Sugar Free (26 page)

I'd like to dedicate this book to my best friend, Shelley. She's not a big reader, and chances are she'll never read this unless I shove it under her nose, but you know what…I love that. I love that she loves me for me and not because of what I do for a living.

Maybe one of our mutual friends will tell Shelley that I dedicated this book to her. I know she'll appreciate it and will call me up to tell me so. Then we'll do what best friends do, and we'll focus on the other important things in life.

Like trying to embarrass each other in public…

Or getting too tipsy at dinner so our husbands have to pick us up…

Or taking spontaneous girls' weekend trips…

Love you, Shelley!!!! So much!!!

Alex

Garrett

Zack

Ryker

Hawke

Max
(coming soon)

Sugar Daddy

Sugar Rush

Sugar Free

Wicked Fall

Wicked Lust

Wicked Need

Wicked Ride

Wicked Bond

Off Sides

Off Limits

Off the Record

Off Course

Off Chance

Off Season

Off Duty

On the Rocks

Make It a Double

Sugar on the Edge

With a Twist

Shaken, Not Stirred

Legal Affairs

Confessions of a Litigation God

Friction

Clash

Grind

Yield

If I Return

Uncivilized

Love: Uncivilized

PHOTO: MARIE KILLEN

Since the release of her debut contemporary romance novel,
S
AWYER
B
ENNETT
has written more than thirty books and has been featured on both the
New York Times
and
USA Today
bestseller lists on multiple occasions. A reformed trial lawyer from North Carolina, Sawyer uses real-life experience to create relatable, sexy stories that appeal to a wide array of readers. From new adult to erotic contemporary romance, Sawyer writes something for just about everyone. Sawyer likes her Bloody Marys strong, her martinis dirty, and her heroes a combination of the two. When not bringing fictional romance to life, Sawyer is a chauffeur, stylist, chef, maid, and personal assistant to a very active toddler, as well as full-time servant to two adorably naughty dogs. She believes in the good of others, and that a bad day can be cured with a great workout, cake, or a combination of the two.

sawyerbennett.com

Facebook.com/​bennettbooks

@bennettbooks

by Sawyer Bennett

Available from Loveswept

I stick the nozzle in my gas tank, depress the handle, and flip the catch down to hold it in place. Letting the gas flow on its own, I head across the nearly empty parking lot to the gas station, which is lit up like a bright beacon out here on Possum Track Road. I'm starved and I know my fridge is empty at home, so I'm going to break down and buy some junk food for my dinner. I just won't tell Vale about it, as I don't feel like listening to her bitch at me.

Vale Campbell…pretty as hell and nice to look at, but I dread having to hang out with her. That's because she's one of the assistant athletic trainers for the Cold Fury, and most important, working with me on my strength and conditioning. She would most certainly say Snickers, Cheez-Its, and root beer are not on my approved list, and then she'd have me doing burpees, mountain climbers, and box jumps until I puked.

Pulling the door open, I immediately see two guys at the cooler checking out the stock of beer. Both wearing wifebeaters stained with grease and faded ball caps. I, myself, pull my own hat down farther to hide my face, as I don't feel like getting recognized tonight. It's late, I want to get my junk food and get gone. We've got an early morning practice tomorrow.

I turn right down the first aisle, which houses the chips and other such snacks, slightly aware the other two customers are heading to the counter to check out. I keep my back to them just to be safe and peruse the options.

Funyuns.

Potato chips.

Doritos.

Corn Nuts.

Reaching for a bag of salt-and-vinegar potato chips, I hear one of the guys drawl in a typical North Carolina redneck accent, “Hey, sweet thang. How 'bout a pack of Marlboro Reds and how 'bout handing me that there box of condoms. The extra large size.”

The redneck's companion snickers, and then snorts. I turn slightly to see them both shoot conspiratorial grins at each other, and one guy nudges the other guy to egg him on. While the clerk turns to get the condoms, the redneck leans across the counter and stares blatantly at the woman's ass. The other guy says loud enough that I hear, so I know the woman hears, “Mmmmm…that is a fine ass.”

Turning my body full so I face the counter, I see the woman's back stiffen and she turns her face to the left to look at a closed doorway beside the rack that holds all of the cigarettes. I'm wondering if perhaps a manager or another employee is in there, and she's hoping for some help.

But she doesn't wait and turns to face the two assholes, squaring her shoulders.

And god damn…she's breathtaking. Looking past the red and gold polyester vest she wears with a name tag—clearly a uniform—I see her face is flawless. Creamy skin that glows, high cheekbones, a straight nose that tilts slightly at the end, and full lips that look sexily puffed even though they are flattened in a grimace. Her hair is not blond, but not brown. I'd describe it as caramel with honey streaks and it's pulled back from her face in a ponytail with a low fall of bangs falling from left to right across her forehead.

While she faces the two men resolutely, I can see wariness in her eyes as she sets the cigarettes and condoms on the counter in front of them. “Will that be all?”

Her voice has a southern accent but it's subtle. She looks back and forth between the two men, refusing to lower her gaze.

Redneck number one nods to the twelve-pack of beer he had placed on the counter and says, “That was the last of the Coors. You got any in your storage room?”

“Nope, that's it,” she says firmly, and I can tell it's a lie.

“Are ya sure?” he asks, leaning his elbows on the counter and leering at her. “Maybe you could check…I could help you if you want, and we could make use of them condoms there.”

I'd roll my eyes over the absurdity of that attempt to woo a girl who is way out of his league, but I'm too tense over the prospect that this could be more than just some harmless goofing by some drunk rednecks.

“What do you say, sweet thang?” he says in what he tries to pass as a suave voice but comes off as trailer trash.

