Beard Science (Winston Brothers Book 3) (26 page)

“Hey.” Drill tugged on my hand, drawing my eyes back to him. His sharp gaze moved over my face and his grin waned. “You don’t like that guy?” He tilted his head toward Timothy who was almost even with us.

I didn’t answer, instead alternating my wide-eyed stare between the giant, bald biker with sharp blue eyes and Timothy King as he approached.

“Looky who we have here.” Timothy’s gaze moved down, then up my body, much like Drill’s had, and I tensed in revulsion.

Mysteriously, Drill’s perusal felt less threatening. It didn’t make much sense, since Drill was almost twice the size of Timothy. Where Tim was lanky and tall, Drill was even taller, but with the addition of rippling corded muscle. To put things into perspective, I was fairly certain his neck was the size of my waist.

“Back off, King.” Drill straightened, stepping slightly in front of me. “The lady doesn’t like you.”

“But I like the lady, and we’re old friends.” Timothy smirked, dipping his head to the side as though to catch my eye.

“Both of you, fuck off,” Isaac growled, his hand wrapping around my upper arm and tugging me to the side. I looked up and found my brother glaring at both men. “She’s off limits. Both of you.”

Drill held his hands up. “Hey, I get it. If my sister had that rack and those eyes, I wouldn’t want someone like me near her either.”

Timothy King crossed his arms, his eyes still moving over me, but remained silent.

Isaac frowned at the bikers, looking frustrated, then dragged me out of the aisle and away from their cluster. “I’ll meet y’all outside.”

“Twilight, we need to go.” This reminder came from the one called Catfish.

My brother nodded. “Yes, sir. Let me just see to this.”

This? Did my brother just call me a “this”?

“Fine. We’re leaving in five minutes, with or without you.”

Isaac didn’t answer, he just kept tugging me by the arm away from the other bikers. Five rows down, he made a sharp turn and released my arm. I twisted, backing away, sidestepping down the aisle. Movement behind him caught my attention; Tina had followed. She stood at the edge of the aisle, watching us with a smirk on her face.

“What are you doing?” Isaac scowled. He lifted his hands from his sides and shrugged. “What is wrong with you?”

“I’m picking up bananas,” I said dumbly, explaining myself.

He huffed a frustrated laugh, shaking his head. “At ten o’clock at night? By yourself?”

I nodded.

His gaze flickered over me. “And then what? Why are you dressed like that?”

“Like what?”

“With no modesty. Like a loose woman.”

I gaped, struggling to make sense of his words. “I’m not. There’s nothing wrong with this. I’m not dressed—”

“What the fuck would you call what you’re wearing?” Isaac spoke through clenched teeth, making me flinch.

Somewhere behind me a new voice chimed in with, “Clothes.”

I glanced over my shoulder and found Cletus peering around the end cap, a mask of clueless affability firmly in place. I blinked at him, stunned by his sudden appearance.

Cletus then added unnecessarily, “I am also wearing clothes.”

Isaac’s jaw ticked and he crossed his arms, refocusing his enraged glower on Cletus.

“Hey, Cletus.” Tina stepped forward, sliding next to Isaac and pressing her body against his. “How’s Duane doing?”

“Disease free,” Cletus responded easily. I felt him step just behind me—his presence hovering and reassuring—but still,
what in tarnation is he doing here?

“Has he grown tired of Jess yet? Tell him I say hi,” Tina purred, ignoring Cletus’s implied insult. Or maybe she didn’t understand it.

Tina Patterson and Duane Winston had a long history of an on-again, off-again relationship. Over a year ago, Duane had called it off for good.

I heard the irritation in Cletus’s voice as he remarked, “You know what your biker name should be, Tina? Dirty Pie.”

“Don’t you mean cutie pie?” She slid her hand into my brother’s jacket.

“Nope. I mean Dirty Pie.”

“This is none of your business, Winston.” Isaac disentangled himself from Tina and stepped forward, grabbing my arm again. I was so stunned by the action, I stumbled forward. “This is between my sister and me.”

