by Chelle Bliss
“I’m not going back to Jamison.”
“Well then, you can go wherever the hell you want tomorrow.”
She eyes me, studying my face, passing judgment on me. “How do I know you’re not a murderer?”
I point to the camera on the light post next to her car. “Cameras everywhere, babe. If I were going to do you harm, I sure as hell wouldn’t leave any evidence.”
“How is that even your answer?”
“Babe.”
She shakes her head. “I didn’t notice the cameras, but somehow you’ve already seen them, knew you were spotted, and decided to share that information with me.”
“My dad’s ex-law enforcement. He’s taught me how to survey a situation and always be aware of my surroundings. But besides that, doesn’t everyone know there’re cameras always watching, especially in parking lots and high-crime areas?”
She looks around. “This is a high-crime area?”
My hometown isn’t much. One busy street packed with retail chains and restaurants. Every other inch consists of housing developments or acreage with “No Trespassing” signs posted on the gate at the end of their driveway. I may have exaggerated about the high-crime area. We’ve never had much action when it comes to shit like that. The town is too small, and everyone knows everyone’s face and, therefore, their business.
“My place is a hell of a lot safer than here,” I tell her, wondering why the hell I’m working so hard with someone who’s clearly in need but doesn’t want my help. “But if you’d rather—”
“No.” The window moves a few inches lower. “I wouldn’t rather stay here.”
“Then fire her up, and let’s get a move on,” I tell her, ticking my chin toward the car.
“I need to tell someone where I am. Just to be safe.”
I reach into my pocket, fishing out my wallet, and I slide out my driver’s license and hold it out for her. “Send my info to someone and tell them to check on you tomorrow.”
She plucks the plastic card from my fingers, her eyes running over the information. “Nicholas Gallo,” she reads.
“Babe, snap the picture, send the message, and let’s go. I want to get home and get some shut-eye before I have to be at work tomorrow.”
She raises her hand and turns on the overhead light. “Fine,” she mutters. “But I’m not having sex with you. I want that to be clear.”
“Clear as fucking day. I thought we agreed on that fact back at the taco joint. I know you think you’re all that, but you’re not my type.”
Her brows furrow. “I’m not your type?”
“Jesus fuckin’ Christ. Take the damn photo and follow me,” I tell her, stalking away, heading back to my bike.
Tomorrow, I’m going to tell my dad he’s a damn fool. Not every woman in the world needs to be protected, especially not difficult ones who clearly do not want help.
By the time my ass is on my bike, her engine roars to life and her headlights turn on.
Thank fuck.
She follows me out of the parking lot, keeping her distance as we drive down the main road, turning onto my street. Her car slows, the space between my bike and her car growing wider.
I cut the engine, rolling my bike into my driveway and walking it up to the garage door. My neighbor, Mrs. Marcum, is a light sleeper, and her baby an even lighter one. The last thing I need is her banging on my door in the morning, telling me what a shit human I am for waking up her baby in the middle of the night.
Jo pulls behind my bike, staring up at my house through the windshield, craning her neck. I put the kickstand down, climb off, and motion for her to move her ass too.
She climbs out slowly, her eyes sweeping across the exterior of my house. “This is where you live?” she asks without looking at me.
“Uh, yeah. Not what you expected?”
She lifts her purse higher on her shoulder. “I figured you’d live in a…”
“Shithole?” I finish her thought for her.
She winces. “Well, no. But not something so…normal.”
“I may not need seven-hundred-thread-count sheets, but I like my space, and that includes a nice house.”
She twists, looking around the neighborhood. “I figured you more for an apartment or downtown loft type of guy.”
I laugh. “Sweetheart, did you see a downtown loft anywhere for me to even live in if I were that type of guy, which I’m not?”
She shakes her head.
“Can we go in now?” I ask her, seeing as she hasn’t moved an inch away from her car door. “I’m tired, and standing out here having a conversation for the entire neighborhood to hear really isn’t my thing.”
“They can hear us?”
“I installed security cams, which include speakers, on every house on this block. They see and hear everything.”
She wrinkles her nose. “You did that?”
“Yep.”
“Why?”
“Security.”
“From all the criminals?” she stammers, clutching her purse to her side.
