Page 7 of Wrecked for Love
And I saw it—the rifle in his hands held like an afterthought.
Why wasn’t he shooting already? This was Montana, after all—the kind of place where every man fended for himself, where they’d shoot first and ask questions later.
Beside him, a dog barked. Not the aggressive, snarling kind, but more like a friendly alert.
“Turn off that damn music!” he shouted again, louder this time.
I reached for my Discman, but I kept the gun steady, aimed right at him. My eyes adjusted to him now. He looked to be in his mid or late twenties, well-proportioned and solid.
“I’m not looking for trouble. I just need gas,” I said.
“You’re in the wrong place for that. Nearest gas station’s ten miles out.”
“This is a farm, right?” I could only guess. The property stretched into the kind of darkness that spoke of vast land. “You’ve got to have some gas stashed somewhere. Or at least a car I can siphon from. You could spare a little.”
“Sharing is caring, huh?” His dry humor flickered through the tense air. “All right, just put down the gun.”
“Rifle first,” I shot back, not budging an inch.
With a grunt, he lowered it to the ground, his movements slow.
“Happy now?” he asked, sarcasm dripping from his voice as thunder rolled in the distance.
“Take off your jacket,” I demanded. That thing was bulky enough to hide anything.
“You’ve gotta be kidding me,” he groaned, his eyes locked on mine as if waiting for me to back down. I didn’t. With a sigh of defeat, his hands moved to the zipper, the irritation clear in his taut expression. He shrugged off the jacket and tossed it beside the rifle, the motion sharp, almost defiant.
I bit the inside of my cheek, not sure if I regretted the order. Not because I was second-guessing the caution—no, I was distracted by what the headlights illuminated next. His thin white sweater clung to him just right, showing off a physique that didn’t belong to a guy caught up in this mess. He looked like he’d just stepped off the cover of some cowboy magazine—if that was even a thing.
“Anything else, or are we done playing dress-up?” His voice persisted through my thoughts. “If you stop wasting my time, you might actually outrun the storm.”
Slowly, I lowered my gun. Not because of that infuriatingly confident expression—though the lack of a smile made it even more irritating—but because of something deeper. Maybe I hadn’t completely lost my humanity after all. I could still spot a decent person when I saw one. Like Rick Ashbourne.
For that, I gave this young rancher the barest sliver of trust.
“Get the gas then!” I snapped, trying to keep the upper hand.
“Wait here,” he said, spinning on his heel a little too fast, his hand sliding into his jeans pocket.
My instincts fired, and before I could stop myself, the gun was up again. I guess that trust didn’t last long.
“Jesus Christ!” He whipped back around, hands up, exasperation all over his face. “You gonna shoot the guy who’s trying to help you?”
“Move your ass!” I barked, barely concealing my frustration, or maybe it was surprise at my own hypervigilance. Had I completely lost it?
Anyway, he did move his ass, quite literally. I couldn’t help but notice how his jeans sat just right, hanging low enough to tempt a second look. Not exactly a detail I needed to be noticing right now.
As he walked away, his dog padding alongside him, I narrowed my eyes at the shadows beyond the headlights. I hoped he was heading for a shed or garage, but my gut wouldn’t let me relax. He could be fetching something far deadlier than gas.
Waiting for his return, I readied my gun again. After all, there were plenty of bad guys with nice asses.
3
ELIA
What the hell is her problem?
I’d never been treated like a threat before—not unless someone had a real reason to. But a complete stranger? A woman, no less? Never. And somehow, I let myself get sucked into this ridiculous hostage situation on my own damn property.
