Debt Read online

  Copyright © 2016 Rachel Dunning.

  The moral right of the author has been asserted.

  Book Cover Design, Copyright 2016 Rachel Dunning

  Smashwords Edition.

  No part of this book may be used or reproduced in any manner whatsoever without written permission of the author, except in the case of brief quotations embodied in critical articles and reviews.

  This book is a work of fiction. Any references to historical events, real people, or real locales are used fictitiously. Other names, characters, places and incidents are products of the author’s imagination, and any resemblance to actual events or locales or persons, living or dead, is entirely coincidental.

  Table of Contents

  PART I

  ~One~

  ~Two~

  ~Three~

  ~Four~

  ~Five~

  ~Six~

  ~Seven~

  ~Eight~

  ~Nine~

  ~Ten~

  ~Eleven~

  ~Twelve~

  ~Thirteen~

  ~Fourteen~

  ~Fifteen~

  PART II

  ~Sixteen~

  ~Seventeen~

  ~Eighteen~

  ~Nineteen~

  ~Twenty~

  ~Twenty-One~

  ~Twenty-Two~

  ~Twenty-Three~

  ~Twenty-Four~

  ~Twenty-Five~

  ~Twenty-Six~

  ~Twenty-Six~

  ~Twenty-Seven~

  ~Twenty-Eight~

  ~Twenty-Nine~

  ~Thirty~

  ~Thirty-One~

  ~Thirty-Two~

  ~Thirty-Three~

  ~Thirty-Four~

  ~Thirty-Five~

  Acknowledgements

  Subscribe to Rachel’s VIP List

  Also by Rachel Dunning

  Say Hi to the Author

  PART I

  ~One~

  Kyla

  -1-

  I don’t make excuses for how I live my life. I drink. I party. I meet guys.

  Technically speaking, I’ve only ever had a single actual one-night stand. I get hot, I get bothered...and then something stops me.

  You could say it started when I was sixteen. I was nowhere near this wild back then. I had a steady boyfriend I dated for two years but, whoa, once he deflowered me, we did it like rabbits. Mornings, afternoons, evenings. I’ve tried to think if there was ever a day we didn’t do it at least once after that, and I don’t think there was. (There was that one Christmas, but I remember we snuck out into the back and squeezed one in just before Clarissa appeared in her skimpy Santa suit for dad.) But it wasn’t sex to me, it was love. I was so naive.

  Matt cheated on me, but I think you figured that out by now. He found my best friend a little tastier and I walked in on them while he was doing the aforementioned tasting.

  Yeah, my heart was broken, blah blah blah.

  I play it down, but likely you’ve been through something similar, so I don’t think I need to elaborate. It was rough.

  Of course, I did the obligatory weeping, he did the obligatory groveling, my best friend (at the time) did the obligatory You Are Such A Bitch So Just Go Fuck Yourself. Amelia, the closest person I’ve had to a mother, did the necessary hugging and providing a shoulder while I looked for deeper meaning in life and wondered why this had happened to me.

  It lasted six months, about the usual grieving time.

  No, I didn’t date anyone in those six months. Matt was my One True Love and there could Never Be Another Like Him.

  Six months later, I met Dave.

  Dave was different.

  Dave wasn’t love.

  And although Dave made me feel secure at first, the feeling that this was anything rosy or special flew out the window after he took me up to his apartment and proceeded to slide his hands up my legs, under my skirt, and then thrust one of those hands down my panties and inside me.

  We hadn’t even kissed yet.

  Dave was different.

  And Dave brought about a craving inside me, a craving I haven’t yet been able to word. It’s not sex, although I know I look for it in sex. And it isn’t love. I don’t believe in love.

  Of course, he dumped me too. Although, that isn’t quite a fair statement. I never loved Dave. He never loved me. We had a tacit agreement, and when the fucking was done, we stopped.

  Was I heartbroken? No. Did I miss the sex? Yes.

  I had gotten to know Dave a bit before hitting the sack with him. It wasn’t long, only a week or so. But I knew enough about him to feel something when he took me to bed. Like I said before, I’ve only done one true one-night stand.

  It sucked.