“From whatever. Ain’t any bad shit in this neighborhood because we make sure there’s no bad shit. It’s the modern-day version of community watch. Eyes and ears everywhere.”
“Figured out here everyone sat in their windows with their shotguns, waiting for the bad to come to them.”
I laugh. “Total city girl.”
“You say that like it’s a bad thing.”
“It ain’t. Now, let’s go. Cameras, remember?” I remind her, and that gets her ass moving, slamming her door and heading toward me.
“Well, come on.” She shoos me toward the door. “Wouldn’t want all the prying eyes to have something to gossip about tomorrow.”
I shake my head, walking in front of her. “You will not be gossip.”
“I’m sure I’m not the first woman you’ve brought home.”
“Won’t be the last either,” I mumble into the door as the lock disengages.
She stays five feet away from my back but follows me inside. “Here,” she says.
I turn, spotting my license in her hand, and take it back. “I’ll grab you some blankets and pillows. No feathers, though,” I tease, turning on the lights as I move down the hallway. “You should be comfortable enough to get a few hours of sleep.”
She stands in the entry, not having moved more than a few feet inside the house. “Why are you helping me?”
“My dad always taught me to help others, especially women, when they’re in need. And if I’ve ever met anyone in need, it’s you, babe.”
“I hate that.” She scrunches up her nose again.
“Hate what?” I pull down a pile of blankets and pillows, carrying as many as I possibly can, hoping something will satisfy the city girl.
“Babe.”
“Well, it’s a good thing you won’t be here long enough to have to hate it much longer. Mean no disrespect with the word.”
“I mean, I’ve been called worse, but it’s just so…archaic.”
“I’m a man. I make no apologies for that.”
She sighs, following me into the living room when her feet finally come unstuck from the tile. “The inside is prettier than the outside,” she says, her eyes moving around the room, soaking in my space.
I drop the pile of pillows and blankets on the love seat before starting to prep the couch for her. I have two spare bedrooms, neither of which are set up for company, and that’s done on purpose. “I don’t know what kind of men you’ve been with. Don’t know where you come from. Don’t care either. But babe shouldn’t make your face twist up like it does. Especially not when you have a douchebag like Janison.”
“Jamison,” she corrects me. “Like the whiskey but spelled differently.”
“Whatever,” I mutter, tossing the pillows on one end and covering the couch with another blanket. “Bathroom’s down the hall. You need anything, don’t wake me up. I got nothing to hide. You need water, get it. You need to piss, go. You’re hun
gry, good luck because all I have is frozen shit, chips, and some granola bars.”
“I’ll be fine,” she insists, standing stock-still, staring at me. “Thank you.”
“Pains you to say that, doesn’t it?” I tease, giving her a smile.
“No,” she lies.
“You wanna get out of that?” I ask as my gaze dips to her shorts and lacy tank top.
“I can sleep in this.”
“I have an old T-shirt and shorts that might fit you.”
“I’m fine,” she tells me again, setting her purse down on the coffee table right in front of the pillows. “If I could sleep in my car, I’m pretty damn sure I can handle a couch in my shorts.”
“Suit yourself,” I mutter, walking away. “Night.”
“That’s it?” she asks.
I turn my head, glancing over my shoulder, and raise an eyebrow. “You want something else?”
“Well. I…no.”
“Good.”
“I only figured…”
“Babe, I’m tired. Can we save the chitchat for a time when I’m not seeing double, dead on my feet, with five tacos in my belly weighing me down?”
She nods. “Night.”
“Night, babe,” I say, throwing in another babe because she hates it.
She mutters something to herself, no doubt calling me an asshole along with an entire slew of curse words.
I kick off my boots, strip out of my shirt and pants as soon as I’m inside my room, and climb into bed. I give no shits there’s a chick down the hall. Hot or not, I don’t want a piece of her and whiskey’s trouble.
My eyes are barely closed when her cell phone goes off, the ringer set so loud it could wake the dead.
“I don’t know where I am,” she tells the person on the phone. “I mean, I know the address, but I don’t know where in the hell in Florida I am.” There’s a long pause. “I started driving, headed north until the city lights fell away.” Another long pause. “I don’t know what I was thinking. Clearly, I wasn’t, but he offered me a place to stay, and it was either this or a parking lot.”
