by Grace, Hazel
“Paige and I got home from the mall that last day, we went window shopping, didn’t want to spend any of the money stupidly. When we got to my room and locked the door for good measure, that’s when Jerry and his goon came out of my closet. It was the same man who beat Trevor. I couldn’t move at first. Paige ran her mouth, told him to get the fuck out, but Jerry just laughed.
“The goon grabbed Paige and started ripping at her clothes, I heard her screams, her cussing, how she was going to kill both of them. I had my eyes closed the whole time. I was so frozen in fear that I couldn’t relay anything to my brain.” Aurora brought her head up, tears glistening in her eyes. “Until I heard the goon say, ‘I’m going to fuck you so hard in the ass you’re going to bleed for days.’
“That’s when I saw black. My hands were suddenly on the baseball bat between my bed and nightstand. I saw Paige bent over, Jerry behind the goon with his dick out, and I swung. At the back of Jerry’s head and watched him land on his knees. Then I hit the goon next, but I didn’t stop at one swing. I just remember him limp on the ground. Jerry touched my leg and tried to pull me down, but I kicked him in the face. I don’t remember much else after that, Paige says I hit him a few times until he stopped moving.
“We left that day, waiting for the cops to come pick us up. I swear I thought I killed Jerry, until my mom called and said he missed me.”
“Where does this motherfucker live?” I seethe, squeezing her knee.
She gives me a weak smile and places her hand on one of mine. “None of that. It’s been five years and—”
“And he’s somehow back.”
“I handled him before,” she retorts softy and raises her chin. “I’ll get him again.”
“And you got me now.” My brain shouts absolutely not but my heart issues the truth on why.
She’s the only one who knows what it is to burn inside.
___
“Dude, deal or get the hell out of this game,” Lev laughs, as he chucks a full deck of cards at Colt. The playing cards scatter all over the round table while Colt polishes off his beer.
“Relax, relax,” Colt replies, straightening in his chair to look over Lev’s head. “Hey Jessica, grab me another beer would you, sweetheart.”
The blonde narrows her eyes at him, placing her hands on her small waist. “My name is Jennifer, dickhead,” she barks, stomping out of the garage.
“What the fuck? They’re like cousin names,” Colt retorts, picking up the cards.
“Cousin names?” I repeat with a chuckle. “Think it's time you keep a notepad and write down the name of the girl you brought home that night. By tomorrow she’ll already have told half her girlfriends and you’ll be on a blacklist.”
Colt shuffles the cards. “Yeah, well, my huge cock makes up for my memory loss.”
My cell starts to vibrate in my back pocket, but I ignore it, picking up my cards and organizing them.
“That’s not what I heard, man,” Lev announces. “From the groupies, someone is quote on quote, ‘lacking’.”
Colt furrows his brows. “Lacking? Lacking my fucking ass.”
My phone vibrates again and, this time, I pull it out. The number is from another area code I don’t recognize.
Fucking solicitors.
Before I can place it on the table, it goes off again, and I’m about to give the asshole on the other line a piece of my mind.
“Whatever it is you are trying to sell me, lose the fucking number.”
“Is this Wyatt Lanson?” A female voice asks on the other side.
“Nope,” I deadpan.
“That’s odd,” she points out cooly. “I got this number out of your sister’s phone.”
I set my jaw. “Who the fuck is this?”
“They call me the Queen of the South, Mr. Lanson,” she announces, like it’s supposed to mean something to me.
“Okay, and that’s fucking what?” She chuckles lightly on the phone, and it taps at my nerves. “Hurry the fuck up, I’m busy.”
“Sounds like it with the loud music and boys in the background hollering.”
I pull my cards into one pile with my free hand, bending them in half. “Get to the point of the call.”
“I’m sorry to be the bearer of bad news but your sister has been murdered.”
I freeze, my breathing hitching as I grab the edge of the table to keep myself from freaking the hell out.
“The fuck are you talkin’ about,” I snarl, feeling the weight of Lev and Colt’s eyes on me.
