The Cut(11)

Decorated simply in shades of brown with a few splashes of soft blue to  brighten the space, his bedroom was a treasure-trove of memorabilia. She  stood in front of a wall of framed photographs. Her hand rose to cover  her mouth as she stared at the old pictures. Quite a few of them had  Smash in them, and she even found a few of herself when she was a kid.  One thing they all had in common were motorcycles. There wasn't a single  photo on the wall that didn't prominently display a bike in it. She  pulled her attention away from the wall. Models and die-cast motorcycles  sat on various shelves throughout the room, while a large ceramic  motorcycle was proudly displayed on top of the dresser.

She wandered to a stack of magazines neatly piled in the corner of the  room and was unsurprised to find pictures of motorcycles and naked  women. She studied several of the women. Boobs. Evidently, biker chicks  loved to show off their tits and it didn't seem to matter how big, small  or perky they were. What was equally obvious was how much he seemed to  enjoy the magazines. She glanced down at her covered breasts. Though  bruised and sore from Gordon's rough treatment, she'd always felt her  tits were her best feature. Still, she doubted she'd ever have the  confidence to proudly display them for a group of men.

Stake hadn't seemed affected by the sight of her breasts the previous  night, so maybe she was wrong about them. Oddly depressed by the  thought, she strode out of his bedroom, shutting the door behind her.

After closing the blinds, she pulled back the white comforter and sheet  and slid into bed. She closed her eyes and willed herself to stop  thinking about whether or not he liked her boobs.

After twenty minutes of worrying, she finally drifted to sleep.



Stake tensed as he pulled the Harley to a stop behind a long line of  police cars. The local and county cars at the scene didn't sit right  with him, and he hoped the Rangers were keeping the yokels from  contaminating the evidence. He crossed the yard intent on talking to the  Texas Ranger in charge but was brought up short by the sound of two of  the local cops laughing. Fucking hell. Robby Langers and Colton Fellows  stood to the right of the porch with their arms crossed over their  chests and amused expressions on their faces. "What the hell's so  funny?"

Robby stared at Stake's cut and automatically dismissed him. "This so-called crime scene's off limits."

"So-called?" Stake questioned, curling his hands into fists. "What the  fuck's that supposed to mean?" He charged toward Robby, but strong arms  wrapped around him from behind. "Get the fuck off me!"

"Not until you calm down. Or would you rather I put you in the back of my SUV?" a deep voiced asked.

Stake looked over his shoulder to see a man in a white western-style  shirt and a tan Resistol cowboy hat. The man was obviously a Texas  Ranger, but he wasn't the same man Stake had spoken to at the hospital.  With a simple nod, he relaxed and waited for the Ranger to release him.  "I came by to pick up Santana's clothes and to make sure the funeral  home had been here."

"You're Jakob Wills?"

"Yeah, and you are?" Stake wasn't about to shake the man's hand, at  least not until he was sure he was on the right side of the crime that  had occurred.

"Bob Thatcher. Jack told me you'd be by."

"Where is Jack?" Stake liked the Ranger he'd met at the hospital better  than the douche who'd kept him from rearranging Robby's smug face.

"Out back where the alleged attack was initiated," Thatcher replied.         

     



 

With his hands still fisted, Stake put space between himself and the  Ranger before he ended up in jail. He started to argue with Thatcher,  but decided it would be better to find Jack and see what the hell was  going on. Turning away from the trio, he stalked around the house. He  spotted Jack Boone holding a stack of papers. "Hey."

Jack spun around. "This is a crime scene. You're not allowed to be here."

At least one of the cops on hand acknowledged a crime had taken place.  "I came to get some clothes for Santana, and to make sure the funeral  home picked up Ellie."

Jack nodded. "They were here first thing." He held up the papers. "Is there something you haven't told me?"

Stake stared at the portrait of himself. He held out his hand. "Can I see those?"

Jack glanced at the crime scene photographer who was busy snapping  pictures of Santana's torn and discarded clothes. "I'd better not. I  don't want to compromise the case, but in case you're wondering, they're  all of you."

