Bounty (Colorado Mountain #7) Page 21

  Deke leaned against her car, eyes to the road leading up to his property, pulling out his phone.

  Chace first, see if it was good Joe Callahan started the work tomorrow that he should have done three weeks ago and see if someone could have access to the house to board up the window.

  Next up, Max to share what was going down and get him to share the same with Callahan. Not to mention tell him that Deke was not at work that day but if Chace opened up the house, he was taking Jussy back the next day and getting on with it. The longer it took for her to get back in the saddle, the more fear she could build up about being in the place where it all went down.

  It was her home. Deke needed to help her sweep that away.

  That said, she’d be with him while he worked and they’d be back in the trailer when he was done until Callahan was finished with his work.

  Then they’d stay at her house.

  Last, Jacob Decker.

  He needed to find Bianca Constantine’s ass.

  For Jussy’s peace of mind for her friend.

  And to find a way to get this shit done.

  * * * * *

  The women took off when Deke returned to the trailer and when he returned he saw they’d gotten her into his bed.

  Fuck, Jussy in his bed.

  She was eyes aimed his way down the trailer, on her side, hands under her healthy cheek, those eyes open and on him.

  He moved that way and made his decision when he did.

  So when he got there, gentle with her like she was crystal, he adjusted her so he had his back to the wall at the head of the bed, ass to the mattress and her cheek on his thigh.

  He slid his fingers through her hair.

  It was soft, the curls tangling around his fingers, clinging like they didn’t want him to let go.

  “Called Chace,” he started on a whisper and kept going that way. “They’re finishing up what they need to do at your place. It’ll be open tomorrow. Called Max too. He’s sendin’ Bubba over to board up your window and he’s ordering another. It’s custom. It’ll take a while to get in but he’s on that.”

  “Okay, Deke.”

  She was talking in a whisper too.

  Deke went on the same way.

  “With the cops done with what they gotta do with the house, we’re goin’ back tomorrow. Callahan is good to get started and I’m gettin’ back to work. You’ll be with me. Callahan can stay with you while I get us sandwiches.”

  He felt her snuggling her cheek in his thigh, he didn’t know if that was for closeness or to hide discomfort, before she repeated, “Okay.”

  He decided to go with discomfort even if it wasn’t just so he could make sure it wasn’t but get her beyond it if it was.

  “You need to get back there, Jussy. It’s your home. Work’s gettin’ done for you to be safe in it. But you will not be alone there and tomorrow night until Callahan has your system done, you’re stayin’ here with me.”

  There was a pause and no movement before she said again, “Okay.”

  She didn’t argue.

  Good.

  “Talked to Decker,” Deke carried on. “He’s a busy guy but he’s clearing things, favor for a friend. Means he’s on the job. He’s good, Jussy. He’ll find her.”

  She lifted a hand and curled it on his thigh under her nose and gave him a squeeze.

  She gave him a squeeze but he could feel the tension all through her.

  Deke kept sliding his hand in her hair as he asked, “How do I get you to relax, baby? Close your eyes. Sleep a little.”

  “Daddy,” she whispered.

  “Say again?”

  “My phone, Deke. It’s on your nightstand. Can you pull up my music? Play anything. Anything by my dad.”

  Deke reached out, got her phone and he knew what he’d play.

  It was on Johnny Lonesome’s album Living Room, one of his last, the album her dad and his band recorded in one go during an acoustic session in that same room in his house.

  For years before they recorded one, these sessions had been legendary. Everyone knew that all through his career, his band, who never lost a member until Lonesome died (except the drummer who had left him but only to tour with Jussy when she’d done her thing), would jam in his living room just for the fun of it.

  So they decided one day, to the gratitude of their fans, to record a session.

  It had been brilliant.

  And Lonesome had been performing a certain song for years but that was the first time that song was even close to studio recorded. Deke had never seen the man in concert but he’d heard that song, from that album and well before, on live ones.

