Can't Hardly Breathe (The Original Heartbreakers #4)

“Speaking of sweet little Ryanne Wade.” Brock stroked his fingers over his jaw, the picture of curiosity. “What’s the story on her?”

Daniel had known the man would make a play for her, despite a lack of chemistry. She was his type. Street-smart and hardened by life. The fact that she could mix his favorite drinks didn’t hurt.

“Type” doesn’t mean shit if what you want isn’t what you need.

He rubbed his temple to shut his brain up.

Virgil brightened like a lamp with a new bulb. “You just dilled my pickle. You take a shine to our Ryanne? She’s got the voice of a cigar-smoking, whiskey-chugging angel, that one. She’s single, and I think that’s the way she likes it, so it’s gonna take a special man to break through her walls.”

“Or dynamite.” Brock winked. “I’m very good with dynamite.”

“Good, good,” Virgil said. “We can host the wedding right here in my backyard. And since that sweet little girl ain’t got no daddy to call her own, I’ll be happy to walk her down the aisle.”

Brock flinched as if he’d just taken a punch to the gut. “Wedding?”

“Of course. That is the natural progression of a relationship, is it not?”

Welcome to my world, Daniel wanted to tell his friend. Instead, he threw the guy a life raft, saying, “Brock isn’t looking to get married, Dad. Neither am I.”

If he were a better son, he’d do it. Marry a hometown girl and settle down. But a sham marriage wasn’t the answer to his dad’s happiness. Or Daniel’s. He would still battle PTSD. Maybe on a larger scale. No challenge, no distraction.

And what if the wifey poo decided to divorce him? Virgil’s heart would break once and for all. Even worse, what if the wife died unexpectedly?

People died every day.

“You sure you don’t want to wed Dorothea Mathis?” his dad asked. “Your eyes light up every time I mention her name.”

“They do not.”

“Dorothea Mathis, Dorothea Mathis, Dorothea Mathis.”

Okay, maybe they did.

He scrubbed a hand down his face, hiding his eyes until he was sure they were as dull as a rusty tin can. “I’m doing security for the inn. I’m even working reception until she hires someone to replace Holly.” Again, all true. “Thea and I, we’re...friends.” The word tasted foul on his tongue. “But you have my word, the next time I see her at the Scratching Post, I’ll pick her up and carry her out fireman-style.” Eventually.

Virgil heaved a heavy sigh of disappointment. “You’re a good boy, Danny, and I love you.”

A stab of guilt, straight through the heart. Never wanted to disappoint this man. “I love you, too.” And maybe Thea was right. Maybe they were better off as friends.

Every cell in his body screamed in protest. Crave her. Must have her.

Yeah, but then what?

“All right, boys. This old body needs some rest. You young’uns make sure you keep it down, now, you hear?” Virgil patted Daniel’s cheek before padding off.

Princess struggled for her freedom. Daniel set her down and strode to the kitchen to fix a midnight snack. His friends followed him, the dog at their heels, and gathered around the table.

“You want a critique of your performance tonight?” Brock asked him.

“No, thanks.” He spread a little mayo over two slices of bread and slapped slices of turkey in the middle. “I’m good.”

“Too bad. At first I thought your caveman approach might just be the golden ticket. Then, when you realized you were floundering, you went with stalker-clingy.” Brock gave him a thumbs-down. “I was embarrassed for you.”

Wonderful. “Thea wants me to teach her how to flirt with other men. In fact, she has a date on Saturday and Sunday. With two different guys.”

“Count your blessings. You’re better off alone.” Jude opened a bag of sausage-and-gravy-flavored potato chips. “A solitary life is underrated.”

Brock spread his arms wide. “Dude. Your cynicism is showing and it’s ugly as hell.”

“We can’t all be beauties,” Jude replied, tapping his cheeks.

With a sigh, Brock focused on Daniel. “Give me names, and by tomorrow afternoon the other dates won’t be a problem.”

Jude popped a chip in his mouth, chewed and swallowed. “Your inner serial killer is showing.”

“And he’s one of those beauties you mentioned, I know,” Brock said.

Daniel polished off his sandwich. “You guys staying here tonight?”

“Nah. I’m going back to the Scratching Post,” Brock said. “Got dates of my own.”

He’d already slept with the two women he’d had on his arms when Daniel first arrived. He’d escorted the pair to the bathroom and returned fifteen minutes later with his clothes askew, lipstick on his neck.

“I’ll go with you,” Jude said, surprising both his friends. He usually avoided bars. Only ever showed up when Brock called for a ride. “I’ll be your on-site DD.”

“You should come with us.” Brock waved a finger in front of Daniel’s face. “I don’t like what I’m seeing here. Bruises under the eyes, lines of tension around the mouth.”

“Nothing a few beauty z’s can’t fix.” If he were normal. But he had no desire to return to the scene of Thea’s crime against his masculinity. No desire to pick up another woman, either.

Jude stood and pulled Brock to his feet. “Leave the man alone. He probably wants to stroke his ego in private.”

Brock chortled.

“You guys suck,” he called as they strode from the kitchen.

Not liking the sudden silence, Daniel carried Princess outside. He was tired—hell, he was always tired—but he wasn’t ready to dream.

While the dog played on the porch, the area spotlighted by a single bulb, he worked out. He kept his hands and arms rough and tough, spending a good, solid hour honing his ability to strike. Fingers, knuckles, forearms. He threw each against a tree over and over again. The bark scraped his skin, preventing him from getting too soft now that overseas missions weren’t happening on the reg. Or at all. He also used a dagger, knowing that maintaining his dexterity was important. Strength could carry you. Weakness would always fail you.

When he finished, he closed himself and Princess in his bedroom. A small space with a full bed, a dresser he’d built in shop class and, his pride and joy, a nightstand he and his mother had painted together.

He showered, which only made his desire for Thea flare. After his last stay at the inn, he’d brought home one of the soaps. Now he had the scent of her all over him, exactly where he wanted it. But it wasn’t enough.

Like a puss, he sat down on his bed and flipped through his yearbooks, searching for pictures of Thea. While other kids were captured playing football and other sports, swinging on the monkey bars and doing cartwheels, she only ever stood on the sidelines. Her eyes, which had been far too big for her face back then, radiated sadness and longing.

Had anyone ever invited her to join the fun? He damn sure hadn’t, and he was suddenly and deeply ashamed.