“Funny story really,” the Queen continues. “She was enjoying a bath, relaxing, you know how us women are with bubbles and candles in the tub. And, well, I sent one of my very large, very muscular men in there to join her.”
“What? Who the fuck are you?”
“Mr. Lanson, focus,” she cuts in. “I think I owe you an explanation of her last moments. Isla cried a little, screamed mostly, I’m sure you know, she’s a fighter. But my man succeeded in his given mission. And as the kind woman I am, I thought it’d be best you hear it from me, since I was there and all.”
My mind goes to this morning at breakfast when Lev, Isla, and I were messing around with each other. She had school today, said she would be coming home tomorrow for the weekend to fix the TransAm and race. She’d been itching to race this BMW who always came by to place bets.
“Did I lose you, Mr. Lanson?”
I blink, bringing myself back to the present and feeling the fury pulsate through my head. “Bitch, I don’t know who the fuck you are or why the fuck your callin’ me, but don’t do it again with your bullshit lies.” I hang up, tossing my cell on the table. My focus is fuzzy, all I see is the green felt off the poker table in front of me.
“The hell was that,” Lev asks.
I close my eyes, shaking my head. I’m about to tell him nothing, that someone was playing a sick joke, but my phone vibrates again. Picking it up, I open the text from the unknown number. It’s a photo of a woman in a tub.
Long blonde hair drifting aimlessly in the water.
A purple heart on her right shoulder.
Face down in the water.
It’s Isla.
She’s dead.
Exactly how I killed Andrew.
I’m awoken to the smell of bacon and my stomach growls immediately. The last time I’ve smelt bacon in the mornings, without my cooking it for myself, was when Dad was alive. Breakfast was our thing. Breakfast for lunch, dinner, and, well, breakfast. It tugs at my heartstrings as I open my eyes to see that I’m in my front room with the sun beaming through my windows.
Looking around the room, I don’t see Wyatt and don’t remember falling asleep either. We spent the night talking about food after I swayed on the subject of Jerry. I do recall his eyes in slits as he glared at me while I told my story, his hand squeezing my knee so hard I fought not to squeal in pain.
“You up over there, assassin?” The corner of my lips quirk in a smile.
Sitting up, I know my hair looks like a mop but I don't care. Bacon and Wyatt in my kitchen dismiss my self-consciousness.
“Yeah,” I reply, brushing strands of hair away from my face. “Good morning.”
Wyatt hovers over my stove, his long dark hair brushing against his shoulders as he smiles at me. “Mornin’.” He returns his attention back to the task at hand, flipping something in a pan.
“Where did you get the bacon?”
His back is facing me, but I’m admiring the view. His broad shoulders must have been sculpted from God himself in the white T-shirt he is wearing. Where is a rain cloud when you need one?
“Had a buddy bring it over,” he says. “You want coffee?”
I stretch my back. “My machine is broken.”
Striding toward the fridge, he halts next to it, reaching for a coffee pot full of black brew.
“Not anymore.” Opening the cabinet, he pulls out two mugs. Setting them on the kitchen island, he nods toward a stool. “Come sit down. Do you like crea
m?”
“Yes, please.” Watching him make himself at home with my kitchen makes my stomach do a few cartwheels and flips. I’m not used to a man being here, never invited one back to my place for a one night stand or to even fix my sink.
Wyatt pours some cream into my mug and stirs it in with a spoon. Sliding it over, he takes a sip of his black coffee before resuming back to his cooking. I welcome the hot liquid down my throat, but it does nothing for my already warm skin.
“Are you checking out my ass, Rora, or just enjoying the coffee?”
Another smile lights up my face as I bring my mug back up to my lips “Both.”
Wyatt peers over his shoulder at me as he chuckles. “I had a buddy bring my car by. We’re going to run over to Home Depot and pick up a door that was made in this century with some locks. I’m going to check your windows, too, before we leave.” My toaster pops, and Wyatt pulls the toast out, making it fly through the air and land on the plate.