“I thought you didn’t have a sister.” Cletus quickly moved to my other side, but he didn’t put his hands on me. His gaze narrowed on where Isaac held my arm. Cletus’s mask of affability slipped, his eyes burning blue and hot.

“Fuck off,” Isaac growled to Cletus, then lowered his furious face to mine. “What the hell do you think you’re doing? Does our father know you’re running around town, in the middle of the night, dressed like this?”

I flinched, confused and hurt and overwhelmed by his outrage. My brother hadn’t spoken to me in eighteen months. I’d been daydreaming about what we might talk about when the time came, how I might get through to him, reach him, the person he used to be.

Looking at him now, I saw no trace of the sweet boy I used to know, no trace of the boy who used to take me on hikes, the boy who was my best friend.

“What are you—”

“You are disgrace, Jennifer Anne. I can’t believe our parents are okay with this. God tells women, you are responsible for the lust you inspire in others.”

These were words I’d heard my father say on more than one occasion. From my father they were hurtful, but I could handle it. I was used to it. But from my brother, the words felt like barbed weapons, piercing my heart.

“I’m pretty sure God never said that,” Cletus announced flatly, reaching for Isaac’s hand, swiftly prying it from me, and inserting himself between us.

“Yes, He did,” my brother ground out.

“No. He didn’t,” Cletus continued. “God wouldn’t say something so stupid. The Creator of the heavens doesn’t care what her hair looks like, and He doesn’t care what she’s wearing. I’m pretty sure He’s got his hands full with more weighty matters, like dark matter, and black holes, and ISIS, and ignorant bikers of the criminal variety.”

“Winston, this is the last time I’ll ask you nicely to mind your own damn business,” Isaac seethed, his hands balling into fists.

“Besides,” Cletus went on philosophically, “you think those dresses your parents have her in don’t inspire lust? You think men all around these parts aren’t daydreaming about bending her over and lifting her skirt and—”

I gasped and, clearly forgetting myself, quickly covered Cletus’s mouth with my hand. But I was too late. Isaac shoved me to the side and lifted his fist, intent on pummeling the words from Cletus’s brain. A sound of fear and despair escaped my throat before I could catch it, and the world lurched forward in slow motion. I braced for his fist to make contact, wincing in terror.

But it didn’t happen.

Cletus blocked him, then leaned to the side in a remarkably agile movement for such a large man. Isaac ended up putting his fist through the shelf of canned goods, hitting his forehead in the process. Incensed and undaunted, he spun and walked right into Cletus’s left hook, and the sickening sound of bones crunching filled my ears. I covered my mouth to suppress another gasp as Cletus followed the first punch with a second, the momentum of which threw Isaac backward and against the shelves.

My brother fell to the ground, his head banging against the bottom shelf on the way down. Blood gushed from his nose, mouth, and a cut on his left eyebrow, flowing to his white shirt and leather jacket.

Tina stood to one side, gawking at Cletus.

But instinctual worry for my brother sent me rushing forward. “Oh no!”

Before I could reach Isaac, Cletus wrapped his arms around my waist and lifted me from the floor.

“I have one more thing to say,” Cletus growled, my back pressed to his front, his beard against my temple. The quality of his voice—low with scarcely restrained rage—made me stiffen and grow still in his arms. The dangerous intensity behind his words sent a shiver of apprehension down my spine.

“Do you honestly think God would make a creature as lovely and talented and good as your sister, and then make the way she looks something sinful? Something to be ashamed of? No. He wouldn’t. If anything, your sister—her face, her body, her mind, and her heart—give glory to Him. And she shouldn’t be hidden. You don’t hide something that remarkable away from the world, like your parents have done, like you want to do. That’s the true sin.”

Then, immediately, Cletus turned me in his arms, tossed me over his shoulder like a sack of potatoes, and announced, “Time to go.”

