that seemed to have no bearing on the situation had bombarded Beck. Thoughts of the foster mom who’d introduced him to sex at the age of fourteen. He’d remembered how every illicit touch had filled him with guilt and shame, but had also made him feel good, even special. How he’d told himself time and time again that pleasing her would earn her love; she would keep him, and they would be a family. And later, when she’d let him move on to the next house with a smile and a wave goodbye, how he’d cried. As he’d punched and kicked Tessa’s assailant, he’d poured his frustration, betrayal and anger with his own past into every blow.
The rapist—Pax Gillis—had died on the blood-soaked ground.
Beck had never forgotten his name, had never quite shaken the tide of remorse.
He should have paid a terrible price for helping end someone’s life—even if the life belonged to scum. But he and West had been spared, Jase taking the fall on his own, wanting his friends to have a chance to pursue their dreams, demanding they stay quiet. Because they operated by a single rule—what one demands, the others do, no questions asked—they’d acquiesced, but over the years their guilt and remorse had only deepened.
Beck should have come forward at some point, if only to try to reduce Jase’s sentence. A dime to a nickel, maybe. Finally doing something good with his life. Under his watch, Tessa had ended up dying in a car crash after a fight with West, and West had ended up high on coke, losing his scholarship to MIT.
Beck wasn’t even the one who’d helped West get clean. The guy had done it all on his own, going on to create a computer program Beck, a born salesman, was able to unload for millions, allowing them to split the shares three ways, investing Jase’s portion for him to enjoy upon his release from prison.
And damn, Beck needed a beer. No, he needed a distraction from his troubles. Thankfully one waited in his bedroom.
He stalked down the hall, opened the door. Feminine clothing littered his floor, leading to the bed...where Tawny reclined, naked and ready.
“I’ve missed you.” She ran a fingertip between the heavy weight of her breasts. “Tell me you got rid of the wicked witch of the Southwest, and I’ll do bad, bad things to you.”
“She isn’t a witch, and we’re not going to talk about her.” He kicked the door shut. “But you are still going to do those bad, bad things.”
HARLOW LOOKED FROM her bleeding hands to the mangled remains of the bush she’d just “pruned” and whimpered. For three hours she’d worked harder than she’d ever worked in her life, baking under the death glare of an angry summer sun, and this was the result?
Hardly seemed fair.
“Thirsty?”
The woman’s voice cut through Harlow’s pity party, and she glanced up to find the blonde and very beautiful Brook Lynn Dillon standing before her, so happy with life she actually glowed. Envy clawed at Harlow, but she paid it no heed. Brook Lynn was worthy of her happiness.
For years she and her big, golden heart had chased after her party-girl sister, Jessie Kay, while working two full-time jobs just to pay rent—and she’d done it all while dealing with an inner ear disorder. Harlow wasn’t sure what the disorder was called; she only knew the devices in the girl’s ears prevented her from hearing whispers as loudly as screams.
While Harlow had never turned her evil sights on Brook Lynn—even a bully of her magnitude had lines she wouldn’t cross—Jessie Kay and Kenna Starr, the sisters’ best friend, had not been so lucky.
“Are you offering arsenic or bleach?” Harlow quipped.
“I didn’t ask if you wanted what everyone in town would like to serve you,” Brook Lynn said staunchly, making Harlow flinch. “I asked if you were thirsty.”
“I am,” she said, standing. “Thank you.”
As an old, ugly dog playfully nipped at Brook Lynn’s heels, she held out a glass of ice-cold water.
Harlow tried for ladylike, taking a dainty sip, but the taste of heaven snapped the tether to her control and she chugged the rest, draining every drop. No liquid had ever been cooler or more soothing, wetting her tongue and moistening her dry-as-the-desert throat.
“Thank you,” she repeated, feeling human again.
Brook Lynn confiscated the glass. “Actually, you shouldn’t thank me. You should thank Beck.”
His name alone caused her heartbeat to pick up speed and knock against her ribs. She’d stared at the back door for hours, willing him to come outside and check on her. Surely she’d built up the intoxicating effects he’d had on her.
“Is he here?” Was he still in bed with Tawny? Her hands curled into tight little fists.
“No,” Brook Lynn said. “He was called in for a meeting, but he told me to take care of you while he was gone.”
A contented thrill—followed by an irritating realization. He hadn’t cared enough to see her? Wow. Well, screw him. He disturbed her, rendering her breathless and shaky with a simple glance, but so what? Physical attraction never lasted. And neither did he! One and done, the king of the one-night stand.
Harlow had no interest in being used and tossed aside, nothing but an afterthought to the man she’d welcomed into her body. She wanted affection and love, the kind she’d read about in books and seen in movies. The kind where couples fought to stay together, even during the worst of times. The kind that protected. Defended. Cherished.
A pang of longing razed her. There’d be no name-calling. No shaming. No being made to feel worthless.
Before dropping out of high school in favor of being homeschooled, she’d had boyfriends. A lot of boyfriends. She’d dated and dumped them at Beck-speed, searching for someone, anyone, to fill the void inside her. A void somehow made bigger when a machine exploded at Dairyland, the milk plant just south of town, killing half the workforce—including her dad.
As horrible as he’d been, she should have rejoiced, right? All of her problems should have vanished in a puff of smoke. But that couldn’t have been further from reality.
Brook Lynn turned and, without uttering another word, walked away, the dog prancing behind her.
“Brook Lynn,” she called, and the girl stopped without spinning around. “I’m sorry for the way I acted. In the past, I mean...and recently.” RIP, blueberry pie.
“That’s great, I’m glad” was the response, “but actions mean more than words, and so far you’ve proved nothing.”
“I know. But I’m still here, subjecting myself to this, so that I can prove I’ve changed.”
“Please. This, as you call it, is payment.” Brook Lynn glanced over her shoulder, looking very much like an avenging angel. “But I wonder. Are you ruining the garden on purpose? A way to strike at Beck for...what? What supposed crime did he commit against you? The same crime as the rest of us? Simply existing?”
Her
