Cannon (A Step Brother Romance #3)

Hendrix pulls one of the corners of his mouth up in a smirk. "Well, hell, I didn't realize that's all it took to bother you," he says. "But you want to really see me bothering you, I'll try a little harder."

I feel like sticking my tongue out at him, but that would be especially juvenile. Instead I roll my eyes and sigh. "Whatever."

Hendrix laughs. "Whatever," he says. "That's an awesome comeback."

"I don't know what our parents promised you, but I can tell you I don't need you."

Hendrix leans forward, his mouth close to my ear, and when he speaks, it's a whisper that sends a shiver reverberating down my body. I'm not sure if the shiver is due to anger or arousal. "Oh, let's not kid ourselves. You need me, Addy-girl," he says, using the name he used to call me. Addy-girl. It makes me feel like I'm sixteen again.

Sixteen and wide-eyed and positive, still eager and learning about the industry. Before I started feeling world-weary.

Before Hendrix left and I spent the next five years wondering if he was okay or if he was going to die in Afghanistan.

I shake off the feeling. I refuse to remember how I used to feel about Hendrix. I won't.

Hendrix's voice, low and gravelly in my ear, breaks through my thoughts. "Too bad if you think you don't," he says. "Because I'm back. And I'm not going anywhere."

It takes all the strength I have to tear myself away from Hendrix when I feel pulled toward him by a practically magnetic force. I don't say anything, because I can't think of anything to say. Instead, I take the oh-so-mature route. I just walk down the hallway and shut my bedroom door behind me. The sound reverberates through the cavernous penthouse apartment, an echoing thud that has an air of finality.

The problem is, I think as I sink onto my bed, absolutely nothing is closed between Hendrix and I. I've spent the last five years trying to convince myself it was. And now, it takes one look from him and it's reopened, as if I just saw him yesterday.

Leaning back and closing my eyes, I try to stifle the flood of memories that comes rushing back – and the more than mixed feelings I have about seeing Hendrix again.





SIX YEARS, ELEVEN MONTHS AGO



I inhale deeply, the nicotine hitting my bloodstream and immediately making me feel slightly calmer, less on edge than I was a few minutes ago. I should feel better being out of the hellhole of a school I was in before, with all the military bullshit, but somehow I'm more annoyed than ever.

"Can I bum a smoke?" The voice belongs to a guy my age, flanked by two of his friends, who join me under the bleachers by the football field.

I shrug, holding out the pack of cigarettes. "If you want."

"This is Brandon," he says. "I'm Taylor."

"Hendrix," I say.

"You're Addison Stone's stepbrother, yeah?" Taylor asks, and I roll my eyes.

"Yeah," I say, sighing. "Lucky fucking me, right?"

Brandon laughs. "She's a hot piece of ass."

"I guess," I say, casual, nonchalant, as if I hadn't noticed. You'd have to be a blind man not to notice. "For a stuck-up bitch," I add. I don't know why I add that part. She hasn't actually been a bitch to me at all. She's tried to be nice, but she's one of those people who don't understand real life. I can tell that much about her. She's coddled and spoiled, a pretty girl who gets everything she wants. I hate that, so I hate her.

Brandon and Taylor laugh, and with that and the cigarettes, I'm apparently instantly cool. They start dishing about the hot girls in class, the ones they've bagged already and they ones they want to. I shrug off the thoughts I have of my new stepsister and focus on the fact that there is a whole high school full of chicks who are hotter than perfect little Addison Stone.





PRESENT DAY


Slap. Slap. Slap. Slap. My feet hit the pavement over and over, the sound beating a rhythm like percussion in the early morning silence. It's three-thirty in the morning, and the streets are empty.

I don't sleep anymore. I haven't slept since Afghanistan. Instead, I run. Every night, at three in the morning, like clockwork. If I were looking at it from a security perspective, this is the kind of thing that would be stupid, for a number of reasons. Establishing a regular routine like this is stupid. It makes you vulnerable. It's considered high-risk behavior.

I'm not a person who is high-risk when it comes to my profession. I wasn't, when it came to being a Marine. I always evaluated the risks, just like I did when I walked into Addy's place, noting the entry and exit points and considering potential weaknesses. I'm hyper-vigilant when it comes to risk.

Now, against my better judgment, I don't seem to be able to keep myself from seeking it out. You'd think it would be easier, being in Nashville instead of Afghanistan. Not having to think about getting shot at or blown up every minute of every fucking day. Except there's part of me, some warped, fucked-up part, that misses the adrenaline rush, the thrill of not knowing if the next moment will be my last.