“Love makes your soul crawl out from its hiding place.”

― Zora Neale Hurston

~Jennifer~

Cletus exited the
Piggly Wiggly like the hounds of hell were at our ankles. The suddenness of being thrown over his shoulder knocked the wind from my lungs and I gasped for air, unable to find purchase as I endeavored to cough. But I was never in danger of falling. Even though he moved swiftly, I didn’t budge or slip from his shoulder.

He carried us straight to the parking lot, set me in front of a car I didn’t recognize, then opened the passenger door.

“Get in,” he ordered, glancing over his shoulder.

I was dizzy, black spots moving in and out of my vision, but the time spent in the store—being tossed about by Drill and my brother and eventually Cletus—had finally registered in my brain.

“I’m not getting in.” I gasped, coughing, a surge of something dark and ferocious climbing to the surface and making my bones feel rigid and cold.

I was just so . . . I was just so incredibly
angry.
And I was tired of people telling me what to do.

“Dammit, woman, please get in the car.” Cletus pulled his fingers through his long hair.

“I’m not getting in your freaking car,” I screeched, shoving at his chest, needing to scream.

Cletus flinched, visibly startled by my outburst, but the very next moment he stepped into my space, bent his mouth to my ear, and said, “We are being watched by seven members of the Iron Wraiths—don’t look! They’re two rows over and behind me. I have just assaulted one of their brethren. You need to get in this car before Twilight emerges with his rearranged face or Tina screams bloody murder. I’m not going to force you to get in the car, but there’s no way I’m leaving you here.”

Sobering dread cut through my cloud of anger and my hands automatically lifted to Cletus’s arms, the feel of his solid strength beneath my fingertips reassuring.

He leaned a few inches away and glared down at me, his eyebrows raised just slightly. I could almost hear his voice in my head saying,
“Get in the fucking car right goddamn now. Please.”

Without another word, I slid into the passenger seat and shut the door after me, hastily fastening my seatbelt. The urge to look at the bikers was strong, but I didn’t. Instead, I kept my eyes studiously affixed to the dashboard as Cletus rounded the back and entered the driver’s side.

He turned the engine, placed it in reverse, and pulled out of the spot like nothing was amiss. But then I heard a scream. Fright had me sucking in the breath as Tina Patterson’s form emerged from the grocery store and pointed at us.

“Get him! He knocked out Twilight! He’s taking his sister,” she bellowed, waving her arms.

Unable to help myself, I twisted in my seat and—to my horror—watched as the fleet of bikers glanced between Tina and us. Her words sunk in, spurring them into motion.

“Hold on.” Cletus peeled out of the parking lot, no need for clandestine maneuvers at this point, and set off at neck-breaking speed down the main thoroughfare. I did as instructed and held on to the door and the back of the bench, relieved I’d already buckled my seatbelt.

His car was fast, but it was big. And the bikers were more nimble on their motorcycles. Several cut across the lot, chasing at a diagonal when Cletus was forced to take a turn. Two were almost directly behind us, the others some distance back.

“My phone is in the glove compartment. I want you to call Duane and put him on speaker.” Given the situation, Cletus’s voice was remarkably calm. He split his attention between the rearview mirror and the road ahead.

With irritatingly shaking fingers, I fumbled for his phone.

“The password is one, zero, one, zero.”

I nodded, quickly typing it in, navigating to Duane in his contacts, and highlighting the speaker button.

The phone rang and I searched behind us. The two bikers hadn’t come any closer, because Cletus was driving like a maniac, still accelerating while he weaved through the sparse traffic.

“What’s up?” Duane answered on the third ring.

“Are you at the house?”

Duane hesitated for a moment, then said, “I’m nearby.”

“How close?”

“Real close.”

“Listen to me. I have seven Wraiths on my tail, I can’t tell you why right now. I need your help.”

“Anything.” Duane didn’t hesitate, but his tone held an odd edge that made the hairs on the back of my neck stand up straight.

