Last Second Chance (4 page)

The Hispanic doctor had said that he could let them know if he needed anything. He almost told the man that they could just lock him in his room with the brunette with the skin like silk for ninety days and he’d be cured.

Even after she’d turned to leave with the man in the white coat, he couldn’t tear his eyes from her. There was something about the way she moved that was beyond sexy. She walked with a deliberate slowness that had her hips swaying with a hypnotic rhythm that probably had men falling at her feet. Just like he had.

“Let’s go,
Mr. Walker
,” Sid said, nudging him out of his daze.

A
fter unloading his shit in his room, he decided to walk around the property. The place was huge, and it did have a relaxing vibe to it—minus the sex on legs he’d literally run into upon arriving. She’d amped him up more than all the lines he’d ever done combined.

The folder she’d dropped had NEW EMPLOYEE ORIENTATION PACKET typed on the front cover. So she worked here then—or she would soon.

He knew it probably would not please Epitaph if he screwed a staff member and got kicked out of this place. But damn, he couldn’t get her eyes and her warm vanilla and wildflower scent out of his head. And those legs. Why, oh why, had she been wearing fuck-me heels? It was as if she’d been sent here to torture him.

As if to confirm his theory, when he turned the bend to where the property dropped off into the pastures, there she was. Sitting with her back to him, watching the sun set like a mirage. The orangey-pink hue of the setting sunlight glinted off her body creating an angelic effect that stole his breath.

Backing up so she wouldn’t see him, he stood silently and watched her. She’d changed into jeans and a plain white tank top. Seeing this much of her skin was doing things to him. For the first time in a very long time, he wondered what a woman was thinking.

What had her sitting here all alone, watching the horses graze as the light faded from the sky? Was she happy? Sad? Nervous about the new job? And why the hell did he even care?

He didn’t have a clue what his deal was, but he wished he had a pen because he could write a song about this moment. Maybe a couple of songs. The kind that would make every guy in the band call him a pussy.

When he saw her shoulders shake and heard the light sniffle, he almost turned and ran. She was crying.

Son of a bitch.

Once upon a time, he’d had a sister. She was three years older than him and for the life of him, her crying had always been his undoing. Sure, he’d seen women cry since then. But these were usually high bitches having a bad trip or begging him to pay attention to their crazy asses. Those he’d ignored easily. But his sister had always cried in private, when she thought no one could see or hear. Like this woman was doing.

His brain alerted him that it was time to bail out and go back to his room. Like
now
. But his body didn’t listen. In a few strides, he’d lessened the gap between them. When he cleared his throat, she jumped. As she struggled to her feet, he reached out a hand without thinking. Then the damnedest thing happened. She took it.

Pulling herself up with his help, she looked into his eyes. And it was just like before. Something he hadn’t known existed inside of him roared to the surface. Something that demanded he try to be a decent man—hell, a
good
man. Because the guy he’d been so far wasn’t worthy of speaking to her, much less any of the other things he wanted to do to her.

Shit, he was gripping her hand too hard and for too long.

Let go, man.

But she didn’t look upset. She looked like she was about to throw herself into his arms. Well, he was certainly not opposed to that. Even though the thought of actually touching her that way scared him shitless. Most likely, this was wishful thinking and in reality she was seconds away from telling him to get the hell away from her before she called security. His breath came hard and fast, and she looked as lost as he was. Tears glistened in her eyes, and he finally let go of her hand to wipe one from her cheek.

“Rough day?” he asked, surprised at the strained sound of his own voice.

She smiled, but it was forced. He could tell because it didn’t reach her eyes. “Something like that.”

Her tears were still moist on his fingertips. He had the oddest urge to lick them. Taste her sweet pain and then try to figure out how to keep her from ever hurting again.

“I should get back,” he said, jerking his head toward the facility that separated pieces of shit like him from angels like her. Something flashed in her eyes. He thought for a second it was disappointment, because he was obviously so bad-off he was delusional. Maybe he should be in the nut house instead of rehab.

“Yeah, um, me too.” She glanced at the small cabin to her left. Must be where she was staying for now. Van filed that information away for future reference. Trying to form a complete thought while her exposed skin begged to be touched was proving damn near impossible.

“Walk you to your door?” Van flinched at his own words. Apparently his mouth was just working on its own now, flying solo instead of consulting his brain first. It must’ve been the right thing to say though, because her eyes lightened, the stormy shade they’d been clearing, and she grinned at him like he’d made her whole damned day. She didn’t say anything, just bit her full bottom lip and nodded. He held out his arm and she took it. A breeze blew past, wafting her delicious scent to him as they made their way to her door. Together.

Oh fuck.

It all made sense now. He was dead. He’d OD’d and died after the party and this was Heaven. Or maybe it was Hell. Because as far as he could tell, Val wasn’t here. He was probably going to spend eternity wanting this perfect creature he could never have. Well, that was a fitting punishment. Probably could’ve been worse.

“Your name isn’t really Walker, is it?” the demon of desire asked, pulling him from his painful realization.

“No. It’s Ransom.”
Guess they don’t have a roster in hell.
“I’m in a band and my manager makes me check into these places under a pseudonym. Not that the shit doesn’t always get out anyways.”

“Ah. So why Walker?”

Van laughed, low and deep. “You know, as in Johnnie. It’s my drink of choice so I use it to piss Sid off.”