  And Deke learned from what he’d read a few nights ago that Lonesome played his song “Never Missin’ Home” at every concert.

  It had some lines Deke thought he got.

  But he didn’t.

  Never wanna leave my Justice, my home.

  So I bring her with me, my baby Lonesome.

  Don’t matter, Justice is always there,

  Always right there, no matter where I go.

  My baby Lonesome,

  Makin’ it so I’m never missin’ home.

  He queued up the song, hit play and slipped down into the bed, drawing Jussy up so she was resting on his chest, her face in his throat, Deke’s arms curved around her.

  Johnny Lonesome sang about his daughter as she curled deeper into Deke and rubbed her face in his throat.

  “Perfect,” she whispered over her father’s voice.

  It was. He knew it.

  He knew it because in bed with Deke, held close, her father right there with them, it took only three songs and she was out.

  Chapter Ten

  Catch You

  Justice

  It was after my nap.

  It was also after the girls coming back, cleaning the trailer and stocking the cupboards and fridge. They stayed. We gabbed. Then they left.

  And last, it was after Deke and I camped out in front of his small television which was fed from a satellite dish and we watched The Professional.

  One of my favorite movies.

  And I’d found it was one of Deke’s favorites too.

  I also found that Deke’s face got soft when he noticed me crying when Léon had to let Mathilda go down the exhaust chute. It got soft right before he pulled me out of my corner of the couch into him in his and he held me throughout the rest of the movie (so he didn’t see when I started crying again later, though with the way he started tangling his fingers in my hair, I think he guessed).

  It was dinnertime and I was sitting cross-legged on his couch, watching him in his tiny kitchen frying bologna and making toast.

  Frying bologna and making toast.

  The girls had brought huge amounts of food. So much of it, some of it was taking up what little counter space Deke had. They hadn’t prepared us for a few nights hanging at Deke’s trailer. They’d prepared us for a three-month-long siege.

  And he was making me fried bologna on toast, the American cheese slices out and at the ready.

  Just like I’d told him I liked it.

  It was with that—not to mention every moment of that day since I heard Deke’s bellow at the police station—that I knew.

  I could do his boundaries.

  No.

  I could so totally do his boundaries.

  Sure, those boundaries didn’t include sex and a possible future that included me birthing big baby boys with hazel eyes.

  But with all Deke gave me, the care, the cuddling, the protection, the cuddling (worth a second mention since Deke was so good at it), making me feel the impossible after what had happened—safe in his sphere and especially in his arms—I could take that.

  I had a lot of friends and family who loved me. The closest of them would do all the same things.

  Deke was a part of that now. As were Krystal, Lauren, Twyla and the new addition of Lexie.

  The girls didn’t offer cuddles (though, all but Krys and Twyla, I
was sure they would if Deke wasn’t already providing that). But them kicking in like they did was super-cool.

  And even with my newfound acceptance of what Deke was willing to give me, I knew there’d be a day when he’d find someone, or I would, and that cuddle-type closeness would have to go.

  But he’d been there in every way I could need someone, and then some, on a day which, outside the ones I lost people I cared about, was the worst of my life.

  So yeah.

  I could do his boundaries.

  Especially if it came with fried bologna sandwiches in his kickass trailer.

  This thought made me look around his space yet again.

  I found I was not wrong on first, second, third (etc.) perusal.

  I loved every inch of his trailer.

  It had not been a surprise that he lived in a travel trailer in the middle of nowhere but right by a beautiful lake. I didn’t even spy a single house built around that lake. It seemed it was just Deke and his trailer.

  And all of this seemed just so Deke.

  Deke living isolated and on wheels. He sets that trailer to his truck, he’s good to go.

  I loved that about him. I loved that he was a man like no man I’d ever met and all of it was interesting, a lot of it was sweet, some of it was funny, the entirety of it good.

  I felt a smile play at my lips as I glanced around and noted he was not only good to go but good to do it in style.