  No, really, it was horrible.

  Sure, sure, it was hot and we did it at the back of a club and the thrill of maybe getting caught was there. He was gorgeous (hard and inked and tall and so good looking) but, bleh, something didn’t click for me. Which I found weird. Because, on a scale of one to ten, the sex itself was about an eleven. Better than Matt and right up there with Dave.

  But I left there feeling, I don’t know, a little dirty. It’s not even that. I just didn’t like it.

  We could psychoanalyze the crap out of this (as if those idiots know anything) and theorize that I’m seeking the illusion of love through the act of sex. Whatever. Truth is, I like the chase, I like the moments before. I like wondering, hoping. I like the first kiss, the first time a new tongue touches mine, the first time a hand slides up my leg...

  I like firsts. I don’t do well with seconds.

  -2-

  I’m nothing special. I’m not fat, I’m not thin. I’m not hot, and I’m not ugly. I know how to dress, I know what skirts to wear, I know what to put on that makes me look available but not desperate.

  My current best friend is called Vera, we met in college. She never met Matt, but she’s met the type. She, like me, enjoys sex, a lot. She, unlike me, does it with anyone, anytime, and anywhere.

  Which is where we are now. A bar, down in Texas, on a road trip for summer vacation. I have a beer in my hand. I’m sitting on a barstool, sucking the beer down slowly. I’m wearing a not-too-short-but-short-enough mini skirt, tights, and a top that shows just enough cleavage that I haven’t had to pay for a drink yet. And Vera’s in the men’s room. I think you can guess what she’s doing.

  The latest of my suitors tonight is called... Oh, crap. I don’t remember. It’s not that I’m mean, it’s just that he’s...not that interesting.

  He’s playing pool now, sneaking glances up at me. I’m doing my best not to seem interested, but there’s a fine line between Stuck Up Bitch and Hard to Get.

  Is he good looking? Sure. He has a cowboy hat and cowboy boots and big shoulders. Maybe it was his eyes that didn’t do it for me. Maybe it was his hard jaw. No, scrap that, once I used to like hard jaws.

  There was no spark when he spoke to me. The Firsts have extended from first kisses to the first types, and I’ve had plenty types like him. Hell, I don’t even know what I’m looking for right now. Personality? Sure, I’m cool with that. Bars aren’t the place to find those, or are they?

  I’m looking at my watch when I feel the hand on my back. This instantly puts me on alert. There’s an unspoken rule about OK Guys in bars, and that’s no physical contact until you’ve at least made eye contact and paid for the first drink.

  The dude who bought my second one is still at the pool table. And Vera left with Number One. Which leaves Potential Suitor Number Three...

  My back stiffens.

  A ball cracks at the pool table and I see Cowboy Man straightening himself up and looking over at me with jealous eyes. Oh, man, not again...

  I turn to look at who’s dared to lay a hand on me without even doing the necessary foreplay...

  ...and all the breath leaves my body.

  “Excuse me,” says the man with the hand. And then the hand leaves my back—fuck me, put that hand back!—and I’m still gawping, staring, feeling my mouth go dry...and the center of my legs pulses. What—the—fuck?

  He stretches over the bar looking for something. “I didn’t mean to scare you,” he says. Accented. Not quite British, I think. Not sure. Buzz-cut, muscles bulging out of everywhere, but not bloated like Vince. Hard. Ink on his arm, and so goddamn badass my heart is thumping like a hurricane inside my chest.

  He fumbles around behind the bar...and then his hand presses up against me again...my leg this time...for...support? Damn it, that’s exactly what he’s doing—he touched me the first time so I would get out of his way, and now he’s touching me again so he doesn’t fall, not because he’s interested in me.

  “Ah, found it,” he says.

  Out comes his hand from behind the bar. It’s a wallet, full and bursting with papers. “Sorry, love,” he says. English accent, yes.

  Our eyes meet for just a second, just a second. And I’ve never seen a blue this sharp, this...piercing. I feel naked already in front of him. Is he grinning? Is he laughing? Is he... Fuck I’m so horny...

