Page 14

Diesel

“What the hell do you think you’re doing?”

Those words spring from my lips in the nick of time. Between uttering that vicious phrase and my pain-dulled reflexes, I’m barely fast enough to stop Samantha from wrapping her arms around me. If she gets too close, the little willpower I have to resist her will crumble into so much dust.

“I just wanted to say thank you,” she murmurs.

I lower my gun and cast my eyes down to the fruit at my feet. “It’s just a pineapple. That’s all.”

“We thought hostiles had picked you up, brother,” Hunter says. There’s a note of reproach in his voice that I don’t like, as if I shouldn’t be keeping a separation between me and our hostage.

But the more I think about it, the more anger flares through me — what has he told her that’s suddenly changed Samantha’s attitude toward me?

“I was not picked up by hostiles. Just a couple friendlies who thought the pineapple was an invitation to get friendlier than any of us would be comfortable with. Unless you’re suddenly down for group sex with the local MC? Whatever. I got the fucking pineapple, and I got us some medical supplies,” I say. “Also, some dumplings that everyone says will blow our fucking minds.” I toss the bag of supplies to Hunter and then I hand the pineapple to Samantha. “Here’s your fruit.”

Her fingers brush against mine as she takes the pineapple and that simple touch sends an unwelcome jolt through my body.

"Thanks," she murmurs, her eyes searching my face. There's hurt there, and confusion. Fuck .

“Don’t mention it,” I say. “I’m going outside to get some air.”

“Diesel, let me patch you up, at least. You look like shit,” Hunter says.

“And I’ll still look like shit ten minutes from now, bandages or not,” I say. The door slams shut behind me and I take a deep gulp of air. That moment back there — out of all the moments that Dominic Rossi hammered me with his ham-sized fists — was the closest I’ve been to breaking. Those eyes. That sad frown. The wounded pain in her voice. It’s the truest form of torture.

But I can’t waver. No matter how much it hurts, this is for the best.

After a few seconds, my feet move of their own volition and take me further into the parking lot, strolling aimlessly, looking at the few hulking wrecks that occupy the guest parking spots — a rusted farm truck, a yellow-and-blue Buick Regal that looks older than dirt, and one Miata that’s parked at the far end of the parking lot. Through the back windshield, I see a pair of bare legs propped up on the dashboard, along with a wildly bouncing head of red hair.

At least someone’s having a good time right now.

“You’re a real asshole, you know that?”

Samantha’s voice makes me turn. I frown. I hadn’t even heard the door open and close. Fuck me, I need to get my shit together or else someone dangerous will get the drop on us.

“I am. You decide to come out here to complain about your pineapple? It not ripe enough, or what?”

She has the grocery bag in one hand, and the pineapple in the other, with her grip around the bushy stem, and she shakes that prickly fruit at me like it’s a club. “I really should hit you with this thing for being such a freaking jerk.”

“Do it. Take your best shot.”

I want her to hit me, to feel anger, to feel rage, to treat me as the enemy that I need to be, because I can’t let her get close. Because there’s something about her that makes the walls I’ve built around my heart so weak that the slightest sigh from her mouth could knock them down. Death is too close behind us for me to be weak; I can’t let her in.

She tightens her grip, squares her posture, and takes a deep breath.

I tighten my lips into a frown, jut my chin forward, and ready myself.

This is what we both need.

Then her lip quivers.

And that simple quiver, that shivering movement in her lip that’s followed by a glistening, solitary tear, breaks me irreparably.

"Fuck," I mutter under my breath.

Before I can stop myself, I step toward her. I reach out and cup her cheek, brushing away a solitary tear that drips down from one deep, hurt hazel eye.

Her skin is so soft. So warm. So deadly.

"I'm sorry, Samantha.” This is wrong. I shouldn’t be saying this, doing this, giving in to her; but how can I fight those tears? "I didn't mean to hurt you. Don’t cry."

Samantha's eyes search mine, confusion and hurt still clear, but now mixed with something else — hope, longing, and my undoing.

"Then why?" she asks. "Why push me away?"

"Because this is dangerous, Samantha. All of it. We’re in more danger than you realize, and I can't let myself care about you because it'll get us both killed."

She shakes her head, a fire igniting in her eyes. "That's crap, Diesel. Caring about someone doesn't make you weak. It makes you stronger."

"You don't understand everything that’s going on here."

"No, you don't understand," she cuts me off, then her eyes do this thing where they go wide and bright, where they prove true that old expression that the eyes are the window to the soul — and what I see in hers terrifies me: compassion, understanding, grace, everything that will get me killed. But underneath that damnable, undeserved compassion is a strength that defies everything I thought I knew about her. "I'm not some damsel in distress you need to protect, Diesel. I'm in this mess with you, whether you like it or not, and pushing me away will not change that."

I run a hand through my hair, frustration building as my defenses continue to crumble. "You have no idea what you’re talking about. You’re just a fucking civilian. And a na?ve one, too. This is so much more complicated than you know, and if we make one fucking mistake, someone will get hurt. Or worse. So, ask yourself, Samantha: do you want to make it back to your old life, or do you want to be responsible for someone’s murder?”