  The interior of the trailer was like a museum of the road and an inner guide to Deke’s psyche.

  There were posters of rallies, music festivals and concerts glued to the walls. And if these posters were any indication, he not only had really good taste in music, he’d traveled far and wide and back again about fifteen times.

  Just like me.

  There were also stickers tacked everywhere for everything from bike shops to bars to diners to coffee houses.

  Further, there was a bevy of bumper stickers that ranged from the hilarious to the profound. Like one that had a Star Wars Storm Trooper face on it and next to that “I had friends on that Death Star.” And another one that said, “The gene pool could use a little chlorine.” And another that said, “Contrary to belief, no one owes you anything.”

  Then there were the random quotes, like Walt Whitman’s “Resist much. Obey little.” And Kurt Vonnegut’s “I want to stand as close to the edge as I can without going over. Out on the edge you can see all kinds of things you can’t see from the center.”

  I saw Clint Eastwood behind the long barrel of a gun. Bruce Lee in the zone. James Dean leaning against a car. A fake baseball card with Will Farrell in a Cub’s uniform.

  All this was intermingled with liberal Americana. Eagles. Flags. Stars. Uncle Sam. Rosie the Riveter. “Don’t Tread on Me.” “Liberty or Death.” Not to mention, the every real biker’s maxim, “Ride free or die.”

  And this was Deke’s wallpaper, from living room space to bedroom space and even in the miniscule bathroom.

  It.

  Fucking.

  Rocked.

  “Your trailer fucking rocks,” I told him and his gaze went from the frying pan to me.

  “Come again?”

  “Your trailer…fucking…rocks,” I repeated, grinning at him. “I could say the Storm Trooper bumper sticker is my favorite but I could also say Coelho’s ‘Don’t waste your time with explanations…’ is my favorite because people do only hear what they want to hear.”

  Deke stared at me.

  “But, just to say,” I kept gabbing, “the fact you went for an Airstream already made it total cool.”

  My smile got bigger as I indicated the space with a sweep of my hand, at the same time biting back the flinch that motion gave me because after the nap, my body made it clear it was protesting against nearly being strangled to death.

  It had survived, that was the good part.

  But it was reminding me of the toll that took.

  I ignored the pain and finished, “It’s just that with all this, you made it infinitely cooler.”

  Deke made no comment to my compliments.

  What he did was take the skillet off the burner, go to the fridge, grab a bottle of brew, uncap it and open a cupboard. His hand went up and came out of the cupboard with two white bottles.

  He then moved to me, handed me the beer and ordered, “Give me your hand, palm up.”

  I lifted my hand palm up.

  Deke opened the bottles and tapped out two aspirin and four ibuprofen.

  I was not averse to the power of legal pharmaceuticals.

  However.

  “Deke, that’s a lot of pills.”

  “Take ’em,” he commanded.

  “But—”

  “Take ’em or I give you your sandwich then put your ass in my truck and take you to Carnal Hotel. They got tubs. You can’t even wave your goddamned hand without wincing. You need ibuprofen or you need a soak. Your choice.”

  Okay, I had to admit that, after all the cuddling, I had a feeling sex with Deke would be freaking astounding.

  Still, his brand of friendly that included looking out for me in his badass way, I’d definitely take, even without the sex (though that last was given up begrudgingly).

  “Leave your kickass trailer before I’ve read all your stickers?” I asked, lifting my hand and popping the pills in my mouth. All of them. I sucked them back with a tug of beer, and after I swallowed, unnecessarily gave him my answer. “I pick Airstream. And just to say, if I have a choice of here or pretty much anywhere on earth, except the room at my dad’s house where he keeps his guitar collection, I’d pick here.”

  Something slid over his face that I really wanted to decipher but at that moment, my phone rang.

  I looked down at it on the couch beside me and saw it said Mr. T Calling.

  I looked back up at Deke. “Mr. T.”

  His eyes went from the phone to me. “Yup.”

