Page 4 of Bad Cowboy, Tennessee

The light of my parents’ house was distant, like a little lighthouse on the horizon across a field full of grass, shrubs, and trees.

There was no chance they could hear me yell from this far away.

My only advantage was that I’d seemed to catch the man off guard, giving me a split second to act.

I brought the wooden stick up, aiming for the side of his head as I began to swing it down. My grip was sweaty and uneven, though, and on my downswing, the man’s hand came up and closed around my wrist in a swift motion, gripping me with an alarming amount of force.

“What the fuck?”

His palm was warm around my wrist. I tried to pry it away and he held me tight, as if he was handcuffing me with just his strength. It was starting to hurt now, and his grip was only getting tighter.

In a flash, he moved positions, yanking my arm up against his chest and jerking the hockey stick out of my hands. I lost my grip and the stick was gone in a split second, clattering tothe ground. In my peripheral vision, something else fell onto the porch too.

Think.

Fucking think.

I kicked my heel downward onto the man’s boot, but I was barefoot and it didn’t do a damn thing.

He got behind me quickly. His leg connected with the back of my ankle, getting behind my foot. Both of us tipped backward and I felt the ground disappear beneath my feet as I got lifted and he took us both down onto the ground.

His forearm locked against my throat.

His broad chest, pushed up against my back.

He’d grappled me down in an instant, restraining me from behind until his arm was an iron bar just below my neck.

I’d watched enough of my college buddies wrestle to know that there was no chance I could get out of this position. Not with a man so much stronger than me.

He could easily choke me out or snap my neck if he wanted to, now that he had me here.

His chest was warm against my back. My heartbeat was slamming out of my chest, panic flooding every inch of my body. I caught his scent and my nostrils flared. Too clean. Tooexpensive. Warm musk, clove, maybe even vanilla?

About to be murdered and I’m still picking out ingredients like I’m making a goddamn cocktail.

“Who the fuck are you?” I managed to utter, my voice coming out strained.

He just hummed from behind, not answering me.

My eyes focused on the weathered wooden slats on the porch ceiling above us. There was a place right above the front door where I’d once considered putting a security camera, but figured I’d never need it.

Next time trust your goddamn gut.

I was pinned. Restrained. I had no leverage, but…

I had teeth.

I bit down on his forearm, sinking my teeth into the top of his wrist, trying to make it hurt as much as humanly possible. He hissed in a quick breath. It was possible that he had a knife or a gun and that I might be seconds away from dying on my own front porch, but in that moment, the only thing I noticed were the black lines of the rose tattoo on his skin, filled with crimson ink, right below my teeth.

I sank my teeth deeper and finally, for the first time, he spoke.

“Come on. You can bite harder than that.”

His voice was low and deep.

Right fucking next to my ear.

He groaned as I bit him hard again.

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