“What’s wrong, baby?”
Let’s get one thing straight. I hate being called “baby.” Hate it. And this chick? I should have fucking known better than to get messed up with her. But I was looking for a quick distraction. A somewhat enjoyable one.
She failed me in both areas. Or I failed her—however it should be stated. So what the hell am I doing? I was on a streak here for a bit where I kept to myself. Because I want … her. But after today, I felt like I needed an outlet and when she’d texted me, looking for a good time, I figured, what the hell? It would only be “round two” after all. But nothing happened. It’s like I was dead from the waist down. And that sure as shit hasn’t happened before.
I’ll admit it. I’m a bit—okay, a lot—of a manwhore. And I often gloss over it because I don’t want anyone else seeing beneath it to the real reason I do this. Because, sometimes, in those brief moments when a woman grasps me, wraps her arms around me, when I feel the softness of her skin, feel the warmth of it, I think, Damn, this is what I wish I could have all the time. A woman to hold me.
It makes my balls shrivel up just admitting this, but it’s the truth. For a split second, I feel like I’m worthy of a woman, of her comfort. But only for a split second. Then I realize I’m Foster Kavanaugh. I recall my past; what I’ve done.
I’m also not the greatest at picking women who aren’t Stage Five Clingers, either. The ones who are already planning which of my T-shirts they’re going to sleep in every night, planning on meeting my mother, planning our wedding.
If that doesn’t induce a straight-up puke fest, I don’t know what will.
“What’s wrong, baby?” The blonde beside me repeats in what I’m sure she thinks is a seductive purr.
It’s not.
“Nothing,” I say, rolling off the bed, already planning on shooing her out the door and going out for a run with Harley before the sun sets. I normally run in the mornings, but after today I need a double dose.
Walking over to my master bathroom, I wash up quickly before heading back into my bedroom to pull on some boxer briefs, running shorts, and socks. And I notice she’s still in bed.
Without turning around, I stop at the doorway and say, “I’m heading out for a run and have to set the alarm,” before exiting in search of my running shoes at the backdoor. I hear mutterings, but I don’t care. I’m being a dick, but let me be clear. I am up front about everything with these women.
Always.
I don’t make promises to call, don’t make plans ahead of time. They know the score. It’s just sex. Sometimes, it’s great sex. Other times, it’s mediocre. But it only happens a max of three times. Three separate times. Because, for whatever reason, some women get it in their head that anything past three times means you’re in it for the long haul.
And I’m sure as hell not.
I have to admit, though, the past few times hadn’t been as much fun. Hadn’t given me as much of an escape as in the past.
Deep down, I wonder if it’s because of one particular individual who entered my life over a year ago.
Chapter Four
Noelle
I had busied myself the remainder of the day with readying contracts for upcoming sites as well as renewals. TriShield Protection was growing and in much more demand, which was great for us, but it also meant Foster might end up needing to hire another employee.
And I get the feeling bringing that up now might not be best.
Working for him and along with the others, I’ve actually gleaned a lot of useful information. Some of which, I hope to never have to use, I’ll be honest. But they always stress, Be aware of your surroundings. At all times.
It figures the one time I’m distracted by my thoughts of Foster and his friend, it would happen.
Reaching to slide my key into the lock of my door, I freeze. Because it seems someone has already done me the honor. It’s been jimmied open, the wood splintered around the doorframe near the lock. And I do what I’ve always been told not to do; I enter my small house.
At least I have some sense to grab the pepper spray from my purse, in case whoever broke into my house is still around. Stepping over the threshold, quietly pushing the door open as if I’m the star of a new slasher flick, I instantly notice the mess up ahead.
Someone has flung the contents of my refrigerator all over the entire living room. The ricotta cheese I was planning on using to try and recreate Momma K.’s—Foster’s mother—famous lasagna rolls? It’s all over my couch and it almost appears as though someone smeared it into the cushions. And the jar of sauce I was planning on using as well? It’s shattered on the hardwood floor, the red marina everywhere like blood spatter from a scene from CSI.
Stellar.
As I quietly inch my way farther into the house, my finger on the pepper spray trigger, there is no way in hell I can withhold the gasp of horror at the sight of what is written—in Sharpie, no less—on my television screen.