  And then he turns, away from me, looks to the bartender, holds up the wallet and nods as if to say, Found it. The bartender nods back at Mr. Muscle-Man here and then looks at me, no expression on his face.

  Muscle Man doesn’t even turn to face me and say goodbye. Hell, he doesn’t even try and flirt with me.

  I’m watching his pert little ass (tight-tight jeans, why did he have to be wearing those?) and I catch Cowboy Man chalking his stick, eyes locked on Muscle Man as he walks out the door.

  Muscle Man turns h
is head to face Cowboy Man, still walking, swaying more like it, and then the door is open.

  And Muscle Man is gone.

  I don’t realize my mouth is open until I catch Cowboy Man’s scowl, aimed at me, as if I’ve just betrayed his trust or something.

  I turn to the bar, my mind drifting, thinking absurd thoughts about this freaking deity that just stood next to me. Why, Kyla? Why? I’ve heard of magnetic personalities and larger-than-life and crap like that. I don’t believe any of it. So what makes this dude different? He had dimples, I’ve done guys with dimples. He had muscles (and plenty), I’ve done guys with muscles. Ink, blue eyes, some scars.

  I guzzle my beer down, trying to douse the flames, when Vera suddenly appears on my right, licking her lips.

  Almost simultaneously, Cowboy Man appears on my left, too close, way too close.

  And then his hand is also on my back.

  I stiffen.

  “Well, Missy, why don’t me and you go on outside for a little talk in my car.” East Texas, I’ll guess. Me-un-yooo goan ahhside fuh-a-lil talk i’mah co-ahr?

  Vera slaps his hand away. She’s still licking her lips to clean whatever was there (I don’t wanna know.) “Hey, bud, that you bought her a drink doesn’t mean she’s your property.”

  Cowboy Man’s expression turns into one of suppressed rage. “Why I believe I wasn’t talkin to you, miss?” Wha-ah b’leeve I wan’n talkin-a yoo, miss.

  “You’re talking to—”

  I stick my hand up to stop Vera.

  And then Cowboy Man yanks my arm.

  The bartender starts rushing over.

  Vera yells, “Get your hands—”

  Cowboy Man yells, “You little slut. You come on over here in your skirt—”

  Bartender: “Silas, knock it off, the girl’s—”

  I try yank my arm away.

  Cowboy Man: “—and flaunt yer pussy like—”

  Vera: “Pussy! You fucking bastard.”

  And then she grabs my bottle.

  Oh, shit, I know what she’s gonna do...

  She turns it upside down to grab the neck. Beer starts pouring out of it. Cowboy Man still hasn’t realized what she’s doing, his eyes are turned down to me.

  The bartender, however, seems apprised. His eyes go wide. A faint expression of Don’t you dare starts to form on his face.

  But it’s too late.

  Mid-sentence: “—some goddamn whor—”

  And then crash.

  The bottle is shattered. What beer was left inside it is all over me, including glassy bits on my head.

  Shouts burst out of nowhere. Men charge from the pool table. The bartender screams, “Knock it off! Knock it off or I’m callin the sheriff!”

  But it’s too late.

  Mayhem erupts.

  Cowboy Man grabs Vera’s arm (the crashed bottle did shit to throw him off guard) and thrusts her toward a booth. She falls badly, grimacing. The dude she was doing in the bathroom comes out. But instead of acting macho, the dude turns back in and hides. I’m about to scream, Hey, punk, come over here and help!, when I feel myself being pulled and thrown from the barstool, against a table.

  My lower back hits it.

  Lightning pain shoots up to my head and down my legs.

  The room goes hazy.

  Cowboy Man is about to lunge for me when three men jump him. But Cowboy Man is pretty strong. He wrestles three of them off.

  I’m still down, still trying to move, but every movement of mine stings, burns, screams down my legs.

  Vera’s on the ground too, blood on her lip, maybe from the glass.

  She gets on her knee, grimaces, looks like she’s about to cry. Time to leave.

  I force myself up while chairs break and the bartender shouts and more men get involved.

  A glass shatters.

  And then: BOOM! BOOM! BOOM! A piece of ceiling falls down where the bartender just fired a shotgun.

