But it’s something I built with my own two hands, and my pride – and Dallas Reese’s voice taunting in the back of my mind – won’t let me give up on this. I've got my people to look out for, too.
Good men like James and Riker. Talented women like Skylar. It's not just signing their checks. In Skylar's case, this job gives her fucking sanity. A chill runs up my back when I think of what that woman would be out doing with a missing niece she loved like hell, and nothing else in her life.
There's more, too. Some strange part of me that feels like if I just do this right, if I make Enguard Security what Crown Security was always meant to be, then somehow I can erase the past and undo my old man's sins.
I’m not scrambling. Or closing down. Or running.
Like hell.
I take the time to make a cup of coffee, even if I fall back on the Keurig instead of the drip brewer for the sake of speed. Not a huge K-Cup fan when they taste just a little plastic and artificial, but right now I care less about the nuances of pure Kona beans and more about lifting the caffeine content in my bloodstream to tolerable levels.
Once I’m fortified, I pull on a shirt, jeans, and shoes, and then head out to deal with my little problem princess. When she hears me coming, she stiffens her shoulders up and lifts her chin in the air, tossing a pouty look over her shoulder at me before turning her nose up. Part of me wants to remind her that I’m not her boyfriend, I’m just her employee, but…
Professional. Right.
So, I stop a professional distance away and wait, hands in my pockets. She says nothing for a long while, this tense silence where I know I’m supposed to speak first, to beg, to grovel, but it’s not happening.
She’s the one upset, so I’ll wait until she’s said her peace, then remind her she has no right to be upset about what I do in my life beyond professional boundaries.
Especially when she barged into my house unannounced and – technically – uninvited by anyone but herself.
Finally, Milah makes an offended sound in the back of her throat. “Give me one good reason why I shouldn’t just fire you right now.”
She’s trying for icy, bitchy, and superior. It comes across as fake as her on-camera little-girl lisp. “Dallas Reese and Crown Security would never treat me so rudely, you know. Dallas is a gentleman.”
Then go try to fuck Dallas, I snarl inside my head, but restrain myself fiercely.
Even if Milah’s a brat, my knee-jerk reaction to the mention of that asshole isn’t her fault.
I take a slow, deep breath. “Because I know what you don’t. My old man founded Crown. It was supposed to be mine. I left because they’re just that bad at what they do under Dallas' management.” It’s not the only reason, but it’s the only one she needs to know.
“Think for a minute, Milah. Think hard. And then think about the fact that I know what I’m doing. So much that you don’t even know what my crew saved you from this weekend.” I pause, waiting for her to bat her eyes. “We blocked three psychos trying to break past security. One of them had a knife. Rambling about how you were Marilyn Monroe's second coming and how you killed Kennedy. They never even got close enough for you to know what was happening.”
Her eyes widen. It’s not fake shock, or even indignation.
It’s real surprise. Real fear.
It shows how young she really is, and how damn clueless, too. It’s part of why I haven’t kicked her to the curb yet even though she’s a royal pain in my ass. Nobody, no matter how spoiled, deserves to be threatened or made to feel that kind of terror.
I can’t stand her ass, but I’m not going to let anything happen to it, either.
Of course, she doesn't need to know that.
She just needs to know I can do the job, and she needs to stay on her side of the line.
She hasn’t said anything. I’ve got the advantage here, now. Knowing the real danger she’s in and the possibility that Dallas can’t protect her? Has her off-kilter. That’s what happens when reality slaps people in the face when they’ve been in denial.
Heh. I’m a fucking hypocrite, aren’t I?
Kenna-driven thoughts try to shove their way in. My father, too.
My old man and that question that’s remained unanswered for five years, a promise I made and haven’t yet fulfilled. My focus right now is on Milah, and making sure she knows I can keep her safe, and second, I don’t have to if she really wants someone like Dallas.
“You’ve made a lot of enemies,” I say into the silence, speaking slowly, firmly. “Honestly, after the way you’ve been acting, you’re lucky I’ll even do the job. But I don’t want to see you hurt in Dallas’ incompetent hands. That’s the real reason I’m willing to stay on. No pile of money in the world could make working for your entitled ass worth it.” This time, her widened eyes are definitely offended, but I don’t give her time to snap back. “Think about it and make your damn decision,” I bite off.
Then walk away and leave her fuming, sulking, little sputtering sounds chasing after me.
I'm past caring. She can make the right choice that'll leave her alive, or go for the pretty boy who feeds her ego, but I can’t force it on her.
Besides, I have bigger things to worry about, right now.
Like why, with every word I’d said, I could still taste Kenna Burke on my lips.
*
After she’s been trying to talk to me for days, it’s almost laughable that now I can’t fucking find her.
I’ve got two cats trying to wrap around my ankles like leg warmers, but no Reb. She’s not in the kitchen, not in her room. I prowl through a few of the common rooms and find nothing.
Shit.
Maybe I did finally scare her away.
Why does that twist a knife through the pit of my stomach?
As I pass the open French doors leading out to the upstairs deck, though, the fluttering sigh of wind against paper catches my attention. I pause, glancing out. That black book she’d been writing in sits open on the deck table, the pages fanning in the sea breeze.
My eyes narrow. When I’d caught her writing in it, she'd looked almost guilty.
I shouldn’t look, should I?
But if she can pry on me, ripping my damn soul out in the process, turnabout is fair play.
Even if it's not. Deep down, I know it’s not. I know it’s not fair. I know it isn't justified.
But I’m also painfully curious, and I’m only fucking human.
Human enough to want to know what’s in those pages, that she might feel so guilty about. It’s just a book, right? Fiction?
Oh, fuck yes, it's hers. I find that out when I drop myself in a chair and flick the pages open.
It’s her book, her story, her make believe...but it’s also an ode to my body, and I don't know whether to be confused or hard.
Some men weren't meant to be men. They were born beasts, powerful and primal. Every time they move, thick muscles bunching and slinking, you know them for what they are: the wild, chafing against their human skin, ready to break out any moment with flashing eyes and bared teeth and hackles raised. All growls and sensuality, raw feral power.
That’s Logan Kane in a nutshell, the asshole next door in his cabin, secluded from the world. It’s why he’s so unpredictable. So frightening. So frustrating.
And so desirable.
I shouldn’t be watching him like this. I was supposed to get the laundry in off the line when I heard a splash in the river behind our house, bigger than the sounds usually made by fish or small animals. We’ve had park ranger warnings about bears getting too close to people’s houses lately, so I was worried there might be one on our property.
I’d peeked out past the fence just to be sure, in case we needed to call animal services.
Instead, I found Logan Kane. Stripping down on the shore, boldly and gloriously naked, erasing any questions about what he was even doing on our property, when he’s been sneaking away from his awful family to swim in our river since we were children.
But he’s definitely no child now.
Somehow, Logan grew up when I wasn’t looking. He’s hardened, bronzed, his body a litany of battle scars telling a tale I don’t know how to comprehend.