“What a ridiculous question,” she spits. “I’m not na?ve, I’m not blind, and I can see what’s going on here.” Her grip tightens again on that fruit and I hope that I’ve finally done it — that I’ve provoked her enough that she’ll finally hit me. Then, just as quickly, she drops it to the pavement and my hopes go along with it. “I know you’re in pain, Diesel. I know you’re trying to hide it. Let’s forget about the pineapple, forget about this argument, and just let me take care of you, OK?”

“Take care of me?”

Since Brandy’s death, no one’s ever offered — no one’s even asked — and the question sinks into my chest like a knife.

She comes closer. Reaches for me and puts a hand on my chest.

"You’re in pain, Diesel. You need help.” She reaches into the grocery bag and takes out the medical supplies, then she gestures to the bumper of the nearby farm truck. “Sit.”

She says it like I’m a disobedient dog who is all out of warnings.

“Sit?”

“Yes, Diesel. I said for you to sit. We’re doing this right here, right now. I don’t care what you have to say to make this palatable for you — cuss me out if you want, make threats, whatever, I can take it, and I assure you I’ve heard worse — but you are sitting down and I am bandaging your wounds right now. No more arguing, no more temper tantrums, just do it.”

“Temper tantrums?”

“Yes. You know what those are, right? Well, I’m sick of yours. So sit down.”

I sit.

“Good boy,” she says.

“What the hell did you just say?” My eyes flare. I start to stand, but she thrusts a finger in my face, and I freeze.

“You heard me.” Then she reaches into the bag and takes out a bottle of antibacterial ointment. “I’m going to apply this to a few of your wounds. It may sting a little. Just hold still, OK?”

She gets to work. It stings. A lot.

“Ow,” I say. “That hurts.”

“Hold still. Stop fidgeting. I know you’re a tough guy. Just be strong for me for a little longer.”

"Fucking hell, that really hurts," I hiss through gritted teeth.

"Oh, stop being such a baby," Samantha chides, dabbing at another cut on my forehead. "It'll be over soon if you just hold still."

I try to glare at her, but it's hard to maintain my scowl when her chest is right in my face. The bikini top she's wearing leaves little to the imagination, and I find my eyes drawn to the soft curves of her breasts.

I swallow hard and force myself to look away, but it's a losing battle.

"There, almost done," she murmurs, leaning in closer to inspect a gash on my cheek. Her scent washes over me — a mix of coconut sunscreen and something uniquely Samantha, a mix of sweet berries and flowers. It's intoxicating.

I shift uncomfortably on the bumper, trying to ignore the way my body is reacting to her. This is exactly what I was afraid of.

"Alright, tough guy. Last one," Samantha says, her breath warm against my ear as she reaches around to apply a bandage to the back of my head. Her breasts brush against me and I have to stifle a moan.

When she finally steps back, I let out a breath I didn't realize I was holding. My head is spinning, and it's not just from the injuries.

"There, all done," Samantha says, sounding pleased with herself. "Now, don't you feel better?"

I grunt, not trusting myself to speak.

"I think you deserve a treat for being such a good patient," she says with a smirk.

Before I can protest, she reaches into the bag and pulls out the pineapple and a knife. My eyes widen as she expertly cuts off a chunk.

"Open wide," she says and then holds the piece of fruit up to my mouth.

"I don't need you to feed me like I'm some kind of…"

My protests die as she shoves the pineapple into my open mouth and the sweet, tangy flavor explodes on my tongue.

"There you go. Eat up," Samantha says. Amusement dances in her eyes. "You need to keep your strength up. I’m going to leave the knife and pineapple here with you. I want you to eat a few more pieces and then, when you’re ready, it’s time for you to go to bed."

“Go to bed? Who the hell do you think you are? My mother?”

“No, Diesel. But I’m the woman who’s figuring you out, and I’m not so scared of you anymore. Now, eat your pineapple like a good boy.”

I chew the pineapple slowly, savoring the taste despite myself. The sweetness is a stark contrast to the bitterness I've been carrying around. As I swallow, I realize just how hungry I am.

"Fine," I mutter, taking the knife and cutting another piece. "I'll eat some more. But I don't need you telling me when to go to bed."

Samantha just smiles, that infuriating, knowing smile that makes me want to simultaneously kiss her and push her away. "Whatever you say, tough guy. Just don't stay up too late pouting, because we've got a long day ahead of us tomorrow." As she turns and heads back to our motel room, she pauses and looks at me over her shoulder. "And Diesel? Thank you for the pineapple. It was thoughtful."

Before I can respond, the door shuts softly behind her and I’m left in the parking lot clutching a pineapple and a knife, and absolutely certain that if Dominic Rossi had even half of Samantha’s strength, he’d have broken Hunter and I within minutes.

Yet even though the only ones who could even hear it are me, the devil, and the two people fucking in the beat-up Miata at the end of the parking lot, I can’t help but answer.

“You’re welcome.”