A second later, Beck had her wrapped in his arms, his callused hands meeting the bare skin of her back, offering the comfort she'd so desperately craved. Her tears came more freely, but this time they sprang from relief. He was here, and he was with her.
"I'm so sorry I wasn't here when you woke up, love." He tied her gown closed at her waist, while still allowing a slit for his hand. "Dr. Lowe told us you'd come out of the coma but that the sedatives in your system wouldn't wear off for another few hours, giving us plenty of time to finish our errands before you actually woke up. But here you are, alive and well." In his eyes, unadulterated relief mixed with elation.
"I didn't want to believe you'd left me, that the fear of losing me was too much." Her voice was small, needy, but she didn't care. Trust and share.
"I will never leave you, love. Never." He drew back only far enough to cup her cheeks. "You are everything to me. I just had to run a a few errands."
"We all love you, Harlow," Brook Lynn said. "You're one of us, and we will always be here for you."
"You're our whiskey sister." Jessie Kay fist-pumped the sky. "Whiskey sisters, unite!"
She smiled at them, the girls who'd forgiven and accepted her and the guys who'd welcomed her with open arms. But her smile faded as she studied their formal attire. Tuxes on the men, glittering gowns on the women.
Even Beck wore a tux, looking sexy and almost too beautiful to touch. "Why are you so dressed up?"
"For a party," Beck said.
"Okay, you guys." The nurse clapped her hands to ensure she had everyone's attention. "This is sweet and all, but I've got to put a stop to it. Miss Glass needs to be in bed."
"Then let's put her in bed." Beck scooped her up, while West followed them, the IV pole in hand.
Harlow leaned her head against the strong shoulder she'd come to rely on. In her room, Beck gently laid her on the gurney and tucked the blanket around her legs. She would have pulled him beside her, but the nurse hooked a monitor to her chest before leaving.
"What party?" Harlow asked when the woman left, picking up the conversation as if there'd never been a lull. "Why did you leave? What errands did you have? And just so we're being open and honest with each other, whatever you say, I'm not going to think it's good enough."
His lips twitched at the corners. "Thank you for being open and honest."
"Welcome. Now answer me, please."
He brushed his knuckles over her jaw, the caress tender and reverent. "Since you fell ill, I've had to do some soul-searching about what I really want for my future."
Her heart monitor sped up, the fast beep embarrassing.
"Without you, my future would be bleak. Harlow Glass," he said, dropping to one knee and holding out a ring box. Inside glittered the biggest diamond she'd ever seen. "Will you marry me?"
Shock played havoc with her reasoning. "Excuse me?"
"I want to marry you, and I want to start a family with you. I want as many little Harlows as I can get. I want you to be my painter slash trophy wife. I want to take care of you, and to be taken care of by you. I want to share the farmhouse with you, and only ever cook my famous breakfast for you. I want to go to sleep with you every night and wake up to you every morning, and tug you into the shower anytime during the day."
"But...but..." This was more than she'd ever dreamed possible, her every wish coming true right before her eyes. "The cage..."
"You didn't cage me, love. You set me free." He slid the ring onto her finger. "The party is for you, to celebrate your precious life...and our engagement--if you'll have me."
She placed her hand over her racing heart, the diamond glinting in the light. "Beck."
"Say yes. Tell me we can do a small ceremony as soon as possible, finally make you mine legally, then do a big one later on. I'm not sure how much longer I can go without knowing you are lawfully bound to me."
"Beck," she said again, tremors sweeping through her.
"I love you, Harlow. Every part of me loves every part of you. There is nothing I won't do for you, and nothing I won't do to keep you. You're it for me. My one. My only. And it would be an honor--a privilege--to be the man you choose to spend your precious life with. To create a family with you. To watch your belly grow big with my child. To be what you need and what you want. Now and always."
Tears of joy filled her eyes. But he wasn't done.