  He started moving back to the kitchen (this journey taking Deke all of two steps) and I hit my screen to engage the call and put it on speaker.

  “Hey, Mr. T. You’re on speaker,” I greeted.

  “And who all would I be speaking to?” Mr. T’s voice came back at me.

  “Me and Deke.”

  “Deke Hightower?” Mr. T asked and my gaze shot to Deke.

  His last name was Hightower?

  Of course it was.

  It was a cool-as-shit name.

  But how did Mr. T know that?

  “Uh…yeah, uh…” I stammered.

  “I’m right now on my way from the Carnal Police Department, heading to the Carnal Hotel,” Mr. T broke into my thoughts to say. “I’ve spent the last half an hour getting briefed by the mercifully capable-sounding Lieutenant Keaton. And Lieutenant Keaton informed me that you’re currently in a Mr. Deke Hightower’s charge.”

  In a Mr. Deke Hightower’s charge.

  Mr. T was hilarious.

  “That I am,” I confirmed, trying not to giggle at the look on Deke’s face as he stared with unhidden irritation mingled with equally unhidden surprise at my phone. These saying he was not a big fan of being called “Mr. Deke Hightower” and he was a little shocked (and appalled) Mr. T was so snooty. I then asked Mr. T something that was also unnecessary, “So you made it to town all right?”

  “Indeed, Justice.”

  “Deke’s making us dinner,” I told him. “When we’re done eating, we’ll come into—”

  “You’ll do nothing of the sort,” Mr. T interrupted me brusquely. “Fortunately, as you informed him I would be arriving and gave him leave to speak to me as a member of your family, Lieutenant Keaton was rather forthcoming about your ordeal. You need to stay put and rest. In fact, you should be quite careful with all activity for the next few days, giving your body time to heal as well as the energy to do so.”

  I tipped my head to the side, a silent question to Deke.

  I hoped he got my silent question because he nodded back.

  “Do you wan
t directions to come out here?” I asked. “Dinner isn’t lobster but it’s yummy.”

  “No, thank you,” Mr. T answered, and even though I wanted to see him, especially in a time like this when he was at his best, the competent and capable calm in a storm, I was kind of glad.

  I had my calm in a storm.

  Deke.

  And anyway, Mr. T would definitely not want bologna sandwiches.

  “I have calls to make and things to see to,” Mr. T went on to explain. “We’ll schedule a time for the morning after you’ve had some rest. However, I need to speak with you now about a few of those things I’m seeing to.”

  “Sock it to me, Mr. T,” I invited.

  “Right,” he stated, all business. “I’ve been in touch with Kai Mason. He currently has no openings on his team to send bodyguards. He’s suggested a firm in Denver that he highly recommends. I’ve done some research on them and I’m in agreement with Mason. And this could be a multi-tasking opportunity because, although this firm does provide security services, they mostly do investigations. They’re very good. And although her parents informed me they’ll be looking into securing their own investigators, I’d like your approval to engage them to find Bianca. They can coordinate efforts with Constantine’s team or Constantine, as he should, can employ this Nightingale Investigations directly.”

  I thought of Stella Gunn’s husband, Kai “Mace” Mason. He played double-duty as her bodyguard (though, if you talked to Mace about this, it wasn’t a duty in his eyes except one that had the adjective “husbandly” before it). He also ran a company of bodyguards and they were highly sought after because they were seriously good at what they did.

  Lacey used them.

  Dad used to use them.

  I would have thought of them but Deke had wasted no time setting up a posse of local badasses to watch over us, and since he had, I didn’t need to.

  And I’d met Mace’s old employer, Lee Nightingale. I knew his wife better because she was a really good friend of Stella Gunn. But I’d met a number of Lee’s friends too, these guys were also his crew, and they were arguably more badass than Deke and Tate were.

  I thought of all this as I watched Deke stop squirting mustard on toast to look at me and give me a negative shake of his head.