The One You Can't Forget Page 4

  The guy crouched down next to them and braced his arms on his thighs, revealing colorful tattoos beneath his rolled-up sleeves. He let out a breath. “Okay. Right. The dog first. My brother’s a vet. I’ll try him. Then I’m calling the cops.”

  “Okay.”

  He shifted to his knees and tugged off the black button-down shirt he had on over his T-shirt and handed it to her. “If you can find the wound, put some pressure on it.”

  “Thank you.” She balled up the shirt and peered back down at the dog, watching his flank flutter with rapid breaths. She couldn’t tell exactly where he was shot, but she pressed it near his backside where the blood seemed to be the thickest.

  The man stood, pulled a phone out of his back pocket, and stepped away to make the call.

  Rebecca shifted closer to the dog, gently petting his head as tears rolled down her face. “It’s okay, sweetheart,” she said softly. “We’re going to take care of you. Thank you for saving me. If you can just hold on, you can have all of my chicken.”

  Fifteen minutes later, a work van sped down the street, and her Good Samaritan flagged it down. The van parked at the curb, and a guy hopped out. He was dark-haired and built like a linebacker, but the burnt-orange Texas Longhorns pajama pants made him look much less intimidating than he would’ve otherwise. She didn’t see any familial resemblance to her rescuer—who was taller, leaner, and blonder—but the brother, obviously used to handling emergencies, was calm and efficient as he assessed the situation and the dog. That took the edge off some of her panic.

  After setting up a few things to make the dog as comfortable as possible, the three of them gingerly got the injured animal into the back of the van. Rebecca sat with the dog on the way to the clinic, watching every ragged rise and fall of his breath. She probably should’ve considered that getting into a van with two strangers wasn’t the wisest idea, but no alarm bells had gone off in her head. All she could focus on was getting help for her canine hero. As long as she focused on that, she would be okay. She wouldn’t have to think about how close she’d come to dying.

  Or how she hadn’t fought back—or even tried.

  She closed her eyes.

  She wouldn’t have to think about the small sense of relief she’d felt at the thought that it was finally done. Debt paid.

  * * *

  “What the hell happened?” Marco asked as he stood next to the exam table, applying pressure to the dog’s wound with one gloved hand and pointing to the things he needed Wes to grab with the other.

  Wes had left the woman in the lobby of the animal clinic with the cops and paramedics. Meanwhile, he’d become his brother’s makeshift assistant. He handed Marco the items and tried not to look at the injured animal. He could deal with blood, but ever since his birth father had demonstrated his vicious method of getting rid of a neighbor’s nosy cat when Wes was eight, animals in pain made his stomach twist. How Marco dealt with this stuff every day, he’d never know. Of course, Marco would probably say the same thing about Wes dealing with delinquent teenagers.

  “I didn’t see all of it,” Wes said. “I was too far away, and it was dark. At first, I thought it was people horsing around after leaving a bar because she wasn’t screaming or struggling or anything. But then the dog came out of nowhere and attacked. I ran over there to help and didn’t realize it was a robbery until I heard the shot and saw one of the guys running off with her purse. I thought she was the one who’d been shot. Scared the hell out of me.”

  Marco glanced up, concern flickering through his eyes. “You both got lucky then. You could’ve gotten shot running up blind on that kind of situation.”

  Wes crossed his arms, daring his brother to say he should’ve stayed out of it and just called the police. That was probably what Marco would’ve done. Think first. Act second. Wes had heard that particular lecture enough times. Screw that. Not in this case. “She needed help.”

  Marco glanced toward the lobby door, even though they couldn’t see what was happening on the other side. “Well, I’m glad she’s okay and that you didn’t get yourself killed. Someone who’s willing to shoot a dog probably wouldn’t hesitate to shoot a person.”

  “I don’t know,” Wes said with a frown. “I didn’t get a good look at the guys, but she thinks they were pretty young. Maybe they didn’t plan to use the gun, but the guy reacted to being bitten. The dog was like Cujo.”

