She's Gotta Be Mine (25 page)

All
Jimbo
had to do was open his eyes, and he’d see what a bitch he’d married. He’d dump her, and everyone would be the better for it. But no, he couldn’t admit the truth to himself and acted like a blowhard instead. It was as sadly pathetic as watching Cookie go down on her knees in front of Bobbie’s husband.

Nick looked at Bobbie then, standing behind the counter, tray clutched to her chest, eyes the size of saucers, as they’d been last night when Cookie drove up. In ways, she was as bad as
Jimbo
, running after her past, unwilling to let go, even when the truth stared her in the
fricking
face.

Maybe she needed somebody to show her.

He turned back to
Jimbo
. “By the way, how’s your wife these days? Keeping good tabs on her?”

Jimbo’s
jaw tensed. Bull’s-eye.

* * * * *

Holding the tray against her breasts like a shield, Bobbie sidled out the counter opening. Customers, primarily male, rose from their seats and closed in for the fight. Mavis waved frantically at
Brax
in his booth at the back.

What on earth did Nick think he was doing, baiting
Jimbo
that way? Didn’t he remember how much that whole Cookie scene had hurt Bobbie last night? Didn’t he care?

When Nick had entered the front door of the diner, she’d wanted to cry. Or scream. Or hope. Instead, she’d flirted mercilessly with
Brax
.

Then
Jimbo
walked in.

Now they were going to fight, about Cookie, for God’s sake. The woman everyone wanted. The bane of Bobbie’s existence. She should have packed her mocha machine and left town last night after Cookie went down on her knees for Warren. Oh God. Now this. Nick battling over the Cookie Monster.

Run away, little girl. You’ve lost. Big time
.

Jimbo
snarled, and an avid light flashed in the spectators’ eyes as if they were at a cockfight.
Jimbo
put his fists up, his legs settling into fighting stance. “I ever hear you mention my wife again, I’ll knock your block off.”

Nick rose, taller but less brawny. “You think you can take me, old man?”

Oh my God. Bobbie made a mad dash to
Brax’s
aisle. He was just watching, like all the others. She grabbed his arm. “Do something.”

“Like what?”

“Pull your gun or something.”

He put a hand to the butt of his pistol or revolver or whatever it was called. “That’s a little drastic for this situation, don’t you think?”

Meanwhile,
Jimbo
went on about how he could take a little
asswipe
like Nick any day, any place.

“Mavis will shoot you, if you let them break so much as a salt shaker,” Bobbie warned.

“Now
that
frightens me.”
Brax
pushed through the throng.

The sheriff looked first at
Jimbo
, then leveled a laser-blue look at Nick. “I told you to stop stirring things up.”

“I didn’t do the stirring. His fists are raised, not mine.”

Jimbo’s
arms flexed, but he didn’t throw the punch.

“Go home.”
Brax’s
voice carried through the entire diner. “Cool off.”

Nick’s lip curled. “Fuck you.” Then he stabbed a finger in
Jimbo’s
direction. “And fuck him, too.”

Brax
put a hand on Nick’s chest. For a moment, Bobbie thought Nick might actually belt the sheriff. He looked down at the big splayed hand, then up at
Brax
, at the crowd gathered round him, and finally at Bobbie.

Something spoke in that fierce gaze. Something he’d come to say, something she hadn’t been willing to listen to. Maybe if she had...too late for maybes now. And
Brax
had pointed to Nick as the cause of the altercation, not
Jimbo
, the way he should have. Her hand went up, almost on its own, one cast out to an outcast. Empathy and sympathy rolled off her fingertips.

Watching her, Nick’s face hardened. He stepped back from
Brax
, then pushed through the crowd, headed for the door. He passed less than a foot from
Jimbo
and his fists.

“Stay away from my wife.”

Nick stopped, but didn’t bother to turn. “Or what?”

Suddenly
Brax
was there between them. “One threat out of either of your mouths, and you’re both going to jail.”

Nick shot him a fuck-you glance—there was really no other possible way to describe it—then slammed through the door.

* * * * *

Bobbie filled the first suitcase. It was time to leave. Past time. She couldn’t fight Cookie Beaumont. She didn’t even want to try anymore.

Nick’s last glance still haunted her. It had taken her the rest of her shift to realize he thought she pitied him. Maybe she did. Maybe she just understood not being wanted anywhere.

Cookie Beaumont, you win. You can have them both
.

Bobbie was packing her bags and heading out. To where, she had no idea.

A fist pounded on the front door. Her heart jumped into her throat. Nick.

Racing across Mrs. Porter’s pink and white living room, she threw the door open, a please-want-me-need-me-beg-me-not-to-go-even-if-I-don’t-know-what-on-earth-I-really-want knot tying her stomach.

Brax
stood on her doorstep, gun at his belt, tan uniform crisp despite a full day’s use.

“Oh” was all she could say.

He waited a beat for anything sensible that might come out of her mouth, then leaned one hand on the door jamb, blue eyes frigid. “Now you’re going to answer last night’s question.”

“What’s that?” She really couldn’t remember what he’d asked.

“What’s going on between you and Nick Angel?”

