Cannon (A Step Brother Romance #3)

So I run at three in the morning, through routes I know are deserted, through the wrong parks of town, in dark parks and under bridges, mile after mile of high-risk behavior.

Unacceptable risk. That's what I'd tell someone else. That's what I'd tell Addy. I'm sitting at a table across from her, lecturing her on eating more and taking care of herself, but I'm a fucking hypocrite, running at night, practically daring someone to jump me.

Adrenaline-seeking. Engaging in high-risk behavior.

That's what the shrink said, the one who evaluated me when I separated from the Marines, the woman who pursed her lips as she looked at me, probably considering telling me I was crazy but they're not allowed to say that.

I laughed at her. I rarely touch alcohol, don't smoke up or take pills like some of my friends, the ones who can't deal with shit anymore. "Sure, lady," I said. "Naw. High risk is running when you know a mortar took out a runner on the same route the month before." Except I knew what she said was true.

So I keep running. I run past the darkened windows in the buildings, the high-rise condos and the restaurants that closed hours ago. This is definitely not the neighborhood I've been living in since I got back here, the shithole apartment that's little more than a room with a bed and a burner, a temporary solution while I've been trying to figure out what the hell I'm doing back in Nashville.

Nashville, Tennessee is the last place I ever thought I'd return.

Addy is the last person I ever thought I'd see again. I was sure I was done with her. Now I've committed myself to working for the father I despise and for the girl I accidentally fell in love with six years ago.

The same girl I ran like hell to get away from five years ago.

Out of sight, out of fucking mind. I convinced myself that putting distance between Addy and I would quell the part of me that ached for her, but that sure as hell hasn’t turned out to be true.

Eight quick miles later and I'm back at Addison's penthouse building. It's empty inside, except for the doorman, who looks up from the book he's reading. "Good run, sir?"

"Hell, don't call me 'sir'. I'm not a damn officer." I'm catching my breath while he reaches underneath his desk and comes up with a cold bottle of water that he hands to me.

The doorman nods at one of the tattoos on my arm, the Eagle Globe and Anchor. "Marine?"

"Yep."

"I served in 'Nam," he says. "Good on you. You working for Miss Stone now?"

"Working, yeah." I laugh. I don't tell him I'm her damn stepbrother. I guess I am just another one of her employees.

The doorman nods and points to his nametag. "I'm Edgar," he says. "Anything you need, you let me know and I'll get it for you. I've been the doorman in this building for going on ten years now, and I know this town better than I know my own family. Know all the residents here, too. Miss Stone, she's a good girl. Brings me tea from this little cafe near where she records in the studio, every time she goes there. She never forgets, either. Knows I don't like coffee."

"That sounds like Addison," I say. I thank him for the water, and I'm about to head for the elevator but pause. "Are you the only doorman here, Edgar?"

"I'm here days mostly. Pete is nighttime usually, not me. But his wife just had a baby and he's out for the rest of the week. Got someone else filling in shifts during the day."

"So it's pretty regular, the two of you. You know everyone who's supposed to be here."

"Yes, sir."

"It's Hendrix," I say.

Edgar nods. "Hendrix," he says. "Your parents must have been music fans."

"My mom was," I tell him. I don't tell him the whole story. My mother wanted to name me Hendrix Morrison. She was a music teacher who loved classic rock. She and my father were an odd combination, the Army Colonel and the hippie musician. The Colonel insisted she name me something more manly. My middle name, Cannon, was their compromise. I guess it was fitting, since artillery turned out to be my job in the Marines. Then everyone took to calling me "Cannon" anyhow. Chicks thought it had to do with my dick size.

"Well, I'll bet she's proud of you now," he says.

"I'm sure she is." I don't know if that would be true or not. I'm not sure what the hell she'd think of me now, actually.

"Addison doesn't like all that stuff, the fame and all that," Edgar says, out of the blue.

"You like her," I observe.

"She's not stuck up like a lot of stars are," Edgar says. "She's a nice girl. You take care of her."

I catch the note of protectiveness in his tone. It's funny how Addison has a way of making people protective of her. In my case, protecting her means I sure as hell need to keep my damaged bullshit away from her.





SIX YEARS, ELEVEN MONTHS AGO