Page 72 of Castaway Whirlwind
Davis springs forward, grabbing Wyatt’s arms from behind to tug him backward just as Wyatt is about to leap into the grave. “Hold on, brother. It’s Russell’s turn.”
Wyatt shakes Davis off and paces away, taking deep, ragged breaths, close to ripping his beard out.
I pinch my jeans to hike the fabric up an inch so I can crouch low to Allen’s ear, propping my elbows on my knees. “Confess, or Wyatt will be the least of your problems.”
“I didn’t do anything,” Allen whines, throwing the shovel to the side and falling to his knees. “That was all Harper’s doing.”
“And you helped her!” Elliott had already cleared Cooke of any wrong-doing after I texted him about my suspicions, but we didn’t dig deep enough and look more closely into her little sister, Harper, who we thought was too young to be involved in any of this, her circle of friends rarely mixing with Steven’s due to their age difference. We should have known better.
“No, I didn’t!”
“Bullshit.” I suck my teeth and straighten, taking the serviceweapon from Davis and aiming it steadily at Allen’s head. “Changed my mind. Let the animals dig you up for all I care.”
Allen whips his chin up. His face, which had been ruddy with effort, now drains as white as his undershirt had been before he started digging.
I inhale the humid, earthy scent of the night deep into my lungs with satisfaction.It’s almost over. “Go on. Lay down, right there in the middle.”
“No, no, please! Don’t do this!”
I nod to Davis, who takes another one of Elliott’s shovels and slings of pile of soil in Allen’s face.
Allen sputters, wiping the dirt away with his blistered hands, crying out, “Please!”
I wave a hand to stop Davis from slinging another pile, then lower my aim to Allen’s pelvis. “Last fucking chance. Confess, or we bury you with or without your dick.”
“I’m in love with her!” Allen screams, cupping his dick over his pants with both hands.
“Harper?”
“Layla!” His veins bulge at the sides of his sweaty temples when he nails me with a look I bet he wishes could knock me dead. “But you,” he growls, “you’re no fucking better than me or Steven or anyone else. For years, I watched you watchherlike a sick pervert. Watched you put your filthy fucking hands on her the second I finally got Steven to ditch her so we could be together! You defiled her, turnedmyLady into nothing more than a used-up, money-hungry wh—”
Allen throws himself to the side a half-second before I fire a bullet straight through his hands into his dick, which is unfortunate. I idly wonder if any of the neighbors are close enough to hear the gunshot and Allen’s long, unbearably high-pitched howl despite missing the bullet.
My world rearranges itself as I process this new information, more than pissed and disappointed with myself for being so distracted by my obsession that I completely failed at spotting Allen’s.Some protector I am.
“You took the pictures after you saw her car at our house that day…And the rock through our bedroom door…It was your boot that stomped on her windshield. You arrested Joel’s boys and forced them to confess. I’m right, aren’t I?” I ask, though Allen is in no position to answer as he blubbers and begs, coughing and choking on the dirt he stirs up with all his thrashing, trying to climb out of the grave.
With his breathing under control, Wyatt stands shoulder to shoulder with Davis, holding another shovel. “Dead or alive, boss?” He scoops up a pile of soil, waiting for my answer.
* * *
After the adrenaline fades, my head pounds with a headache. I push through the last of the trees and cross the lawn on feet as heavy as cinder blocks toward the house.
“Russell!” Layla sprints barefoot from the house, knees scuffed and bloody, her gorgeous face a mixture of terror and relief.
This, right here, is why I work out. It’s so I can race toward my woman and meet her before she’s even left the patio. It’s so I can stand sturdy and strong as an oak when my future wife throws herself into my arms, finding comfort and safety within my arms. It’s so I can pick her up with one hand beneath her bottom, the other gripping the back of her neck as our lips move over each other’s while I carry her inside with her legswrapped around my waist as far as they’ll go.
Layla cups my face and kisses every inch of me except where my skin has been scraped off, crying when she says, “I love you. I love you so much. I don’t even care that you might be a murderer, I’m just so glad you’re home.”
Elliott snorts a laugh before he slips Allen’s gun from my waistband at my lower back and closes the door behind him, heading home. That gun will never see the light of day again.
“I’ll always come home to you, darlin’,” I promise, my voice thick with emotion. “Nothing and no one could ever stop me.”
Layla whimpers, threading her fingers in my hair while I continue on into our bedroom, then lock us into our bathroom. Turning the overhead lights on but dimming them to the lowest setting, I hold Layla while I fill the free-standing garden tub with hot water. Though I have to set her down on her feet, some part of us is always touching as I slowly slip her dress and bra off over her head, then tug her panties down.
I shiver when Layla kisses my neck as she unbuttons my top and pushes it off my shoulders, her fingers moving faster to pull my jeans and boxer briefs down while I toe off my boots.
In the two years I’ve lived here, I’ve desperately longed to have Layla relax in the tub I chose specifically for her, but it’s even better having her straddling my thighs while I lie back against the edge. The hot water, fragrant with her favorite lavender-scented body wash, eases the ache in our muscles—and our hearts—as she delicately washes the dried blood and dirt from my face with a warm washcloth, crying harder when she moves on to my wrists. I do the same, carefully washing her knees and then the tear tracks from her cheeks.