“My keys for the Buick are in the top drawer of my side table. Take the Buick to the end of the driveway, leave the lights off, and wait for me to drive by the house. I’m in its twin and will be there in approximately five minutes. After I drive past, pull onto Moth Run and turn on your lights. I’ll cut mine and take the side road behind the house. You lead them away.”

“Where do you want me to take them?”

“Lead these gentleman to the police station and get out of the car, so they can see they’ve lost me. They’ll back off when they see it’s you and where you are.”

“Or I could take them on a goose chase.”

“No. If they catch up, it won’t be good.”

“They won’t catch me.” Duane made a scoffing sound.

“Duane, just do as I say.” Cletus reached over and ended the call.

I gripped his phone and glanced anxiously at my side mirror. I didn’t say anything, because Cletus could likely see for himself, but one of the bikers was almost flanking my side. It was so dark, and I couldn’t decipher what the man was doing. He might’ve had a gun.

The next several minutes were terrifying, but I remained quiet, not wanting to distract him from what he needed to do. My heart was beating in triple time when the Winston place came into view, set back from the road and lit up like an old, stately mansion. The end of the driveway was dark, but I knew Duane would be there.

Cletus hit the accelerator and I was pressed back against the seat, my eyes on the side mirror. The motorcycles’ headlights diminished to small dots as he placed distance between us. Clearly they’d expected his destination to be the Winston house.

As soon as we passed the end of their drive, Cletus switched off his lights. Almost immediately after that, he slammed on the brakes and yanked the wheel to one side, pulling onto a road I’d never noticed. Or maybe it wasn’t a road. Either way, it was too dark for me to see. We were surrounded by blackness and forest and the car jostled violently. For all I knew, we were about to hit a tree.

Rather than give voice to my uncertainty and fear, I rolled my lips between my teeth and braced.

The car came to an abrupt stop. He cut the engine and silence fell like a blanket around us. Then I heard the roar of a car engine pass, followed closely by the reverberations of several motorcycles. Less than a minute later I heard several more; they reached a crescendo, then began to fade. And then nothing.

He unbuckled his seatbelt, the suddenness of the sound startling me, and I listened as he did the same to mine. He reached for me, tugged me across the bench, and pulled me into a tight embrace. Cletus’s hands moved over my body as though he were searching.

I felt his heart hammer in his ribcage, the first real sign that he was anything less than calm and collected. Strangely, realizing that he wasn’t impervious to fear helped mine feel less cumbersome.

“Hey, hey.” I pulled away, just slightly because his arms wouldn’t let me go far. “Are you okay?”

“Are you?” he returned, his hands coming to my face and tipping my chin back. I couldn’t see a thing, but I got the sense he could see me. His thumb traced the line of my jaw, then skimmed down the side of my neck, making me shiver. “That last stretch was rough on the shocks. You hurt?”

I shook my head, not quite able to speak because where I was—in the middle of nowhere—plus who I was with—the man I’d been thinking about non-stop—meant my body was responding and reacting in ways I didn’t have much control over.

Despite the lingering adrenaline, or maybe because of it, I couldn’t help notice the intimacy of our position. How I sat straddling his lap, how our chests were pressed together, how he smelled like mint and soap and aftershave and Cletus.

He released a breath; it fell over my face and sounded relieved. “Good. I didn’t know. You were so quiet. I can’t believe how quiet you were, the whole time you didn’t say a word.” I felt his eyes on me, but he remained in shadow. “Are you in shock?”

I shook my head again, sliding my hands from his shoulders to his biceps, liking how his muscles felt under my fingers. Touching him, feeling him beneath me, being surrounded by Cletus made my stomach twist and release, an aching warmth pooling low in my belly, between my legs.

“Cletus,” I whispered, climbing higher on his lap, wanting to press closer, wondering—quite suddenly—what his skin felt like. I wished—with equal suddenness—that the barrier of our clothes didn’t exist.