"I won't allow fear to lead me anymore. I won't push you away, won't let you push me away. I am happy now, and I see happiness in the future. I'm holding on tight to you, baby, and I'm never letting go. I'm crazy, sick, devastatingly in love with you, and I'm sorry if I'm coming on too strong right now, but no, that's not true. I'm not really sorry. You're mine, and I'm yours. Our issues can go to hell where they belong. You and I, we belong together."
Jessie Kay opened the door a crack and stuck her head inside the room. "Say yes already. Listening from the hallway is harder than you'd think."
"And don't forget," Beck added. "If you say yes, you'll get to live in the farmhouse again. You can paint murals on every single wall. In fact, I'll insist on it."
As if Harlow needed more encouragement. This man owned her, and had from the beginning. "Yes," she said with a laugh. "Yes."
The others spilled into the room, cheering. Beck kissed Harlow right on the mouth, not seeming to care that she'd been in a coma and hadn't brushed her teeth since. He didn't seem to care about anything but her, because he treasured her, and he planned to spend the rest of his life cherishing her.
The way she would cherish him, through the ups and through the downs. "Just so you know," she said, "this is a big change. A true life-altering one."
"Love, as long as your feelings for me stay the same, everything else is inconsequential."
She gripped the collar of his jacket. "My feelings aren't something you ever have to worry about. I love you so much. You are and always will be more than enough for me."
"Not even poisoning and a near-death experience could keep her away from you," Jessie Kay said, patting him on the shoulder. He flinched, and she laughed. "What? Too soon to joke about?"
"I'll be ready to joke about this in...never," he said.
Harlow scooted over and patted the bed, and he crawled in beside her, drawing her to his chest.
"What's going to happen to Tawny, Charlene and Scott?" she asked.
"They're going to spend a little time behind bars," Jase said. "Felonies are a bitch, and not something you can sweep under a rug."
Harlow should have been overjoyed by the news, but she wasn't. She wasn't even mad at the threesome. Not really. Did she think she deserved what they'd done? No. Not anymore, and not ever again. Beck was right. She'd paid for her crimes, and she was a different person now. But the misery of others no longer made her feel better about the misery of her own life. Not that she was miserable anymore. Because of Beck, she'd never been happier.
"I'm going to agree to a supersmall, superfast wedding because I want to get rid of the H.A.G. initials as soon as possible. But I'm also going to take you up on your offer of a second, larger wedding," she said to Beck. "I want the women of Strawberry Valley to witness our vows, even though I'm pretty sure they'll attend in funeral attire, mourning the loss of their Beck."
As the others beamed at her, Beck kissed her temple. "I'm not their anything, love. I'm yours. Now and forever."
*
Read on for an extract from THE HARDER YOU FALL by Gena Showalter.
WEST BACKED JESSIE KAY against the wall, this woman who tormented his days and invaded his dreams. She wasn't what he should want, but somehow she was everything he
could not resist, and he was tired, so damn tired, of walking, hell, running away from her.
"What are you doing?" she demanded, but there was a hitch in her voice and it hit every masculine instinct he possessed with adrenaline, jacking him up.
"What do you want me to do?" He braced his hands at her temples, caging her in. He wasn't the only one who'd been running from the sizzle between them, but tonight, he wasn't letting her get away. One look at her, that's all it had taken to ruin his plans, and now she would pay the price--and make the day better.
Different emotions played over features so delicate he was constantly consumed by the need to protect her from the world...and ravage her afterward. First came need, then fear, regret, hope and finally anger. The anger concerned him. The Southern belle could make a man's testicles shrivel with a look. But still he didn't walk away.
She ran her delicate hands up his tie and gave the knot a little shake, an action that was sexy, sweet and wicked all at once. "I admit it. I want you, West..." she whispered.
That was it. All it took. He hardened painfully, his erection straining against his zipper, reaching for her.
But she wasn't done.
"I want you...to go back to your date," she snapped, giving him a push--not that he budged.
His date. Yeah, kept forgetting about her. But then, he'd gotten used to forgetting pretty much everything else whenever Jessie Kay walked into a room. She consumed him, and it was irritating as hell, a sickness to be cured, an obstacle to be overcome, but damn if he wasn't going to enjoy it here and now.
