Free Sinful Southern Ink by S.J. Drum

prey.
    Whispers began, then escalated among the gossiping women. One elbowed another and so on around the circle until the ringleader spoke up. “There she is. That’s her, that’s Abigail Hart, right over there.” She pointed across the street to the post office.
    “Shit.” Jed shouldered his way around the reporter. Abigail looked up and noticed him, giving him a bright smile as he crossed the street toward her.
    She’d reached the bottom of the post office steps when he hopped onto the sidewalk. He must have been close enough to her for her to make out his expression because the smile slipped off her face as if it’d melted in the sun. He stepped in front of her to block her view of the group across the street. She leaned to the side, straining to see around him.
    Jed transferred his overstuffed grocery bag to his right hand and, with his left, spun her around, caged her in next to him with his arm across her back and started guiding her down the street toward his truck.
    “Ashley Dearhart! Miss Dearhart! I’d like a word with you.”
    Abigail froze, turning to stone beneath his touch. The sound of the reporter’s fast-falling footsteps drew nearer as Jed felt Abigail slip further away, though she remained standing next to him.

Chapter Nine
     
    Son of a bitch. This can’t be happening.
    Abigail squeezed her eyes shut, trying to focus on Jed’s solid strength standing protectively beside her but her mind kept zeroing in on the two words she’d hoped to never hear out of a stranger’s mouth. Ashley Dearhart.
    Jed leaned over and pressed his lips against her ear. “You don’t have to deal with this. I’ll keep him occupied while you run to my truck. It’s parked behind the market.”
    His offer was tempting. As usual, she’d left her car in the lot beside the shop a few blocks away. It’d be so easy to let Jed run interference while she fled to safety.
    “Miss Dearhart, I have a few questions I’d like to ask you.” The reporter stood in front of her now, pen and paper in hand.
    A primitive growl emerged from Jed. She’d have to defuse the situation before he ended up spending the night in county lockup for beating the hell out of this persistent reporter.
    Abigail drew in a fortifying breath, fighting against the heart-dropping, stomach-flipping feeling about to consume her. Maybe it was time to stop running. She placed a restraining hand on Jed’s taut stomach. “Don’t. I’ve got this.”
    Apparently sensing her grudging acceptance, the reporter jumped right in. “How did you feel when you learned of your father’s death? I understand he died during a prison riot, killed by another prisoner.”
    She stared at his stupid sports coat—it was about ninety fucking degrees outside—and his tan pants and artfully arranged bedhead hair. “Well, I guess I felt pissed off.”
    The reporter’s bushy brows rose toward his hairline. “You were angry at the other inmate for killing your father?”
    “Hell no. I’m pissed my father got off so easily. He made my life hell for sixteen years, murdered my mother, and then he was handed a get-out-of-jail-free card after only ten years?” She shook her head, hands fisted at her sides. “No, dying was too easy for him. He should’ve suffered for the entire sentence. That’s how I feel about it.”
    The smarmy man’s mouth hung agape and she had the insane urge to tap his chin and knock his jaw closed.
    He seemed to regroup. “Did you ever visit him while he was incarcerated?”
    She snorted. “What the hell do you think?”
    Jed did a restless shuffle and pulled her a little tighter against his side. “We about done here?”
    The reporter flipped through his notepad, scanning words and discarding questions until he came to one which apparently satisfied him. “Do you think your upbringing affected your decision to live an alternative lifestyle?”
    “Alternative lifestyle?”
    He gestured to the shoulder cap tattoos bared by her tank top, the