"Where'd you find them?" Stake asked, his gaze going from the picture of  himself and the torn Harley T-shirt on the ground. He recognized the  shirt immediately as his old favorite, the one he'd loaned Santana and  had never gotten back. The small tear in the sleeve where he'd gotten  caught up on a barbed wire fence confirmed it was his. Of all the  clothes she had, why had she been wearing that particular shirt?

Jack gestured to the blackened barrel. "According to her statement, Santana was out here burning trash."

The stack of drawings was a thick one, so Santana must've been working  on them for a long time. Why had she drawn them, and more important,  what made her decide to burn them? Stake rubbed the back of his neck.  "Can I have those once you're done with them?"

Jack shrugged. "Could be awhile, but trash is usually public property,  so I guess so." He narrowed his eyes. "Do you have any idea why she  seems obsessed with you? I thought the two of you were friends."

They weren't friends, but they weren't anything more than that, either.  How could Stake tell the Ranger he'd turned his back on Santana years  earlier and not come off like the biggest asshole in the state of Texas.  "I've known her for years. I was her dad's best friend."

Jack's eyebrows rose. "Then I'd say she's had the crush for a long time."

"Yeah, maybe you're right." He glanced at the T-shirt again. The  realization seared through Stake. He needed to talk to her. "Can I get  some of her clothes?" If he had to see her walk around his house in  nothing but his T-shirts, he wouldn't be able to keep his hands to  himself.

"You still have my business card?" Jack asked.

"Sure."

"Call me tomorrow, and I'll let you know if we've finished up here. Until then, I can't let you into the house."

Fuck. Stake wasn't sure how he'd control himself, but he'd put a padlock on his zipper if he had to.



Santana woke with a start, sitting straight up in bed. The room was  dark, and it took her a moment to remember where she was. She glanced at  the bedside clock and couldn't believe it was almost nine pm. How had  she slept for over twelve hours? It didn't seem possible. Stranger yet,  why hadn't Stake been in to wake her?

She threw back the covers and swung her legs over the side of the bed,  pleased that some of the soreness in her muscles had melted away while  she'd slept. Pulling the hem of the borrowed T-shirt down, she made her  way from the room. His door was still closed, but she wasn't sure if  that meant he was sleeping or hadn't returned home. Wandering into the  living room, she immediately noticed him stretched out on the deep  leather sofa.

"I thought you might sleep through 'til morning," he said without  opening his eyes. Her pussy clenched at the scratchy sound of his deep  voice.

"Did you talk to the funeral home?" she asked, sitting on the coffee table beside him.

He stretched his muscular arms over his head and opened his eyes to  stare over at her. "Yeah. They're going to go ahead and cremate her on  Friday. They asked about a memorial service, but I told them I'd have to  discuss it with you." He sat up and did his best to tame his wild,  shoulder-length hair.

"No, no service." She felt tears sting her eyes. "If you'll drive me, I'd like to have something on my own at Dad's grave."

"Of course I will."

When his gaze traveled to her bare legs, her nipples hardened. Christ.  Without thinking, she squeezed her thighs together to ease the ache in  her pussy.         

     



 

He grunted. "Answer a question."

"Okay."

He scooted to the edge of the couch, bracketing her legs with his. "Why'd you throw pictures of me away?"

Fuck. Fuck. Fuck. She stood, intending to get away from him before he saw the truth in her eyes.

He reached out and grabbed her wrist, keeping her between his thighs. "Answer me, goddammit."

Held in place, she stared at the wall over his head. "Because I realized how unhealthy it was to keep them around."

"Unhealthy for who?"

She shook her head. She couldn't do this. "Please let me go. I've been humiliated enough, don't you think?"

Still holding her wrist, he stood, putting his body in direct contact  with hers. "I won't push it for now, but you'll eventually tell me." He  released her wrist and wrapped his arms around her waist. "We have a lot  of things to talk about once you're feeling better. Like why you were  wearing my Harley shirt when Gordon attacked you."