  Marco lifted a brow. “So you’re defending the attackers now?”

  Wes didn’t bother answering that. Mr. Do-the-Right-Thing wouldn’t understand. Once upon a time, Wes had been one of those kids. Now he taught those kids.

  Wes peeked at what Marco was doing but then grimaced at the sight of the matted fur. “Is he going to be okay?”

  Marco’s brown eyes narrowed, focused on the intricate work. “They got him in the hind leg and he’s lost a lot of blood, but I think he’ll be all right. At least for now.”

  “What do you mean?”

  A line appeared between his brows. “This guy’s got to be a stray, so I don’t know exactly what we’re dealing with. If he’s rabid or violent, he’s not going to last long anyway. The shelter will have to put him down. He attacked someone.”

  Wes frowned. “He was defending someone. They should give him a damn medal and some steak.”

  Marco gave him that wary, big brother look that said he was about to deliver news Wes wouldn’t like. “She’s not his owner. It’d be odd for a normally docile dog to defend a stranger. Chances are high that he’s got issues.”

  “Because he’s a stray.”

  “Yes.”

  Wes scoffed. He knew what being a stray was like and couldn’t deny the charge. Marco’s parents—technically Wes’s aunt and uncle—had taken Wes in at age fifteen when his parents had gone to prison. Carolina and Ed had treated Wes like their own, but he’d brought a truckload of drama with him. “Well, I hope this dog isn’t really Cujo. The woman out there has had enough bad news tonight. She was more upset about the dog than the fact that she’d just been attacked and robbed.”

  “She was probably in shock. And you don’t have to say anything yet. Let her finish talking to the cops and getting patched up by the paramedics. Then, you can give her my number if she wants to check on the dog tomorrow. No need to upset her more right now. Our friend here is going to be staying for a while and will be asleep for hours anyway.” Marco concentrated on the dog, preparing him for whatever it was going to take to get a bullet out and sew him back up. “We’ll figure out what we’re dealing with when he wakes up.”

  Wes’s stomach turned as his brother went to work. He looked away and concentrated on a poster about the life cycle of a heartworm. “I think I should probably go out—”

  “What were you doing out that late in that part of town anyway?” his brother asked. “You’re not picking up kitchen shifts, are you? Because I told you if you need money—”

  Wes’s jaw flexed. He knew it was because Marco cared and worried, but feeling babysat all the time drove him up the fucking wall.

  “I don’t need money,” he said, not mentioning the loan he’d inquired about. The one that had earned him that patient, condescending look from the banker. Mr. Garrett, with your credit and history, I’m sure you understand our position… “I was just helping Suzie with a private catering gig she was doing. She had someone no-show and was in a bind.”

  “Suzie? The one with the crazy hair?” Marco looked up, deep lines appearing around his mouth. “Wes, you know that environment and the people in it are no good for your sobriety. That whole scene is—”

  “It wasn’t a big thing, all right? Nothing bad happened.”

  Except that he’d left feeling humiliated and frustrated as hell. He’d been more than a little tempted to step into one of the bars that he’d passed on his way home. He couldn’t stop thinking about how many gigs like that one he’d h
ave to pull off to get anywhere close to buying a food truck. He’d ended up taking a turn onto a quiet street, one block away from the hopping nightlife and the neighborhood where he’d once owned a restaurant, trying to talk himself out of having a drink and saying fuck it all. He’d been losing the argument.

  Then he’d heard the dog.

  “Wesley, you need—”

  “How is he?” The worried feminine voice came from behind Wes, saving him from another lecture he didn’t need or want to hear. He’d heard more than enough about setting yourself up for success (Ed) and not returning to enabling or high-stress environments (Marco) and staying away from temptation (Carolina) to last him a damn lifetime.

  He’d like to shout that he wasn’t that weak and could handle it. But tonight, he’d be lying because he’d felt that thirsting beast pushing at the door of his willpower. Maybe the dog had saved more than one person tonight.