“Sid?”

“My manager.”

She nodded, but her beautiful face still held traces of confusion. Good Lord she was actually trying to figure him out. He couldn’t imagine why in the world she would want to.

He ran a hand through his hair and tried to explain. “We have an understanding. He tries to turn me into someone I’m not and I keep being the asshole I’ve always been.”

“Interesting.”

“Nah, not really.”

She took a deep breath, probably realizing she’d just wasted five minutes of her life that she could never get back on his sorry ass. “So, Mr. Ransom, can I ask you something?”

“Shoot.”

“Do you think everyone deserves a second chance?” Her eyes clouded up again and he didn’t know if she was asking about him personally or something else entirely.

Glancing from side to side, to remind her of their surroundings, he gave her a sardonic grin. “I’m here, aren’t I?”

She laughed, a light, sweet sound that warmed him in a way he’d never experienced before. “Yeah, good point. Stupid question I guess.”

“You don’t strike me as a woman who asks stupid questions.”

She met his gaze and shrugged, drawing his attention to her smooth shoulder. He clamped his mouth shut so he didn’t add that she struck him as the type of woman who kept everything under control in her day-to-day life and pretended she liked to be on top when in reality she wanted to be broken and made to beg. He had to take a deep breath in an attempt to clear the images from his mind.

“Speaking of questions, any chance you wanna tell me your name? Or I can just call you Beautiful. Either way.” He almost groaned out loud. But she rolled her eyes and smiled. She’d been crying when he found her, and he’d made her laugh and smile. Twice. Not that he was keeping track. Oh, who the fuck was he kidding? Hell yeah he was keeping track.

“It’s Stella. Stella Chandler. My family calls me Stella Jo but, um, I haven’t been home in a while.”

Even her damn name was beautiful. And good God, that sexy Southern drawl was more addicting than any drug had ever been. He could listen to her talk forever. Maybe Hell wouldn’t be so bad after all.

“And where is home, Stella Jo Chandler?” He rocked on his heels as she leaned against the door of her little house.

“It’s here. I mean, not
here
here, but near here. Shit.”

She shook her head, and he could tell she was embarrassed. But he couldn’t think of much else because her perfect mouth forming the curse word and the flush in her cheeks that followed made him instantly hard. Jesus, he had to get away from her before she noticed.

“A ranch several hours north of here is home, or where my parents live, or whatever. I went to college at Texas A&M and then came straight here so…”

So she only lived a few hours from home and she didn’t go back. Ever? He wondered why. Not that he didn’t understand. He’d grown up in New York and taken off for LA as soon as he could afford a car that would make the drive. He’d never been back either.

Silence stretched out between them, and she glanced back at her door. It was getting dark and he didn’t know the land well enough to get back to where he was supposed to be. Even though leaving her felt like a horrible idea, something told him that whatever was singeing between them wouldn’t last much longer.

“I better get going. It was nice to meet you, Stella Jo.”

He held out a hand and she shook it. When her fingers grazed his palm, he had to square his shoulders to keep from letting a shiver through. “Nice to meet you too, Mr. Walker, um, Mr. Ransom.”

“Van,” he told her with a grin.

“Van,” she repeated softly.

Damn, his name sounded so good in her mouth. Nearly made him as hard as hearing her curse had.

“Goodnight.”
Beautiful,
he wanted to add but figured it would come off like a lame attempt at a pick-up line and he’d already reached his quota for the evening.

“Goodnight,” she whispered. She smiled and turned her back on him, letting herself into the house and closing the door.

“Sweet dreams, Beautiful,” he said quietly to no one.

S
tella Jo closed her door and leaned against it.

Van Ransom. His name sounded as dangerous as he looked.

He’d caught her in a moment of weakness, reminiscing about home after an excruciating phone call with her mother. And unlike most men, he hadn’t run at the first show of tears. He’d been sweet. Surprisingly gentle. Kind even. And something about him… She couldn’t even explain it to herself. His rough exterior pulled at overpowering urges within her. She’d bet she could smooth out some of those jagged edges. It’d probably be a lot like breaking a horse. But a hell of a lot more fun.

Lying in her new bed later that night while trying her best to fall asleep in unfamiliar surroundings, she succumbed to the desire to learn more about the mysterious man who had taken possession of her thoughts. He’d seemed to have a direct line to her thoughts—and a few other parts of her anatomy.

The new employee manual she’d been reading was sitting on the night table, and under it was the MacBook she’d brought from college. Thankfully the ranch had Wi-Fi that extended to the employee residential area.

Sitting up and turning on the bedside lamp, she fired up the computer. Her generic background greeted her. A nagging thought about how Tess always had a million photos of her friends collaged on her background tugged at her for a second. Ignoring it, she opened the browser and went to her usual search engine. After typing in his name, she waited for the results to load. Mid-yawn she choked on the breath escaping her throat.

The results were in and they were not good. The first article’s title read, “Lead Singer of Hostage for Ransom Collapses. Drugs and Alcohol a Factor.” Okay, well, he was in rehab. She’d expected as much. But as she scrolled down it got worse. So much worse.

According to the headlines, Van Ransom had been in rehab three other times. All three times, he’d been kicked out for one reason or another. He’d punched orderlies and photographers, and he’d even faced assault charges against an unnamed female.
Jesus.