Her stomach plunged to her toes. “Nothing.”

Really, nothing. Or, instead of the sheriff on her front porch, it would have been Nick.

Brax
didn’t bother with a coaxing smile. He didn’t bother with a smile at all. “You’re not a good liar.”

Actually, she was. Her best lies were the ones she told herself. Like how she’d only come to Cottonmouth to show Warren that other men still found her sexy. No, she’d come to find her self-worth again, she’d come so that Warren could give it back to her, as if he could. How utterly stupid. She closed her eyes a brief moment, just long enough to squeeze the pain back into its cubby hole.

Successful for the moment, she crossed her arms over her chest and gave him the bare facts. “I made Nick lasagna and a pasta salad. He still refused to let me watch
Buffy
on his cable.”

Brax
accepted that as if it actually made sense. “And you asked me out to dinner”—he spread a hand—“why?”

Because she hated the Cookie Monster. “I wanted to make my husband jealous. He didn’t seem to notice, though.”

For the first time,
Brax’s
face softened. “At least you’re being honest.”

Was she? She waited him out.

He went on. “Good thing I didn’t kiss you out there at the tavern the way I wanted to.”

She should have felt a quick thrill instead of this hollowness. She tried the
eenie-meenie-minie-mo
thing, but that didn’t work either. “Why?”

“I follow one good rule. Never get involved with a woman on the rebound,”
Brax
philosophized.

Gee, was that some sort of male rule? Nick had said virtually the same thing.

“Learned that with my first wife,” he added.

Okay, not philosophy, just first-hand experience. Somehow, that said more about him than anything else. Or maybe it was just her
own
experience coloring everything. “How many have you had?”

“Wives? Just that one.”

She drew a breath, let it out. “It’s a good rule.”

It should also apply to her—translated to—never get involved with a man right after you’ve been dumped. Her arms found their way around her stomach in a tight hug.

He glanced at the gesture, then back to her face. Sympathy, empathy, pity? Too close to the things she’d felt for Nick this morning.

“I came to give you a word of advice.”

“I’m all ears.” If she didn’t start sobbing first.

“Stay away from Nick.”

Oh. She’d been expecting something like her mother would say, like there’s plenty of other fish in the sea. “Because he’s a serial killer?”

He laughed, mostly a humorless grunt. “No. Because he’s got ‘fuck you and the horse you rode in on’ written all over him.” Pause, assess reaction, continue. “If you’ll excuse the language. Maybe you saw that this morning.”

She’d seen Nick’s facade, among other things. “Maybe I saw you blaming him instead of
Jimbo
.”

He wagged his finger at her. “You really don’t know anything about it. There’s history.”

She pursed her lips. “I think I’ve heard all the history.”

“Maybe you have, maybe you haven’t. One thing’s for sure, whatever you’re looking for, he won’t give it to you. Nick doesn’t need anyone, Bobbie. He’s not going to ever need anyone.”

“I’m not one of those women who needs to be needed.” But Roberta was. And Roberta lurked just beneath Bobbie’s skin.

Brax’s
mouth creased in a half smile, and he shook his head without telling her she was full of baloney. He was too much of a gentleman to say it. “He’s actually a pretty good guy. But he’s had some lousy breaks, and he’s not handling them well. Makes him sort of testy even with his friends. Nick’s not a guy that trusts easily anymore.”

Somehow, she didn’t think Nick would like the description. “Is this the history lesson?”

Brax
smiled, for real this time. “Guilty.”

She flipped a hand and covered up every emotion that might have shown on her face. About being needed, about lousy breaks, about wanting to fix the unfixable in other people. “It doesn’t matter. I’m leaving Cottonmouth, packing up my stuff tonight.”

He raised a brow. “What about Mavis and the Cooked Goose?”

A twinge prodded her heart. “I’ll give her notice tomorrow.”

He stared at her for a long time, as if he could see every sharp shard piercing her body. “You know, Bobbie, though we’re
gonna
hate to see you go, maybe it’s the best thing for everyone.”

There was no maybe about it. She’d definitely overstayed her welcome.

* * * * *

The sight of
Brax
on Bobbie’s front stoop still stuck in his craw hours later. But Nick had to admit, he’d acted like an ass. Last night. This morning. Who the hell was he, anyway, thinking he was some sort of truth messenger? He didn’t have the right. He’d regretted the words, all of them, to
Jimbo
, to Bobbie, to
Brax
, the minute he’d left the dinner. That pitying look she’d sent him still curled around his gut.

At this point, the best thing he could do for Bobbie Jones was to leave her alone.

Damn, it was hot in the bedroom. He shoved the sheet down to his waist. Princess was going ballistic over there. Why the hell couldn’t Reggie get out of bed and shut her up? It was twelve-thirty in the morning.

Actually, Reggie wasn’t a bad neighbor. He’d helped rebuild the section of fence between their yards, and he didn’t usually let Princess bark her fool head off in the middle of the night. Reggie was probably in the middle of getting some, that’s all.

Which brought him back to Bobbie. Yeah, go figure that thought pattern. Think sex, automatically think Bobbie.