“I say there's no more beer back there,” she grits out, gives a look over her shoulder to the closed door, and then back to the men.

And that was a worried look.

A very worried look, so I decide that this isn't going any further. Grabbing the closest bag of chips my hand makes contact with, I stalk up the aisle toward the counter as I pull my hat off with my other hand. I tuck it in my back pocket, and when I'm just a few feet from the men, the woman's eyes flick to me, relief evident in her gaze. I smile at her reassuringly and flick my eyes down to her name tag.

Julianne.

Pretty name for a really pretty girl.

The sound of my footsteps finally penetrates and both men straighten to their full heights, which are still a few inches below mine, and turn my way. My eyes go to the first man, then move slowly to the other, leveling them both with an ice-cold glare. With the power of my gaze, I dare both of them to say something else to the beauty behind the counter.

Because I suspect the only sports these guys watch are bass fishing tournaments and NASCAR, I'm not surprised neither one recognizes me as the Carolina Cold Fury's starting goalie. Clearly the lovely Julianne doesn't either, but that's also fine by me.

The sound of Julianne's fingers tapping on the register catches everyone's attention and the two men turn back to her. “That will be $19.86.”

One of the guys pulls a wallet from the back pocket of his saggy jeans and pulls out a twenty, handing it to her wordlessly. Now that they know there's an audience, neither one seems intent on continuing the crass game they were playing. At least I think that was a game, but I'm just glad I was here in case their intentions were more nefarious.

Julianne hands the guy his change and they gather their purchases and leave without a word.

As soon as the door closes, her shoulders drop and she lets out a sigh of relief. Giving me a weak smile, she looks at the bag in my hand and says, “Is that all?”

“Uh, no actually,” I say as I give her a sheepish grin. “Got distracted by those assholes.”

“Yeah,” she agrees in a tired voice, brushing her long bangs back before turning away from me to an open cardboard box she has sitting on a stool to her left. She reaches in, pulls out a carton of cigarettes, which she efficiently opens, and starts stocking the rack of cigarettes behind the counter. I'm effectively dismissed and there's no doubt in my mind she doesn't know who I am.

I head back down the chip aisle, grab a bag of Corn Nuts, and continue straight back to the sodas. I grab a Mountain Dew, never once considering the diet option, because that would totally destroy the point of having a junk food night, and then head over to the candy aisle. I grab a Snickers and I'm set.

When I get to the counter, she must hear my approach, as she turns around with the same tired smile. Walking to the register, her eyes drop to the items I drop on the counter, robotically scanning the price of each. I watch her delicate fingers work the keys, taking in her slumped shoulders as she rings in the last item and raises those eyes back to me.

They're golden…well, a light brown actually, but so light as to appear like a burnished gold, maybe bronze.

A piercing shriek comes from behind the closed door, so sharp and high pitched that it actually makes my teeth hurt. I also practically jump out of my skin, the noise was so unexpected.

The woman—Julianne according to her name tag—does nothing more than close her eyes, lower her head, and let out a pained sigh. For a brief moment, I want to reach out and squeeze her shoulder in sympathy, but I have no clue what I'm empathizing with because I don't know what that unholy sound was. I open my mouth to ask if she's okay when the closed door beside the cigarette rack flies open and a tiny blur comes flying out.

No more than three feet high, followed by another blur of the same size.

Another piercing shriek from within that room, this time louder because the door is now opened, and for a terrible moment I think someone must have been murdered. I even take a step to the side, intent on rounding the counter.

Julianne moves lightning fast, reaching her hands out and snagging each tiny blur by the collar. When they're brought to a full halt, I see it's two little boys, both with light brown hair and equally light brown eyes. One holds a baby doll in his hands and the other holds what looks to be a truck made of Legos.

Looking at me with apology-filled eyes, she says, “I'm so sorry. This will only take a second.”

With firm but gentle hands, she turns the little boys toward the room and pushes them inside, disappearing behind them. Immediately I hear a horrible crash, another shriek, and the woman I know to be named Julianne curses loudly, “Son of a bitch.”

One more screech from what I'm thinking might be a psychotic pterodactyl and my feet are moving without thought. I round the edge of the counter, step behind it, and head toward the door. When I step over the threshold, I take in a small room set up to be a combo office/break room. Small desk along one wall covered with papers, another wall with a counter, sink, and minifridge, and a card table with rusty legs and four metal folding chairs.

It also suddenly becomes clear what manner of creature was making that noise that rivaled nails on chalkboard.

A little girl, smaller than the boys, is tied to one of the folding chairs with what looks like masking tape wrapped several times around her and the chair, coming across the middle of her stomach. Her arms and legs are free, and the crash was apparently a stack of toys she had managed to knock off the top of the table.

“Rocco…Levy…you promised you'd behave,” Julianne says in a quavering voice as she kneels beside the little girl and starts pulling at the tape. The little boys stand there, heads hanging low as they watch their mom attempt to unwrap their sister.

I can't help myself. The tone of the woman's voice, the utter fatigue and frustration, and the mere fact that these little hellions taped their sister to a chair has me moving. I drop to my knees beside the woman, my hands going to the tape to pull it off.

Her head snaps my way and she says, “Don't.”

My eyes slide from the tape to her, and I'm almost bowled over by the sheen of thick tears glistening but refusing to drop.

“Please, do you mind just waiting out there? If any customers come in, just tell them I'll be out in a moment,” she pleads with me, a faint note of independence and need to handle this on her own shining through the defeat.

“Sure,” I say immediately as I stand up, not willing to add further upset on this poor lady with the beautiful tear-soaked eyes. She clearly has enough on her plate without me adding to it.