  Wes turned. The redhead, whose name he hadn’t managed to get yet, had pushed through the swinging door that led to the front office. This was the first time he’d seen her in the full light. Her clothes were stained with dried blood, her gray pants were ripped at one knee, and her elbows were bandaged. But she’d washed her face clean of her streaked makeup and had pulled her hair back. Her blue eyes looked wide, concerned…and vaguely familiar.

  Wes frowned.

  “The bullet hit his leg,” Marco said from behind him. “I think he’ll be okay. I’m going to patch him up and keep him here for observation.”

  “The leg.” A strange look crossed the woman’s face. “That’s…good news.”

  Wes couldn’t stop staring at her. She was easy to look at, pretty in a girl-next-door way with faint freckles across her nose, but he couldn’t shake the feeling that he knew her from somewhere, which didn’t make sense. The circles he ran in now were small and limited to teachers and restaurant people. This woman had high-powered executive written all over her.

  “Wes,” Marco said. “Why don’t you show…”

  “Rebecca,” the woman filled in.

  “Rebecca to the back room. I have extra sets of staff scrubs in there. She can change into some clean clothes.”

  Rebecca. Rebecca. Rebecca. The name wasn’t ringing any bells.

  Finally, she turned, as if just noticing Wes was there, too. She stepped forward and put her hand out formally. “Thank you for intervening. A lot of people wouldn’t have jumped in and tried to help like that.”

  He took her hand, surprised by the firm shake but liking the up-close view of her. Pale lashes, a full bottom lip, and bright-blue, serious eyes. “Not a problem.”

  Her gaze skimmed over him, and then she met his stare, holding the eye contact for longer than was polite. Awareness filtered through him as the hint of a blush appeared beneath her fair skin. Well, then. She was checking him out right back.

  And unlike the women ogling him earlier in the night, this attention hit him square and twisted something old and rusty inside him. He liked her looking at him that way, which was an odd, almost outside-himself feeling. But there was something stripped down and honest about the way she stared, like it’d caught her off guard and she wasn’t sure how to act.

  “If you want to get changed, I can drive you home,” he said, his voice coming out gruffer than he’d intended. “Unless you have someone picking you up?”

  She let go of his hand quickly, like she realized she’d held on to it a fraction too long. “I haven’t called anyone yet. They stole my phone, and I don’t have the numbers memorized.”

  “I don’t mind giving you a ride.” He glanced at his brother. “I’m sure Marco will work quicker without us in here staring at him.”

  “The van keys are on the desk,” Marco offered. “I’m all good here. Rebecca, you can call tomorrow and check on our patient if you’d like. We’re under Garrett Veterinary online if you need the number, or you can grab a card from the front counter.”

  Her attention jerked to Marco. “Garrett?”

  “Yep.”

  She stepped back, her gaze darting to Wes. All interest that had been there was gone, as if he’d only imagined it. It was like a bucket of ice water dumping over his head. “I appreciate the offer, but if you let me know where the scrubs are, I can change and call a cab. It’s late. There’s no need to have to double back to return the van.” She glanced at Marco. “And thank you so much for doing this. I’ll definitely call tomorrow to check on him. Whatever the treatment costs, I’ll pay.”

  Marco waved her off. “No payment needed. I work a few charity cases into the budget every year.”

  She gave Marco a smile with genuine warmth, and Wes found himself disappointed that she was no longer directing that kind of energy his way. Had something happened? He’d barely talked, so he couldn’t have offended her. He wasn’t quite that skilled at chasing people off.

  He cleared his throat, trying to shake the feeling. What did it matter what she thought of him? It wasn’t like he was in the market to ask someone out. He didn’t do that anymore. “It’s really not a problem to drive you. You’ll be waiting forever for a cab in this part of town. Plus, they took your purse. How are you going to pay for the cab?”

  “I…” She glanced at the clock above the exam room door, and her shoulders sagged. “Yeah, okay. Thanks.”

  Marco told her where to find the scrubs, and she pushed her way through the swinging doors again to find them, leaving the two men behind.

