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Rastor (Lawton Rastor, Book 2)
There's Only One Girl He Wants, the Girl He Lost… After finding – and then losing – the girl of his dreams, Billionaire Bad Boy Lawton Rastor will do anything to win her back. Anything. Because it's his fault she's gone, and life without her hurts infinitely more than any punch he's ever taken.
He loves her. He wants her. And he's ready to fight for her. She's Chloe Malinski, the plucky college grad who shares his fence, a secret history, and a love of dogs. But to this billionaire bad boy from Detroit, this certain girl-next-door is the only thing that matters. Can he win her back? And if he does, can he keep her?
In Unbelonging and Rebelonging, we heard their unforgettable love story from Chloe, the one girl who captured his heart. Now, in Lawton and Rastor, this best-selling bad boy finally tells his side of the story.
(Note: This book covers the timeframe of Rebelonging, the second book in the Unbelonging series.)
Chapter 1 - Sneak Preview
I had two guys in the trunk of the sedan and my brother tailing us in a vintage muscle car. The muscle car was mine. The sedan wasn't. Some might call it stealing. Me? I called it justice.
From the sedan's driver's seat, I reached out to crank up the music. The song was alright, but that wasn't the reason for cranking it. The thumping – it was annoying the piss out of me – because it wasn't coming from the speakers.
I glanced over my shoulder. Dumb-asses. What were they planning to do? Jump out at the next stop sign?
Yeah, good luck with that.
In this neighborhood, they wouldn't last five minutes.
It was after midnight and cold as hell. A few hours earlier, those two trunk-buddies had shown up in dark clothes and matching ski masks. They'd tried to kidnap the girl I loved. They'd scared her. They'd hurt her – not bad, but bad enough, because even a little was too damned much.
At the memory, I felt my hands tighten on the steering wheel. They deserved more than a good ass-beating and whatever embarrassment was coming next.
Something in my gut twisted. Tonight, those guys weren't the only ones who'd hurt her. I'd hurt her, too. I hadn't meant to. But I had.
I was a monster.
An image of Chloe flashed in my brain. She was nearly naked and cuffed to a chair. She was shivering with cold and slumped in defeat. I'd put her there. I'd kept her there. For hours.
I blinked long and hard. Somehow, I'd make it up to her. I just needed the chance. I didn't deserve it. But I'd get it. Or die trying.
Ahead in the deserted street, I spotted a crumpled shopping cart, lying sideways across the pitted pavement. I eased the car around it and kept on going. We were deep in the city now, downtown Detroit, and not the nice part, assuming there was such a thing.
Home sweet home.
Inside my pocket, my cell phone buzzed. I pulled it out and glanced at the display. It was my brother, calling from the car behind me. I turned down the music and answered with a half-hearted, "Hey."
"Pull over," Bishop said.
"Why?"
"Because the dipshits are trying to get out."
I felt a slow, cold smile spread across my face. "Yeah?"
"That's not good news," he said.
It was good news to me. But hey, I had my reasons.
Up ahead, I spotted yet another burned-out building. An old neighborhood store? Hard to tell with the place mostly gutted, just like the building beside it, along with dozens of others that we'd passed along the way.
Next to this nearest building was an alley that it shared with the death-trap next door. I took a right turn and pulled deep into the darkened space. In the rear-view mirror, I saw Bishop pulling in behind me. Knowing him, he wouldn't be too happy about it.
I could see why.
An alley wouldn't have been my first choice for whatever was coming next. But hey, at this point, did it matter? If things went to shit, it would serve me right. And as far as Bishop, he could handle himself just fine.
A minute later, he and I were standing outside the sedan's trunk. It was still shut. Looking down, I saw what Bishop meant. They'd been working at a taillight, trying to shove it out. And then what? Signal someone?
I glanced around. No one – and I mean no one – in this neighborhood would be coming to their rescue, unless the rescue involved putting them out of their misery. And hey, if that happened, who was I to complain?
At the thought, I almost smiled. Instead, I held out the remote and popped the trunk.
And there they were – two player wannabees wearing a lot less than they'd been wearing earlier. One wore striped boxer shorts. The other wore plain black briefs that looked a few sizes too small. Probably, the guy was hoping to make his package look bigger. Somehow, he seemed the type.
Neither had a shirt. Or shoes. Or their phones. They'd surrendered them an hour earlier, thanks to some not-so-friendly persuasion from me and my brother. But we'd let them keep the other stuff – the gold chains around their necks, the fancy gold watches flashing on their wrists, the rings that glittered on multiple fingers.
