Free Crazy Love by Tara Janzen

he hadn’t pulled the trigger either time. Anders Bang, a godforsaken, brutally twisted, alcoholic meth freak, was still alive on the streets of Denver, which was more than he deserved for breaking a whiskey bottle on his daughter’s face. It hadn’t been the first time her father had hurt her, but it had been the last. Hawkins had seen to it.
    Dylan, of course, had been someplace else when it all happened.
Christ.
He was always someplace else.
    Except today.
    Today, he was sitting next to her, and she wanted something from him badly enough to threaten him.
    “I’m the one who taught Hawkins the Butterfly Sting,” he said. “I’m also the one who taught him the countermove.”
    “You’re not going to counter me,” she said, sounding awfully sure of herself.
    With good reason, he had to admit.
    “No. I’m not.” The countermove was a vicious strike, and the last thing in the world he wanted was to hurt her, ever, in any way.
    “So you’re at my mercy.” The devilish light in her eyes tipped the corners of her mouth, and he started to get that whole “galvanized” feeling in his balls again.
    Geezus.
He really needed to deal with this.
    “Yes,” he answered, lifting his hips off the seat enough to reach into his pocket. He had to give her something, and it might as well be something useful.
    He pulled out the stainless steel case and popped it open, revealing the line of Syrettes nested inside.
    Her smile instantly disappeared.
    Removing her hand from his neck, she sat back in her seat.
    “Superman isn’t going to like this,” she said.
    “No,” he agreed. He didn’t like it, either, but that didn’t change the facts. “I ran into a few pharmaceuticals in Indonesia, or rather, they ran into me. There might be delayed reactions attached to a couple of them. What I’ll need from you, if I need anything, will be help with the yellow Syrette. If I go down, mainline it. Hit a vein.”
    She reached out and touched the case, then pulled her hand back, her gaze locking on to his.
    “You should be in a hospital.”
    “I was, on the U.S.S.
Jefferson.
”
    “And you left? With this hanging over your head?” she asked incredulously. “Why?”
    You.
    Sitting next to her, looking at her, being close enough to breathe her in, the answer was suddenly so stark and clear in his head. With time running out and the future looking so goddamn unreliable, he’d left the
Jefferson
for only one reason—to get home to her.
    To see her again.
    Fuck.
He was in so far over his head here. She didn’t make sense, in any way, in any part of his life, but it was no accident she was on the plane to Washington, D.C., with him. For all his bitching and moaning and the crap he’d dished out last night, he wouldn’t have left Denver without her—not on a bet. No way. He hadn’t come halfway around the world to spend what might be the last two days of his life without her. He could have stayed in Indonesia for that.
    So here he was, running at about half speed, his head a little fucked up, his nerves shredding, dragging her with him into what should be a cakewalk but, given the way his luck had been running lately, probably wasn’t going to be.
    “Did you requisition a sidearm for each of us before we left?” he asked, putting the case back in his pocket and ignoring her question. Wanting to be with her, taking her with him, and keeping her by his side did not require a full-out confession of his ulterior motives. They were together. It was enough. He’d save the declaration of undying love until the last—if it came to that.
    “Yes,” she said after a long moment, during which he could tell she was deciding just how far to push him. Fortunately, she chose the not-very-far route, at least for now. “I personally called in an equipment list to General Grant’s office. Our gear will be at the hotel when we get there, along with a car.”
    “Good.” He went back to his newspaper.
    “What is the red Syrette for?”