Come Sundown(164)
“Does your ma know you’re out here, getting in bar fights?” Tate demanded.
“She knows I’m with Rory. Or I expect she does. I live in the Village, but I talk to her most every day.”
“A bunch of sass, that’s what I get. Curtis, you go in, start with Sandy Rhimes. Get his statement. Miss Baazov—”
“Jessica.”
“Jessica, we’re going to take a walk over to the vending machine, since I can’t have a good shot of whisky as I want. I’m going to assume you’re the one standing here with the most sense. So you’re going to tell me every step of what happened.”
“I’d be glad to.”
Callen took another pull on his beer as they crossed the lot. “He’s going to be pissed awhile.”
“He’ll get over it.” Bodine shrugged. “He knew you’d hunt Clintok down, and he knew he’d have done the same himself given the circumstances. What he’ll be longer than pissed off is disappointed. Not in you, but in Clintok.”
* * *
It took more than an hour, and by the end of it Callen felt every bruise and scrape. He thought fondly of the bag of peas Bodine had tossed in his freezer—and only wished she’d tossed in a half dozen.
Still, he considered every twinge, throb, and ache well worth it. Garrett Clintok would look through bars for a very long time. He supposed Jessica’s comment before they’d all gone their separate ways hit the mark, too.
Clintok needed some serious head shrinking.
If he gritted his teeth against the banging in his ribs when he got out of the truck, he could remind himself Clintok had worse.
“Do you want to go tell Sundown he’s been avenged?”
“I’ll tell him in the morning.”
With some sympathy, Bodine put an arm around his waist. “You can lean on me.” And looking up, she sighed at the moon. “I have to say this ranks as the prettiest night in my experience for a fight. Jessica got some strange and arty-type pictures of the Step Up and some of the patrons while Tate gave you the final lecture.”
She opened the door, took off his hat, tossed it aside. Then brushed her fingers over his face as she surveyed the damage. “You won’t look pretty for a few days, but you broke his nose.”
“I thought so.”
“Don’t ever shove me aside like that again.”
Now he arched his eyebrows—even that hurt. “I can guarantee you, should some fuckheaded asshole ever wave a gun around in your direction, I’ll shove you aside again.”
“Then next time I’ll be ready, and shove you first.” She gave him a little one, tugged him back to unbutton his shirt. “Let’s have a look at the rest of you.”
He gripped her hands. “It stopped my heart, shut it right down, the idea of you getting hit.”
“It didn’t do mine any good, either, when you stepped aside and gave him a clear shot at you. Damn Gary Coopering.”
“Clint Eastwooding. Chase is more Gary Cooper.”
He grabbed her face, kissed her hard so pain and lust and pleasure all burst and tangled.
Hot, so instantly hot, she gripped his shoulders, struggled to gentle her hold. “You’re in no shape to get me revved up tonight, Skinner.”
“I’ve got to get this done.” Fast, he pulled off her shirt, shoved her back against the door. “I’ve got to have you. Just let me have you.” He flicked open the catch of her bra, dragged it aside, filled his hands with her breasts. “Let me have you.”
“I wanted to tear your clothes off since you threw the first punch.” So she did, starting with his shirt. “Don’t complain later when I hurt you.”
When she crushed her mouth to his, he dragged her to the floor.
All the heat, all the fire, all the passion he’d banked to fight cold and clear surged into him. That need to pound flesh now burned as a need to possess it. Possess her.
And, with a madness, snapped free.
He felt pain as her hands, rough and greedy, pulled at his clothes, dug into muscle. But distant, almost unconnected, all but buried under this fresh, wild hunger.
He didn’t wait for her, couldn’t wait, but rammed himself into her as soon as he’d stripped her down far enough. Then he rode like his life depended on it.
She arched up on a breathless cry, gripping his hair like a rope to keep her from falling off a cliff. His eyes had gone green, reflecting hers, with an almost feral intensity that kept her gaze locked to them.
It tore through her, a wildfire, a lightning bolt, leaving her senses as scorched earth. She bucked under him, driving him harder, faster. If he plundered, she ravished. And when that bolt struck again, she rode the lightning until they burned themselves out.