“You don’t have to do all this, Wyatt. I’ll just—”
“Rugged,” he corrects me.
I swallow my coffee. “I’m not one to be able to give you a nickname.”
Bringing two plates over to the island, he sets them down before leaning both hands on the countertop across from me. His gaze shows hunger, and I’m not sure if it’s me or the food.
“You can do whatever you want to me, Rora,” he mutters. “I like the fact that you thought of me after attacking me.”
Pushing himself off the countertop, he turns on his heel to grab one of the pans, and I’m grateful, because I can feel my cheeks scorch in a blush. Scooping hash browns and eggs onto our plates with a few strips of bacon, I notice him giving me the extra piece.
“We’ll really need to make it quick,” I tell him. “I’m not trying to rush you, but I have so much to do today.”
He comes over and sits next to me, depositing my plate in front of me. “Like what?”
“There’s this wedding I have coming up, it’s huge. It can line up business opportunities that will keep us floating and advertised.”
He forks his eggs. “You a wedding planner or something?”
“I own a bakery.”
“Hence all the white stuff plastered on your clothing all the time.”
I tsk with a chuckle. “Told you I wasn’t a whore.”
He takes a bite of toast. “Didn’t imply that you were.”
I raise a brow. “You all but said the words, slick.”
That gets me a deep chuckle from his throat. “Busted.”
“Sorry being a cop wasn’t in your future,” I tease.
He smirks. “Don’t I know it.”
I pull my gaze from him, chastising myself on how easily I can watch and study him like an obsessed ex-girlfriend. He doesn’t seem to notice, it’s probably second nature to someone like him to be gawked at. And here I am, lusting over a man who is the textbook definition of uncharted territory for me.
A fork of eggs presents itself in front of my face. “Eat,” Wyatt demands.
Opening my mouth, he inserts the fork, slowly pulling it from my mouth. “Delicious,” I compliment.
He can take that in any context he wants. Shifting in his stool, he turns back to his plate as I feel the sexual fizzle emit off his body. Thankfully, he asks me a few more questions about the bakery while we eat and clean up the dishes, telling me to go get dressed so we can hit the road.
Once I close my bedroom door, I whip out a pair of jeans and gray T-shirt, catching my reflection in the mirror. My hair is in major need of straightening and volume, so I start up my straighter and pull out my mascara from my makeup bag. Making quick work of my hair and throwing on some chapstick, I exit my room to find Wyatt sitting on my couch with a piece of paper and pen, scribbling down things.
“I’m ready,” I announce. His head immediately comes to me as he gives me a full body glance over.
“I was just making a list,” he says, his eyes still roaming my body.
“A list?” I stride toward him. “Are you saying my abode is in major need of security?”
Wyatt stands slowly, and I’m trapped, captured in the intensity, knowing that we’re alone, in my apartment, where anything could happen. He doesn’t answer me right away, I can see the wheels turning in his head, the endless possibilities of how this could all go down. I can’t help but examine his chest, the white tee outlining every inch of his body, his dark jeans hugging his waist, and the hardness I think I can see there.
Wyatt growls, following my gaze. Kindness and humor fades from his face. He looks broody and fierce, a man that isn’t used to keeping his manners. His hand forms a fist, but he relaxes it by extending his fingers. He wants to touch me like I want to feel him. I want his weight, his kisses, his skin pressed on top of mine. I revel in the fact that I’m affecting him, that he is using all his willpower to keep from losing control.
I hold out my hand, needing to keep my focus on normal conversation. “Can I see the list?”
He holds it out for me to take, and I skim the list—new door, window locks, steel screen, and a security system.
I raise my brows. “A security system?”
“Yep,” he deadpans.
I shake my head, walking over to the chair that my purse was hung on. “This isn’t Fort Knox.”
“It will be by the time I’m done with it.”
