands on her hips, knowing she must look the quintessential fishwife.

“Goddamn it, Dean! Are you so thick? It’s not
me
I’m worried about!”

His big frame tensed, and his eyes went molten, and then
he was on his feet, prowling to her. Yanking her against him, his mouth came down on hers, stealing anything else she thought she might spout in her indignation. His tongue worked against her own as he held her head steady for his kiss. All of the tension quite suddenly drained from her, and she sagged in his embrace.

Pulling back, he stared down into her eyes. “Sweetheart. I’m sorry. I should have known you’d be worried about that, about me.
But I promise you it’ll be fine.”

Amy went with it, abdicating her stance, whatever it had been, bowing to the inevitable.
It was done, and Dean would do what he believed to be right.

H
e pressed her down on the couch cushion, never breaking the kiss. His hands smoothed down her arms and sides to slip beneath her shirt, branding her belly with heat and roughness, finding her bra clasp and popping it open. Her clothing was pushed up between them to bracket her throat, and Dean tore his mouth from hers to transfer his clever tongue to an exposed nipple, sliding down her body as he did so. A splinter of pain pierced the pleasure as his teeth nipped, then the two morphed and bloomed as he suckled and pinched the tender bud, rolling and tugging her other tip between a calloused forefinger and thumb. She arched into the sensation and spread her legs to the insistent nudge of his knee between hers, her pussy already creaming and soaking her underwear. He seamlessly switched breasts and Amy adjusted, wishing he had two mouths.

Kissing his way down the center of her belly, wet, abandoned nipples aching and mourning, he worked the button and fly of her jeans and traced the exposed flesh above her panties with his tongue.

“You smell so fucking sexy, sweetheart. Lift up.”

One leg of her jeans slipped down and off, the other hung from an ankle as Dean tore the scrap of lace covering her crotch free. “Soaked.” He stared at her. “I freak you out, I think you’re scared and you are, but it’s for me. And still you’re drenched.”

Hooking one of her legs over the back of the couch, the other bent at the knee to set her foot on the floor, Dean ran a finger between her folds. Peering up at him over the rucked up fabric below her chin, she met his gaze.

“Want my mouth or my cock, Amy?”

The long finger pushing up inside distracted her, as did the second one that joined it. He pressed his thumb on her sweet spot, a gentle pressure, just enough to hint at even better things to come. “Sweetheart?”

“Cock.” She needed the closeness, the full body contact.

His other hand went to his belt to free it as he continued to work between her legs. A moan built in her chest and worked its way up to spill over her lips. So close.

“Hurry, babe.”

Eyes darkening with his need, he opened his jeans and reached in to pull his cock free, the head glistening with precum, thick vein pulsing. His fingers left her wetness and painted a path over her mound and up to either breast before retreating to assist in the divesting of his jeans, shoving them down to his knees. He nearly fell onto her, a splayed palm on the cushion beside her head catching his weight. His cockhead slid into her, hitching at the initial stricture, then opening and stretching her sheath to accommodate his girth as he plunged deep to come up hard against her cervix.