What a couple of douchebags.
Lying there, the guys looked up, looking shell-shocked and maybe a little afraid.
Okay, a lot afraid.
Good.
Their hands were tied, but their feet weren't. Probably, they'd been using those feet to kick at the tail lights.
I gave them a good long look. "So, you want out?" I made a show of stepping back. "Be my guest."
The two guys exchanged a glance. Slowly, they sat up and looked around, taking in the destruction around us. After a long moment, the guy in the boxers spoke up. "Is this a trick or something?"
"No trick." I flicked my head toward the darkened street. "Go ahead. Start walking."
He looked toward the street and swallowed. "Walking?" He hesitated. "But, uh, I've got the car, so…"
I gave a small laugh. The sedan? He didn't have it. I did. And I wasn't giving it up. Not yet.
"No car," I told him. "You want out? You'll be going on foot."
The guy's face was smeared with thin streaks of dried blood, but not as much as there could've been. My fingers flexed. Not as much as there should have been.
Fucking Bishop. And here, he claimed to be the voice of reason.
Maybe.
But I was in no mood to be reasonable.
Smiling, I pulled the blade from my back pocket and flicked it open. I recalled the knife at Chloe's throat, held there a few hours earlier by the idiot in front of me. His knife hadn't been real. But at the time, I didn't know that. And neither did Chloe.
I recalled the sounds of her fear, and the sight of her lying there, helpless while some stranger in black held her down. Even now, the memory of it tore through my heart. I could still hear her whimpers, fake knife or not.
Standing at the trunk, I lifted my own blade. Now this thing? It was real. And sharp.
In my old neighborhood, we lived by a code. If someone hit you, you hit them back – the harder the better. I held the blade higher. It glittered in the moonlight, and I felt my smile widen.
Bishop's voice cut across the shadows. "Don't."
I didn't bother to look. "Don't what?"
"Whatever you're thinking. We don't have time for this shit."
Hey, I'd make time.
In the trunk, the guy in the boxers had scrambled backward. When he tried to move further, he bumped his head on the trunk's open lid. "Son-of-a bitch," he muttered.
Yeah. He was.
Again, I flicked my gaze toward the street. "Go ahead," I told him. "Run."
The guy's gaze shifted to Bishop.
"Don't look at me," Bishop said. "I'm not gonna save you."
It was a lie. If I went too far, he'd be pulling me back, just he'd done earlier. Not for their sakes, for mine – or at least, that's he'd told me when the dust had settled.
So who was Bishop saving, anyway? Me? I made a scoffing sound. I didn't want to be saved. For one thing, I didn't deserve it. And for another, I didn't need it.
I leaned toward the guy and said it again, lower, quieter. "Run."
But the guy didn't run. And neither did his friend.
Too bad.
Apparently, they were smarter than they looked. Between the trunk or freedom here, in this neighborhood, they were choosing the trunk.
Smart for them. Disappointing for me.
The way it looked, we were back to Plan A.
I gave the guys a hard look. "Alright, here's the deal," I said. "You wanna run, this is your chance. It's your only chance."
The guys exchanged another glance. Funny, they were awful quiet compared to earlier, when they'd been yelling loud enough to wake the dead. I knew the reason for their new and improved silence.
I glanced around. It was this place. Even idiots like them knew better than to attract the wrong kind of attention in a neighborhood this shitty.
The guy in the black briefs gave a small shudder. From the cold? Or fear? Who knew? Who cared? Maybe he should've worn long johns.
Not my problem.
Brief-guy spoke up. "What if we don't? What then?"
"If you don't run?" I leaned back. "Well, then I've got an offer. And you'd be smart to take it."
In a few short sentences, I laid it out. We were taking them someplace else, someplace safer, but a lot more public. They'd have to explain themselves, probably to a crowd, and later, likely to the cops.
If they so much as whispered Chloe's name – or mine, or Bishop's – well, in that case, they'd be going on another trunk-ride. But this time, I'd be dropping them here, whether they liked it or not.
"So," I told them, "your story had better be good." I made a show of looking around. "Or else."
Soon, I was back behind the wheel. This time, there was no thumping. I'd used the knife, but not in the way I'd wanted. Instead, I'd cut their ropes and slammed the trunk shut again, leaving them to come up with a decent story for when we stopped next.
Forty minutes later, we were there.
And twenty minutes after that, so was she – Chloe.
The girl I loved, the girl I'd lost.
(End of Sneak Peek)
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