  Nobody moves.

  Everyone’s staring at the black-haired bartender holding the shotgun. Silence for a second.

  But this is Texas.

  And Cowboy Man reaches for his sidearm.

  Another man, looking at Cowboy Man, reaches for his.

  But then something else happens. Another boom, not a gunshot, it’s the door opening and slamming against the wall, the same door Muscle Man had walked out of only a minute ago. A whirlwind of muscle charges through it. He has less than half a second to traverse the ten or twenty feet toward Cowboy Man, but something, something, has everyone’s gaze locked on the newcomer, as if that Magnetic Personality has temporarily enthralled them, and he’s got only this chance, this chance, to make it right.

  Muscle man is a blur of rage, fists charging, and then a crack as he spins and thwacks Cowboy Man on the jaw with a flying kick.

  Cowboy man crashes to the floor, but Muscle Man doesn’t stop going for him.

  And he doesn’t need a gun.

  Because his fist is like a cannon.

  -3-

  Muscle Man’s fists crash and tumble against Cowboy Man on the ground.

  The bartender screams, “Logan, knock it off. He’s down, damn it! You’re gonna kill him!”

  Crack! Crack! Crack! Mighty fists, pounding, slamming.

  The second man with a sidearm unholsters it.

  Bartender: “Ray, put that fucken gun away. Logan—he’s down damn it! This ain’t no damned cage!”

  Muscle Man’s (Logan’s?) fist cocks for another hit, and then it stops, midair.

  His chest heaves under his tank top, spirals of ink on the right forearm.

  He looks down at Cowboy Man with a deadly rage.

  “Logan, c’mon, son,” says the bartender. “Step back. All’s good. All’s good.”

  Muscle Man Logan just keeps the man down. Cowboy Man is barely breathing.

  Man Number Two’s hand is still on his holster.

  “Oh, goddamnit!” the bartender says.

  And then Muscle Logan thrusts Cowboy Man’s head to the ground, stands.

  Looks around.

  Muscle Man stands back, shakes his hand. “Fuck,” he says, contracting and extending his fingers. “Fuck,” he repeats.

  Cowboy Man is on the ground, unconscious, blood pouring from his nose and splattered all over his shirt.

  Muscle Man Logan shakes his hand a little more, straightens his back (motherdamn this dude is ripped). He rolls his shoulders and turns his neck from side to side, pops it. Someone stop the plumbing from going nuts inside me now. Someone just...stop it.

  Muscle Man looks over at the bartender again. Bartender says, “Go, I’ll take care of it.” He puts his shotgun down. Then: “Ray, back off, damn it! It’s over. Get back to your pool table or whatever you were doing. Business as usual. I’ll call someone to come take care of Silas down there.”

  Silas? No wonder I didn’t remember his name.

  When Muscle Man turns to look at me and Vera (and we’re both still on the floor, everything happened so fast) there’s no emotion on his face. None at all. Not a smile, not a grimace, not a growl, not a smirk. Nothing.

  He nods at us.

  And then he leaves...again.

  Oh, no you don’t.

  I throw a quick glance at my best friend. “Go,” she mumbles, struggling to get up. “Just go.”

  I help her up, make sure she’s OK.

  “Go, damn it!” she repeats.

  And I race outside the door.

  I have no plan. I’m not thinking. What will I do, thank him? But it doesn’t matter. By the time I’m outside, his truck is kicking up dirt in the parking lot, and he’s screeching off into the deserted road, revving like he’s running from the cops.

  I stand there looking at his taillights for I don’t know how long.

  Vera finally joins me outside, puts her arm around my shoulders. “Now that was hot,” she says, staring at the receding taillights with me.

  -4-

  “I got his number,” Vera says next to me inside the car.

  “What?”

  “Fucking hot Bad Boy, I got his number.”

  “How?”

  “The bartender.”

  I look over at her, shocked.

  She shrugs. “What? If you don’t do him, I will.”

  “Gimme that.” I snatch the piece of paper from her hand, read the name, and the number.

  “Logan,” she says, stretching the word. “Lovely Logan, or Lick me—”

  “Jeez, would you stop?”