“It’s not my fault, man. I—”
Clay hauled back and punched Tyler again, the fury taking over, the fear for her life pushing through the bullshit excuses. He punched him again, fending off Tyler’s counters. And again. Another time on the chin, and the man was down, cowering in the dry grass like the fucking coward he was. The urge to kill him was strong, so strong, pulsing inside him like a caged beast, dying to be let out.
Don’t do it. You’re better than that, came that reasonable voice that he thought of as George’s.
A look toward the front of the house showed no sign of the sheriff, but it didn’t matter. It was time. Time to go in and get his woman out.
“You fucking coward,” he spat, grabbing Tyler’s gun and holding it on him, steady. “I should fucking kill you right now. That’s the best you deserve.”
“I know, man. I know.” His hand tightened on Tyler’s handgun, the urge so strong it hurt. “Do it. Kill me. Christ, kill me ’cause I can’t take it anymore.”
Clay stilled. That instinct to hurt and kill, it wasn’t his, was it? It belonged to the men he pretended to be, but not to him. Not now and not ever.
With something like pity, he shook his head at the man he’d once considered his best friend and, almost tenderly, hauled off, punching him with a final blow to the temple that knocked Tyler unconscious.
Then he stalked off to save the woman he loved.
* * *
Being terrified did strange things to George. Unexpected things. Her body was tired, inappropriately heavy with exhaustion where she lay on the sofa in her front room. But there was a strength to it too, a you just go ahead and touch me thing whenever one of the men came close to her. She was convinced she’d fight like crazy if they tried anything on her.
Which seemed increasingly inevitable as the minutes passed. The off-color remarks—things about her tits, as they called them—were growing filthier, their words slurred, their footsteps heavier. Her kitchen must be a wreck by now, judging from the sounds. She didn’t know how many there were in her house. Two? Maybe three?
George lay low, being as quiet as possible, unsure if that was the right thing to do or if she would be better off attracting their attention. Wishing she’d made it to Jessie’s self-defense class—but then, two against one seemed like unbeatable odds, even if she knew what she was doing. They were huge. And mean. The thought of Jessie, right next door with Gabe, their place so close, nearly threw her into a panic.
Something from the back of the house crashed, and she wiggled her arms again, trying to loosen them from the zip tie that bound her.
God, how much longer could she wait like this? A useless sitting duck, nothing but a decoy to get Clay here. She had to do something.
“Excuse me,” she finally called. “I need to use the restroom.”
“Fucking chicks,” said one of the men in the kitchen.
“Let her piss herself,” said the boss guy in his nasally voice.
“I’ll take her,” a third voice responded. Jam, the man who’d nearly strangled her in the car.
“Jesus Christ, man, you gonna let her piss on you too?”
“She can piss in the toilet. We’re here for Indian, not to—”
“Shut the fuck up and take her if that’s what you want, bro. So fuckin’ pussy-whipped. I wonder about you…”
Boots clomped down the hall, and George looked up to see that biker, covered in ink, wearing the same sleeveless leather vest as the first one, unshaven and just as scary.
“Where’s the head?” he asked, not quite meeting her eye, and it took her a second to realize he meant the bathroom.
“Upstairs.”
He approached, pulling out a knife, and George tightened her body in anticipation, only to loosen again—too loose—as he sliced through the tie at her ankles. She stood, her legs like jelly, wobbly and barely able to hold her up.
“Let’s go.”
She led him upstairs, could feel his eyes on her backside. When she made it to the bathroom, she held up her wrists and said, “Could you cut this please?”
“Can’t. You’ll manage.”
Without argument, George went inside, started to push the door closed, and was stopped by the man. “Leave it open.”