He bunched the hem of her skirt, his fingers brushing the silken heat of her bare skin, and again her breath hitched, driving him wild. "You've told me what you think you should want." He rasped the words against her mouth, hovering over her, not touching her but teasing her with what could be. "Now tell me what you really want."
Navy blues peered up at him, beseeching him. "Don't do this to me, West. You're just going to use me."
"I'm going to make you come. There's a difference."
If you like Gena Showalter's breathtaking contemporary romance stories, you'll love her Mira Ink series,
THE WHITE RABBIT CHRONICLES:
ALICE IN ZOMBIELAND
THROUGH THE ZOMBIE GLASS
THE QUEEN OF ZOMBIE HEARTS
And coming soon from Mira Ink,
A MAD ZOMBIE PARTY
Keep reading for a sneak peek at
A MAD ZOMBIE PARTY!
Copyright (c) 2015 by Gena Showalter
FROSTY
The Walking Dead
I CRAWL OUT of bed and rub my gritty eyes. My temples throb, and my mouth tastes like something furry crawled inside, nested, had babies and died. I'm on my way to the bathroom to brush my teeth with a gallon of bleach when I realize my surroundings are unfamiliar. I stop and turn, ignoring a flood of dizziness, and scan a bedroom that has pictures of flowers hanging on pink walls, sparkly shirts and skirts spilling from an oversize closet, and a vanity scattered with a thousand different kinds of makeup.
A sleepy sigh draws my attention to the bed, and memories rush in fast. I went to a club, picked a girl, and went home with her. I slept with her, and now I'm going to leave and prove I'm a Class A dick. But at least I'm at the top of my field. Counts for something, right?
Dark hair cascades around her pale shoulders. She is simply the newest in a long line of randoms I've selected for one reason and one reason only: each resembles Kat in some way.
But they aren't Kat, and after the deed is done I can't leave them fast enough.
My stomach tenses, and my hands fist, as hard as hammerheads. After a few shots of whiskey, I can pretend whatever girl I'm with is my sweet little Kitty Kat, and I'm touching her again, and she's loving it, begging me for more, and everything will be okay, because we'll be together forever. I imagine she'll cuddle close afterward and say things like, "You are the luckiest guy in the world. You're dating me, and I'm superhot, but I don't even know it, which makes me even hotter," and I'll laugh, because she's ridiculous and adorable and everything right in my world. In the morning, she'll demand I apologize for doing bad things in her dreams.
She'll make my life worth living.
Then morning will actually come, and I'll realize she won't be doing any of those things. She's dead, because I couldn't save her.
I hate myself.
Kat deserves my loyalty until the very end--my end. And this crap? I'm cheating on her memory with girls I don't even know, don't even like and will always resent. They are not Kat, they will never be Kat and they have no right to put their hands on her property.
It's wrong. It's messed up. I'm not this guy. Only assholes use-and-lose, and once upon a time I would have been the guy who beat a prick like that into blood and bone powder.
Ask me if I care.
Before this particular mistake wakes, I gather my discarded clothing and dress in a hurry. My shirt is wrinkled, ripped and stained with lipstick and whiskey. I look like exactly what I am: a hungover piece of scum. I don't bother fastening my pants. The combat boots I leave untied. I make my way out the front door and realize I'm on the second floor of an apartment building. I scan the surrounding parking lot but find no sign of my truck.
How the hell did I get here?
I remember driving to the nightclub, throwing back one shot after another, dancing with the brunette after I plucked her from her group of friends, throwing back more shots and...yeah, okay, piling inside her little sedan. I'd been too wasted to drive. Now I'll have to walk back to the club, because there's no way in hell I'm waking her up to ask for a ride. I'd have to answer questions about my nonexistent intentions.
As I stride down the sidewalk, the air is warmer than usual, the last vestiges of winter having surrendered to spring. The sun is in the process of rising, igniting the sky with different shades of gold and pink, and it's one of the most beautiful sights I've ever seen.
