Getting Rowdy. Lori Foster
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Had he never lived aboveboard? What type of upbringing made him so casually accepting of difficulty? “There were five men searching the bar for you. Why?”
His hand stilled. “Because I’d asked too many questions, and I was getting too close.”
“Too close to what?”
“A trafficking operation.” She started to ask, but he shook his head. “No, not drugs. Women.”
Her throat tightened. “That’s...”
He agreed with a nod. “Totally fucked up, I know. I hid because there were too many of them. Three or four I could handle.” He held up a hand for her to see. “I’m a big man with big fists. When I hit someone, he feels it.” He rested his hand on her thigh. “I know how to fight dirty, and I know how to win. But five men at once? That would be pushing it.”
Of course, she recalled another time when he’d taken apart the goons who’d been involved in forcing women to transport drugs. It had all transpired in the bar just prior to Rowdy buying it. He’d fought with such ease, walking through the men as if they were nothing at all. “I’ve seen you fight. You’re dangerous.”
“You learn to be when it’s necessary.”
Sitting more or less snuggled into his side, she inhaled the warm musk of his skin with every breath. That, combined with the idea of him playing defender for so many women in need, left her liquid with desire. Rowdy used his size and strength to protect.
Such an admirable trait to have.
So different from her own personal experience.
Without even trying that hard—just by being himself—Rowdy pulled her from her self-imposed exile. “You’re a regular white knight, aren’t you?”
He eased closer. “Want to see my sword?”
A hero and a comedian. “You’re outrageous.” Avery smoothed a hand over his shoulder, enjoying the contrast of the soft T-shirt stretched taut over his solid frame. “Why was it necessary for you to learn?”
Her touch caused a brief pause and the tensing of his muscles. “What?”
“To fight.” She knew very few people who ever engaged in physical confrontations. While growing up, the only fights she’d ever witnessed had been in sporting matches. In her world, men had ruled with money and prestige, not brute strength.
Her one and only experience with physical anger had sent her running away and into hiding. “You’re so good, you make it look...effortless.”
He studied her, his attention far too intuitive. “You know I have a younger sister.”
And that explained his need to fight? One day, Avery would love to meet Pepper. “You two are close?”
His concentrated attention strayed from her mouth to her collarbone to her hair. “Our folks died in a car crash a long time ago, so it’s just the two of us.”
Oh, God, so tragic. In sympathy, Avery reached for his hand. “I’m sorry.”
“Don’t be.” As if it didn’t matter at all, he laced his fingers with hers and said, “They were a waste of breath.”
The harsh words threw her, leaving her wide-eyed and speechless. She still grieved for her father, who’d died years past.
She mourned what would never again be, and for how everything had irrevocably changed—not for the better.
Rowdy turned her hand over, brushed his thumb over her palm. “My parents were both miserable drunks.” He explored the thrumming pulse in her wrist. “That’s how I got my name.”
Her stomach dipped when he put a damp, warm kiss to her wrist, followed by the soft touch of his tongue.
She needed to get him back on track, and fast—before she forgot her reasons for waiting. “I think you told me once that your mom was a Clint Eastwood fan. I assume that’s why she named you after one of his characters.”
Sardonic humor curved his mouth. “She claimed that she went into labor during a three-day drinking binge and couldn’t remember any other names. She and Dad would laugh about the good times, which usually led to a rip-roaring drunk and a lot of bitching about how kids got in the way of having fun.”
The insensitivity of his parents both angered and saddened her. “They actually told you that?”
His mellow gaze showed total disregard for the cruelty. “The night they wrecked, they took out six other cars. Luckily no one else died, but a lot of people got banged up pretty good.”
Emotion squeezed the air out of her lungs, making her chest hurt. “You weren’t with them?”
He shook his head. “I was pretty young still when I learned to recognize the signs. Mom would get giddy, or Dad would smile a certain way, and I knew they planned to tie one on. I’d hide with Pepper so they couldn’t take us.” Looking beyond her, he drew in two slow breaths. “When I got big enough, around the time I turned twelve or so, I just flat out refused to go. They figured leaving me behind was easier than the fight it took to take us along.”
So young! Her eyes burned with the idea of how he’d lived his youth. “Pepper...”
“I kept her with me.”
She was glad to hear it, but how much strength had it taken for a boy at that young age to defy alcoholic parents?
Rowdy traced the lines in her palm. “I was home with Pepper when we got the news they were dead.” His hand tightened on hers. “She cried for two days straight.”
That poor girl. “How old was she?”
“Fifteen. Plenty old enough to understand that we’d been on the radar for children’s services for years. She figured with our folks gone, she’d end up in a foster home.”
A vise of sorrow closed around Avery’s heart. Now she understood what had forged Rowdy’s hard edge—pure survival. “How old were you?”
“Just turned eighteen.”
On the run. Avery already knew, but asked anyway. “You took off with your sister, didn’t you?”
“That seemed better than being separated. And we did okay for a few years. At times, it was even kind of fun.”
Because he no longer had abuse to deal with? She fought the unbearable urge to hug him tightly, knowing he wouldn’t appreciate it.
Not for the reasons motivating her.
Without her realizing it, Rowdy tugged the cloth-covered band from her hair, freeing it.
“Rowdy...” She reached back to gather the unruly mass, but he already had his fingers tangled in it, spreading it out, bringing it forward over her shoulder.
As if fascinated with her