With Vengeance by Brooklyn Ann Page B

bitch.” Her
shaking grew worse. “How long will it take for this stuff to wear
off?”
    He shrugged. “Depends on the person. For a
lightweight like you, probably a few hours.”
    “Hours?” she squeaked. “Oh God, I wish it
would stop now! I keep seeing bad memories flashing before my
eyes.”
    Klement’s heart clenched in helpless agony.
More than anything, he wanted to make things better. “What if you
open your eyes?”
    “Then I get too dizzy!” she wailed.
    “I’m so sorry, Kat.” Why hadn’t he warned her
not to eat one of the damn things? He rubbed her back in slow
soothing circles. “What can I do to make you feel better?”
    “Actually, this feels nice.” She took a few
deep breaths, and her shaking subsided to a fine tremble. “I’m
sorry I’m such a wreck.”
    “No,” Klem said. “It’s all my fault.”
    “Most people probably have a good time on
these things, but with me it’s like a bad ’shroom trip or
something. I keep seeing my father beating my mom, beating me…” Her
teeth chattered. “He was a cop.”
    Klement’s hand tensed on her bare shoulder.
“So that’s why you were so freaked out earlier. And you keep
his car?”
    “No, it was my stepdad’s car. He was the one
who got me into metal. Our house caught on fire, and he died saving
us.”
    Her voice broke in a strangled sob, and
Klement winced. So that was where the PTSD came from. That, and the
abuse she’d suffered. His heart clenched as the suffering emanated
off of her in tangible waves. Every cell of his being surged with
the need to comfort her, to protect her…
    He gently pulled her onto his lap. Even
though it was inappropriate and dangerous as hell, she felt like
heaven in his arms.
    ***
    Richard watched Klement Burke’s house through
his binoculars.
    The sight of the black 1960 Plymouth Fury
just outside of the garage made him seethe with envy. When that fag
bassist pulled it out to push Kat’s piece of shit car into its
space, he’d had to cover his mouth to keep from screaming. He
couldn’t believe anyone would bother trying to fix that fucking
thing, let alone supplant a beauty with it. He’d tried to convince
Kat to get rid of the Subaru and buy another car, but she
stubbornly clung to it because it was her stepfather’s. Not even
her real father’s. Stupid girly sentimentality.
    Laughter bubbled in Richard’s throat despite
his rage. Good fucking luck fixing that thing. He’d heard that
sugar in the gas tank would fuck up a whole car, and sure enough,
he’d watched Klement go into the garage and only spend a few
minutes there before he walked out shaking his head. Now she’d have
no choice but to get rid of it.
    He was about to leave when he saw Cliff and
the drummer—that British dude whose name he never remembered—come
out of the house. Richard wondered what Cliff had thought of his
present.
    The two band members got into the drummer’s
Hummer and took off. Richard waited awhile to see if Kat and
Klement would join them, but they didn’t.
    Richard rolled his eyes. Kat was probably
being a hermit as usual and piddling time away on her website or
practicing her guitar. He smirked. Or maybe the control freak
bassist was putting her through her paces because her playing
wasn’t up to his standards.
    Sure, she was talented, Richard admitted, and
ungodly so for a chick, but good enough to play with one of the Big
Six in metal? He couldn’t fathom it. They’d probably let her in for
the gimmick of having a girl in the band. Or they just liked her
tits.
    Thoroughly bored, he rose from the bushes and
made his way through the woods bordering the road, not emerging
until he reached his car, which was parked in an overgrown turnout
a quarter mile away. He needed a beer. And more money.
    As he drove back to Denver, he called his
delivery guy the minute he got a cell signal.
    “How’s the account look?”
    “We sold fifteen eight balls last week and
another five this week so far,” Chris said