I give it the finger.
The world should be crying--snot sobbing--for the treasure it's lost. At least I don't have to worry about being ambushed by zombies. The scourge of the earth usually only slinks out at night, the bright rays of the sun too harsh for their sensitive husks to bear.
"What you doing here, pretty boy?" someone calls. His friends chortle. "You want to see what real men are like or something?"
I keep my head down and my hands in my pockets. Not because I'm afraid, or because I'm in a part of Birmingham, Alabama, most kids my age try to avoid, scared off by the graffiti on crumbling building walls, the parked cars missing hubcaps and wheels, and the plethora of crimes being perpetrated in every alley--drugs, prostitution, maybe an armed mugging or two--but because in my current mood, I will fight, and I will fight to kill. As a zombie slayer, I have skills and abilities "real men" cannot hope to defeat. Not even gang bangers. Taking on a group of punk kids would be like shooting fish in a barrel--with a rocket grenade launcher.
Yeah. I have one of those. Two, actually, but I've always preferred my daggers. Up close and personal is my preferred method of elimination.
In my pocket, my cell phone vibrates. I withdraw the device and discover the screen is blown up with texts from Cole, Bronx and even Ali Bell, Cole's girlfriend. Kat's best friend. They want to know where I am and what I'm doing, if I'm coming home any time soon. When will they realize it's too difficult to be around them? Their lives are pretty much perfect. The three of them are living the happily-ever-after I've wanted since seventh grade, when Kat Parker walked into my classroom for the first time. The happily-ever-after I will never have.
Cole and Ali have each other. Bronx has his girl Reeve. What do I have? Pain and misery, and they both suck.
A big brute of a guy suddenly steps into my path. I say brute because the shadow he's casting tells me he's my size, loaded with muscle and topping out well over six feet.
If he isn't careful, he won't be walking away from this encounter. He'll be crawling. But as I glance from his boots to
his face, I lose the 'tude. Here is my friend and fearless leader Cole Holland in the flesh. I've known and loved him like a brother since elementary school. We've fought beside each other, bled with each other and saved each other. But I'm not in the mood for another pep talk.
"How'd you find me?" I ask.
"My superamazing detective skills. How else?"
"In other words, the GPS on my phone." Technology is a whore.
Cole's eyes are violet, freaky, and right now they are glued to the collar of my shirt. He arches a brow. "Lipstick?"
"I'm on the hunt for my perfect shade," I deadpan.
"Your skin tone screams for rose, not magenta." His deadpan is better than mine.
The old me would have been all over that kind of response. I used to love exchanging trash talk with my boy. Now? I'd rather be left alone. "Thanks for the tip. I'll keep it in mind."
"Come on." Cole pats me on the shoulder, and if I'd been a weaker guy, I would have been drilled into the concrete. "Let's go get something to eat. You look like you could use a solid meal for once rather than a liquid one."
As much as I don't want to go, I don't want to argue with him. Takes too much energy. His Jeep is idling at the curb, and I slide into the passenger seat without protest. A ten-minute drive follows, and neither of us speaks. What is there to say, really? The situation is what it is, and there's no changing it.
When we end up at Hash Town, however, I wish I'd opted to argue. Ali, Bronx and Reeve are at a table in the back, waiting for us. Reeve and I have never been close; she was Kat's friend, and like Kat, slaying has never been in her wheelhouse. She can't see or hear zombies, but she's seen us fight so many times that she accepts what other civilians cannot: the monsters are real, and they live among us.
Reeve lost her dad--her only living family and our wealthiest benefactor--the day I lost Kat. For the first time, I'm struck by a sense of kinship with her. Maybe this forced interaction won't be so bad.
She smiles in welcome. She has dark hair and even darker eyes and, in junior high, she and Kat used to pretend to be sisters from different misters. Now, it kind of hurts to look at her.
Who am I kidding? Everything hurts.
I take one of two empty seats and signal the waitress for coffee. I'm going to need it. "So...is this an intervention?"