He grew very still and I sensed his breathing change. He could see me. Maybe he couldn’t see me perfectly, but he obviously could make out my features.

“Jenn . . .” My name was a low rumble, not quite a whisper, not quite a breath.

“I miss you,” I said, instinct had me rocking against him, trying to ease the ache at my center.

“Oh fuck, don’t do that.” He grabbed my arms as though to hold me still.

I didn’t want to hold still. I wanted to kiss him. So I did.

I covered his mouth with mine, shaking his grip from my arms as I wrapped them around his neck. At first he did nothing, but I didn’t care. He still tasted good, and his mouth was hot and soft and wonderful. I wanted him, so I took him. I swept my tongue out and licked him, like he’d done to me eleven days ago, loving how he parted lips and moaned in response.

Suddenly and quite forcefully, he was participating. He grabbed my ponytail and I gasped. He captured the sound of surprise, his tongue expertly loving mine, and he used his leverage to tilt my head to the side, opening me, consuming me with his kisses.

I felt him lengthen and harden against my inner thigh and my body shuddered in response. Unthinkingly, I pressed down, shifting my hips. His legs tensed, the muscles like granite, and he tore his mouth away.

“Jenn—”

“Don’t stop.”
I know I’m not what you want, but don’t you dare stop.

I moved my fingers into his jacket, pushing it off, searching for his lips. Instead, I found the side of his face, but I didn’t care. I kissed his cheekbone, his jaw beneath his beard, and his neck.

“I’m not going to stop,” he growled, pulling his arms from his coat, sounding ill-tempered and impatient. His fingers immediately returned, digging into my backside.

I bit his neck again, liking the way he tasted, loving the texture of his skin on my tongue.

Cletus’s hands slid under the hem of my shirt, up the side of my waist to my ribcage, massaging and grabbing, each touch sending a thrill of nerves and awareness racing through me. Then higher, bunching the sweater under my arms, moving to cup me through my bra. I shivered and a short, hot breath of surprised wonder escaped me; he pulled my bra down and rubbed a tight circle around the center of my breast.

“Don’t stop, don’t stop,” I chanted, arching, reaching for the clasp of my bra. “Touch me.”

I could offer no other direction, but that paltry demand seemed to be enough. With deft fingers, he unhooked my bra much faster than I ever could, and pushed my sweater and top over my head. He grasped my naked torso and brought his mouth to my breast.

My hips bucked at the sharp sensation of his teeth closing over my nipple, an instinctual movement. The aching heat had become a painful, restless thing.

“Shhhh,” Cletus said, blowing a cold breath over the wet patch left by his mouth, then scraping his teeth back and forth over the sensitive peak, sending a frenzied wave of goosebumps over my skin.

I tugged on his shirt, wanting the heat of his body. He lifted his arms obligingly, then immediately began lavishing my breasts with hungry, biting kisses, fondling and caressing with his big hands.

Everything felt so good. His mouth and hands felt essential. I could only push my fingers into his long hair and hold him to me, arching and straining for . . . something more.

As fantastic as this felt, it only served to increase my restlessness. “Cletus, touch me.”

“I am,” he said between frustratingly fantastic kisses.

“Please, Cletus. Please.” I couldn’t withstand this torture, this agonizing longing. I moaned, sucking in a needful breath followed by pleading words tumbling from my lips. He was holding back, I could sense his hesitation. I was dying and he gave me only raindrops to quench the thirst.

He stiffened, his hands moving to my sides and back. Hastily, he drew me from his lap.

I swallowed a groan of protest as he clamped a hand over my mouth and whispered, “Someone is outside.”

Cold fingers of fear unraveled the thread of desire, tugging me harshly back to reality. Deftly, he found my shirt and placed it in my hands while I strained to listen. A twig or a branch cracked. Leaves rustled and crunched under a booted foot. I held my breath and tugged the shirt over my head. It was too big. I was braless, swimming in soft cotton and the intoxicating smell of him. It was Cletus’s.