I’m really not into animal cruelty, but right now, I’m ready to skin a cat.
That's because one just dropped down paws-first on my sore, bruised stomach. Among their other talents, cats are experts at concentrating all their weight onto one paw and then drilling it down into you like they’re trying to puncture through to an exit wound. And one of those sweet little assholes – Velvet or Mews, I’ve only had them two months and I can’t tell them apart – is currently doing a Russian army march right over the freshly purpled bruises I picked up during a rough night.
Whoever said love is pain was clearly a cat owner.
The cat on my stomach meows. Loudly.
Mews, then. A fitting name if there ever was one.
I groan, but don’t open my eyes just yet. I’ve got a headache from hell I was hoping to sleep off. Just five more minutes for the first time in what feels like years.
Cats, however, don’t really care about my beauty sleep. Or my blood pressure.
They care that I have opposable thumbs and can work a can opener, and the fact that I’m not doing so right this second.
I groan, dragging a hand over my face. “Fine,” I mumble into my palm. “Okay, okay. I’m up.”
Actually, I don’t move.
A soft, velvety forehead butts against the back of my hand, followed by a rusty-sounding purr. Even if I’m ready to string the little monster up, I can’t stop myself from scratching between his ears. He closes his eyes in sheer delight and thrusts against my fingers.
This is how they get you. Food for love.
Don’t think for half a second this fuzzy little jerk means it.
A thump and weight pressing on the end of the bed tells me I have about five seconds before Mews has a dance partner on my aching body. It’s that more than anything that gets me to roll out of bed, pausing to stroke between Velvet’s ears before dragging a robe on against the faint, wet morning chill blowing in off the ocean. Downstairs the sun is bright through the kitchen windows, scraping at my bleary eyes.
Coffee. I need a strong, paint-stripping cup.
And then it’s back to business as usual.
I'm still shaking off my 'fun' from the night before. A Mayor's campaign downtown brought us in, extra security for their fundraiser. The rabble rousers who showed up made good on their promise to make a scene after tensions flared. One of the assholes broke the police line, managed to land a blow to my gut and another to my jaw, before I had him by the throat and on the ground, holding him until the cops took over.
I remember why I don't like politics, even when it pays.
I leave a pot to brew and dump out a couple fresh tins of foul smelling food in the monsters’ bowls. Grain-free or something, but it’s just meaty and heavy and enough to make me retreat while they shove their faces in with hungry, messy sounds.
At least they’re easily pleased.
Wish I could say the same for the fucksticks jerking me around lately.
A few of said fucksticks whine nasally from my voicemail as I plop my phone on the counter and set it to play back on speaker while I do something about breakfast. Both voicemails are pure bullshit, and both are from agents of the same client.
Milah Holly. The next big starlet manufactured by a Hollywood sound studio and fed the lyrics they’ve decided will be the voice of a generation. She’s high-profile. Big money. A good contract.
And she’s driving me out of my mind, when the job hasn’t even started yet.
These voicemails alone are full of scheduling issues. I might start working for Milah in a few days, or in a few weeks.
I don’t know. She doesn’t know. No one knows, and I halfway think they need to hire someone to get their shit straight long before they hire a security firm.
But I can’t afford to let this slip through my fingers. It's too big an opportunity for Enguard.
Ever since I turned over my old man's company, Crown Security, to Dallas Reese – grade A asshole, son of dad's former and currently incarcerated partner, Reg Reese, and the jackass who’s been playing a one-up game with me since we were fucking twelve – I need every leg up I can get to keep my own company thriving.
Enguard’s seen rapid growth and won a solid piece of the market, but if I let my guard down too long, then Dallas and Crown Security will swoop right in and snatch Milah – plus the prestige this contract nets me – right out under my nose.
I sigh, once again adjusting the dates in my phone’s calendar, and settle to pour a cup of strong black brew. As I set the carafe down, though, a hint of motion flashes in the corner of my eye, out of place among the gently wafting trees framing the house.
I glance out the window. Someone’s skulking around the beach house again.
Fuck. I bet it’s those goddamned kids again, or someone casing the place for a possible breakin.
I’ve had enough.
Slamming the carafe back into the brewer, I stomp to the door, yanking it open. I’ve got to get the drop on them this time.
Before they’ve seen me coming, and run off before I catch their faces on my phone, or collar them before calling the cops. This isn’t the kind of security I do, chasing down idiots on my property, but that doesn’t mean I can’t use my skills to make sure they get what they deserve for trespassing and potentially breaking and entering.
I duck into the trees, staying out of sight, and take off at a ground-eating run.
I hurt all the fuck over, but I don’t care.
I’m pissed, thoroughly sick of this, and pure rage and adrenaline are pumping enough endorphins to numb the bruises and devour my pain. I don’t even stop when a branch catches my robe and rips it half-off, the belt coming loose and the robe falling down one arm.
I'm past caring if these assholes get an earful and an eyeful.
I come bursting out of the trees like a juggernaut, barreling toward the front door. Before I lay a hand on it, though, it snaps open – and a petite figure steps out.
At first I don’t recognize her. Not when this slim, leggy young woman is nothing like the awkward little thing with huge frames who used to followed me around like a lost puppy.
McKenna.
Kenna Burke.
Reb.
Standing there all poised and prim and sexy as hell, her green eyes wide and startled behind the kind of librarian glasses that make you wonder what she’d look like with all that chestnut hair pulled free from its tail and rippling around her face and shoulders.
Fuck. Again.
Even though she’s clearly surprised, poised like a faun ready to bolt, she’s still completely put together and gorgeous in a pair of slim jeans and a loose, pretty silk tank top that clings to her in ways that promise things those dreamy eyes can’t quite follow through on. Kenna’s always been a bit of a dreamer, lost in the stars, and she's wearing that look right now.
Almost like she’s seeing other worlds when she looks right through me.
And I’m standing here half-naked with my robe torn up, leaves in my hair, cock practically falling half out of my boxers. She opens her mouth to speak, but then closes it a second later.
This is off to a great fucking start.
*
We’re just staring at each other for what seems like forever. Her lips stay slightly parted like she still wants to say something, but the shock tore the words from that glistening pink mouth.
I’m no better, breathing hard from running, standing here with my jaw hanging like a damn fool. For a minute I’m teleported back five years ago, and all this anger comes boiling up inside me again. I haven't seen her up close like this since the day I cursed her name.
Not since little Reb became the only other human on the planet to know what I was planning.
I don’t know what to do. That's rare.
I’m sure as hell not going to unload on her just yet. Not when she’s already mumbling something like an apology, a nervous strain in her soft, low words.
I can’t even look at her.
I can’t fucking have her here.