“You’re sweet but—”
His hand snatches my arm, yanking me to his body. His face inches from mine. “Trust me, I’m not sweet. I don’t do shit like this. I don’t do romance. I don’t do flowers. I’ll forget your birthday, and I won’t give a shit. Sure, I made you breakfast, but that’s because you didn’t have shit to eat and I was hungry. I’m not a heartless man to keep a young woman unsafe while there is a crazy stalker coming for her but, just know, no matter how cute you act, all our banter, it’s just that.”
I try to keep the shock off my face, picking up my slack jaw and keeping my rapid heartbeat in check. So instead, I bring my rational side out and speak up for myself now and the teenage girl Nova who had boyfriends chased off by Jerry.
Slowly, I raise a brow. “Thanks for the clarification, fuck boy, but I’m used to assholes like you. In fact, I’m the definition of victim next to fuck-boy prey. If you got confused, thinking I was interested in something long term, take your ass to your garage and fix your radar. It’s off.”
He searches my face for a moment before speaking. “Fair enough then.”
I look down at his hand still attached to my forearm. “You sure? Seems like you might be the one getting clingy.”
His fingers brush my skin before he lets go. “You ready or did you have anything else heartwarming that you wanted to get off your chest?”
“I’m ready.”
Aurora is singing “Rebel Yell” by Billy Idol in my pick-up truck with the volume topped out. I rub my thumb over the steering wheel as we make our way to Home Depot, which is a good thirty minutes away, torn and pissed about what happened in her apartment. I don’t know why the word “sweet” set me off, but it did. Maybe it was the fear that she gets wrapped into my melodrama or that someone could link me to her. I wasn’t looking to play in an action flick to save the girl.
This shit needs to end.
I’ll buy her the door for her apartment and all the shit I think she needs, and be done. I’m too deep in my shit right now with the Queen and finding her daughter that I shouldn’t even be here with her now. But after last night, I wasn’t going to leave her without needed security. I’ll have Flynn and a few of the other guys stand look-out at her apartment at night and during the day until Jerry is buried in the ground.
Or burned alive.
Or tortured by ripping each of his fingers off, one by one.
I haven’t decided yet.
I texted Beast while she was cleaning up in the bathroom about gathering intel on Jerry, giving all the details I knew about, so far. Better yet, I could have Flynn take c
are of him. I’m sure he could come up with some fucked-up way to torture him. He went to prison for murdering his wife’s lover by setting him on fire, putting him out and lighting him again repeatedly.
When we arrive at Home Depot, Rora insists on paying for the apartment shit. Asking a blond-haired employee, who looked like his favorite band was the Beach Boys, what the best kind of locks were, like I had no fucking clue what I was doing. She’s purposely trying to make a point that she doesn’t need my help, nor does she need a man to get business done. I beg to differ on a few accounts.
Beach Boy flashes his perfect smile at her, more times than needed, and laughs at whatever shit she says. Both of them ignoring the fact that I’m only three feet away from their little flirt feast. But it’s fine, I’ll let her have her petty moment, get whatever she needs from Beach Clown, and we’ll leave.
That’s until Beach Boy’s eyes linger a little too long on her ass and slowly brings it up the length of her body.
If he’s anything like me, which he isn’t, he’s imagining pressing her against the orange shelving and ripping her pants down while his tongue tastes every inch.
Crossing my arms across my chest, Beach Boy seems to notice me for the first time. His face turns a shade of red as he starts showing her another set of locks on sale.
“Rugged, which one?” Rora asks me as I break my glare on the asshole next to her. She’s holding up two deadbolts that are exactly the same but in different colors.
“Are you asking me which color I prefer or brand?”
She looks at both of them. “Are they exactly the same?”
I steady my dick again. My God, she needs a fucking man to take care of her…it just can’t be me.
I feel like a broken fucking record at reminding myself of what I need to do and the simple fact that Rora is off limits. But my other head just doesn’t seem to comprehend the English language lately.
I fix my attention back at the orange apron tool beside her. “What do you think…” I look at his name written in black sharpie. “Kyle.”
“Well, I guess it depends on the price range you’re looking to spend,” he states with a burst of confidence.