  Wes watched her go, frowning, some weird, creeping sense of unease filling him.

  “Did she look familiar to you?” Wes asked his brother.

  “No. Why?”

  Wes shook his head. “I’ve got the strangest sense that I’ve met her before.”

  “Is that why you were staring at her like she held the answers to the universe?”

  He turned to Marco. “What?”

  His brother smirked. “You were about to go into full Wes Garrett charm-the-lady mode. I’d almost forgotten what that looked like.” He switched out whatever tool he was using for something else. “Good to see that side of you still exists, but I’m glad you didn’t go there. Not the time or place. She doesn’t need some guy hitting on her tonight.”

  Wes scowled. “I wasn’t going to hit on her. I just thought I recognized her.”

  “Uh-huh,” his brother said. “You were trying to recognize her really hard. She’s probably just someone you’ve served in a restaurant once upon a time or something.”

  Wes blew out a breath. “Yeah, probably.”

  Marco frowned down at the dog like he didn’t like what he saw. “Just get her home safely. She’s had one hell of a night.”

  “Right.”

  “And Wes?” his brother said, looking up.

  Wes ran a hand over the back of his head, knowing what was coming. “Get it off your chest, man. I can feel the lecture coming.”

  A sympathetic look crossed Marco’s face. “No lecture. Just…don’t torture yourself.”

  “I—”

  “Walking in the neighborhood where your restaurant used to be will never lead to anything good. You have to let it go, man. All of that old life. Looking back is a trap. You’ll fall into a manhole or crash into a wall you never saw coming. Enjoy what you have now.”

  Wes ground his teeth as cold, sick grief clawed at his insides.

  Enjoy what he had now.

  A life he didn’t ask for.

  A job he’d fallen into.

  A destroyed marriage.

  And not a drop to drink forever and ever, amen.

  “Yep, Marco. You’re right. I’m living the dream.”

  Marco frowned, but Wes was done. He didn’t want to hear it. Don’t look back. Move forward. But what if every stride felt like one on an endless treadmill where one misstep would send him flying backward onto his ass?

&
nbsp; His legs were getting damn tired.

  chapter

  FOUR

  Rebecca sat stiffly in the front seat, keeping her eyes forward and counting the street signs as they passed, trying to keep her mind focused on numbers instead of…everything else. It was an old trick she’d picked up in a therapy group she attended in high school. When she got too overwhelmed or anxious, she counted, or conjugated verbs, or recited the capitals of all the states. Seven street signs. Three stoplights. Ten trash cans.

  She didn’t want to think about what had happened tonight.

  Three taco restaurants.

  Or how she’d reacted. How the fight had gone out of her.

  Two drugstores.

  She didn’t want to think about injured dogs and blood—or how for a moment she hadn’t been able to tell the present from the past, reality from the ghosts.

  Two men.

  One gun.

  She closed her eyes.

  To top it off, she really didn’t want to think about the man sitting next to her. When he’d first taken her hand in the clinic, she’d had a spark of Hello, sailor that was one hundred percent inappropriate considering the circumstances. Her body had flushed, her gaze had drifted where it shouldn’t, and her belly had gone tight at the view. She’d blamed the feeling on the high-stress night and him coming to her rescue—well, and the guy was exceptionally easy to look at. But then she’d heard his last name, and all those sparks had been snuffed out with one swift gust.

  Wesley Garrett.

  He didn’t recognize her yet. Last time he’d seen her, she’d been going through an unfortunate phase where she had thought a Michelle Williams pixie haircut and bleach job were good ideas. But when he did put the pieces together, he wasn’t going to be happy about it. He’d been part of one of her cases from a few years ago, one of her first victories at the firm. And he’d been on the other side of the table: the cheating husband. One with a fiery temper and a bad attitude, based on his antics in court.

  Now she was alone in a van with him. She didn’t think he was a threat to her. He had come to her rescue tonight and helped her save the dog, but she needed him not to remember her or the fact that she’d helped his ex-wife get a hefty settlement. She didn’t have the energy for anything else tonight.