Laura Drake - Her Road Home

Sam hurried, wondering if he’d hurt himself on something. She had liability insurance, but sure didn’t want to have to use it.

He stood in the center of the bathroom, pointing. “The black-and-white checkerboard tile, the old claw-foot tub, the light fixtures. It’s all the same!”

She touched the scarred molding of the doorway. “I’m going to keep it as original as I can.”

He took a step closer.

Even without looking, she felt the brush of his glance, against her skin.

“Can you imagine the hours Donny spent in here as a teenager, whacking off?”

At the low, creepy tone, her head jerked up, though she knew what she would see. The concentrated, unfocused stare. Ruddied cheeks. His lips glistening, as if he’d just licked them.

She stood in flash-frozen shock, her heart fluttering in scared-rabbit beats. Not again.

His eyes roamed, lingering, as if he already possessed her. He addressed her breasts. “You know, I’ve got money. You could have a sweet deal, here.”

Shaking her head, she took a step back.

His pudgy fingers, reaching to touch, shattered her taut stillness. She ran.

Her feet pounded a hollow beat on the old wood of the hall. Halfway down the stairs, a knife of pain in her ribs forced her to stop. Her chest and shoulder screamed, but her lungs trumped everything. She leaned over, taking small breaths, trying not to throw up.

She hadn’t heard him coming, but he was there, hands all over her. Her body jerked away in an involuntary spasm and she stumbled to the landing, her brain spinning in freewheeling panic. Random thoughts pinged inside her skull. Snips of memories. Nothing useful.

Off balance, she threw out her good arm to keep from plunging headfirst into the wall. She spun to face what would come next.

A small voice whispered, You knew you’d end up here again. The forgotten-familiar weakness of lassitude pulled at her. Give up. You know it’ll go easier if you do.

The smell of nightmare-sweaty sheets drifted from the open collar of her shirt. The stench of fear.

He must have sensed victory because, face flushed and breathing heavy, he took the last step to the landing.

Sam stepped back. He’s stronger. No one is going to believe—her back hit the wall. Something clinked and bumped her butt.

Triumph-laced adrenaline zipped through her, cutting off the little girl’s whisper midsentence. Jerking the forgotten screwdriver from her back pocket, she held it in front of her like a madman in a slasher film. “Get. Out.”

His flat shark eyes gauged her resolve. “Now, you don’t want to be that way.” He reached out a hand, but jerked it back when she thrust the screwdriver at the exposed veins of his wrist.

“You’ve totally misunderstood my intentions. I don’t mean to hurt you.” His lips peeled back from his teeth, but it wasn’t a smile. “Unless you want me to.”

Her stomach heaved in a hot, greasy wave. “This may not kill you, but it could take out an eye.” The blades of rage in her throat made the words come out ragged, torn.

He hesitated, absently touching the skin of his forearm. His fingers stroked the hair, smoothing it in gentle circles.

He was imagining stroking her—Sam knew it as clearly as if she’d read his mind.

And maybe she had.

Their heavy breathing echoed loud in the hushed stairwell. Time spun out to a thrumming wire of tension. The tension sprung from different sources, with different motivations, but it paired them in a dark dance—one they both knew.

Sam stood, waiting for his next move.

Brad sighed, his lips twisting into an entitled pout. Straightening, he sucked in his gut and hiked the waist of his expensive dress slacks. “The guys at the club told me a biker chick had to be a lesbian.”

“Get the hell out of my house.” She pointed the screwdriver down the stairs. “Now.”

“Guess I lost that bet.” Hands raised, he eased past her, not turning his back until he was out of range. He took the last three steps to the entryway.

Sam followed him, screwdriver at ready. “The only thing I sleep with is a snub-nosed Colt.” He stepped through the open door. “You ever come back here, you’ll find out its sex.”

“Shit, I knew better.” He walked through the door, then turned and looked down his patrician nose. “Stray dogs may be fun to play with, but they’ve got no manners.” He shot his cuffs, squared his shoulders and walked down the porch steps.

Gravel shot from the tires as he backed out. When he hit the asphalt, the car surged and fishtailed, tires squealing for purchase.

Still shaking, Sam watched from the top step of the porch. What was it about her that made men think they could get away with that shit? There must be some kind of mark on her forehead that only perverts could see—something that told them it was safe to approach. Many times, she’d studied her face in the mirror, trying to make it out. But she only saw what everyone else did—cursed, unwanted beauty.

The car disappeared over the hill. She waited until the sound faded, then her knees gave out and the screwdriver fell from her hand. Clinging to the support post, she sank onto the wooden step. Shivers ran from her neck through her body in pulsing, shivery spasms. She hunched over her knees, staring at the ground, her thoughts years away.

Some untold time later, she stood, rubbed her sore buns, straightened her shoulders and went back to work. Mulling over the past was a waste. If you never put it down, you wouldn’t stand a chance at moving beyond it. Just because that philosophy hadn’t worked to date, didn’t mean it never would.

She couldn’t afford to contemplate the alternative.

CHAPTER SIX

NICK LOOKED UP from the computer screen. The late afternoon splashed window-shaped sunshine over his polished waiting room floor. No new Vulcan parts for sale. Hell, there had to be junked Kawasakis all over the country—just his luck they’d be owned by the technologically challenged.

Not that it would break his heart to see the biker chick as a fixture around here.

Gold hair, full lower lip, her long and elegantly boned face. He liked her small shoulders and long legs, in denim. But even a killer body could easily be dismissed, once you had an eyeful. Instead, Nick’s attention snagged on the air of mystery that surrounded her like a gossamer shawl. It was more than her odd career and her mode of transport. He sensed she had walls. He got a vague sense of them from her conversation, but their true magnitude lay in what she didn’t say.

Intriguing. He thought about calling her. But with what? Non-progress on her bike?

Wake up, dude, you’re dreaming. She’d made it clear she was gone as soon as the remodel of the Sutton place was complete. And he was in Widow’s Grove to stay.

But regardless of the facts, Samantha Crozier remained a puzzle his brain wouldn’t put down. He wasn’t even sure why he’d offered her his mother’s car, that first day. He hadn’t had that car out except to keep the battery charged since—well, since forever.

Sure, she was gorgeous, but it was more than that. Other beautiful women had needed loaners and it never occurred to him to offer them his mother’s car. He sensed that Sam didn’t need help often, and wouldn’t have asked for it if she did. That made him want to help.

He looked up at the sound of the door opening. He sat up straight and watched his puzzle walk in, a neon daisy keychain dangling from her fingers.

“I’ve brought the Love Machine home.”

“Hey, Sam.” Nick ripped off his horn-rimmed glasses, stuffed them in the lap drawer and slammed it closed. “Good timing. I’m starving. Want to go to lunch?”

She walked to the desk and dropped the key in his hand. “Sorry, I can’t. I’ve got to get back to work at the house.”