The hardwood floor creaks, and I know she’s on the move, pacing back and forth in the living room.
“He seems really nice, though.” A few seconds go by before she starts talking again, and I lie in the darkness, waiting for her next words. “He told me to send you his information in case. I don’t think a criminal would do that, Kimberly.”
Jo laughs, the sweet sound echoing down the hallway. “I highly doubt he’s a sex trafficker. Stop with your nonsense. I’m too tired to get into it with you. Let me call you in the morning, and we’ll talk about what to do with Jamison.”
What to do with Jamison? I’m not sure what that means, but he deserves to be dropped on his ass for the way he talks to her, along with what he did to her. I’ve known so many chicks like her, and she’ll probably be back in his arms tomorrow night, willing to forgive him for anything.
“Kimberly, I got this.” There’s a short pause, and the floor quiets along with her mouth. “I have my Mace, and if he tries anything, I won’t hesitate to use it.”
4
Jo
Bacon. The smell is unmistakable. For a moment, I lie there dazed and confused.
Shit.
I’m not at home. I’m not even at the hotel room Jamison booked for us on the beach.
I glance around as last night comes slamming back into me.
Jamison and the maid.
Me storming out.
My drive to the middle of nowhere.
The taco stand.
Nachos.
Tears.
Jamison’s phone call.
A hot but nosy guy.
The same hot guy who was also a macho asshole, but also kind of sweet.
Trying to catch some sleep in my car because my stupid ass drove to who-the-fuck-knows-where Florida.
The same kind of sweet asshole finding me in the parking lot of some random store and offering me a place to sleep.
And somehow, God only knows why, I agreed to go to his house.
I mean, I know why. My rental car is expensive and foreign, but in no way is it comfortable. Also, I didn’t exactly feel safe from prying eyes and passersby as I lay in the parking lot, try to sleep and failing.
That all led me to here.
Sleeping on the couch of the hot, sweet jerk, still in the middle of nowhere, but alive and almost rested.
I peer down, lifting the blanket, making sure I still have on my clothes.
Anything could’ve happened while I was sleeping. I took a sleeping pill last night. Probably not the smartest thing to do, but I couldn’t get settled.
I take a minute to look around the room I barely had time to take in last night before he threw some blankets down and left me alone, not giving two shits if I was a murderer or a thief.
I’m not either, but I could’ve been, and he didn’t seem to care one way or the other. That’s the luxury of having a penis and not being in the public eye.
The living room is nicely decorated. Nothing feminine, but clean lines without an ounce of color except black and white.
A well-worn black leather chair is next to the couch, with a chrome-and-glass coffee in front of the two, rounding out the ensemble. Everything is neat and organized, which is more than I can say about my place in LA or Jamison’s, for that matter.
“You eat eggs?”
I bite my lip, lying perfectly still, hoping he’ll carry on without me.
Play dead. I could do that. I’ve done it before, and it’s always worked. I have the ability to hold my breath longer than most Olympic swimmers. I could fool him, right?
Duh, Jo.
Play dead too well and he may call the police, which would then lead to an ambulance, which would then lead to too many people asking too many questions.
The last thing I want to do is make small talk with a stranger over breakfast in day-old clothes with makeup that no doubt has smeared down my face, making me look like something out of a horror movie.
“Babe, heard you move. I know you’re awake. Stop fuckin’ around. You want eggs or something else?” he asks again, this time standing over me, eyes studying me as I lie as still as a statue, but my eyes are wide open.
I lift my gaze to him and narrow my eyes. “Scrambled with cheese and ketchup.”
Holy mother of God.
In the darkness last night, I could tell he was cute, even if I did have blurry vision from the stupid tears filling my eyes. But in the daylight…in the daylight, he is…
He winces, holding a spatula in one hand and a pan in the other, giving me a super-judgy look. “That’s criminal.”
I roll my eyes as I sit up, avoiding his stare and needing to look away instead of gawking at the insanely hot and shirtless man standing over me. “You asked. I answered,” I throw back, sounding snotty as hell.
“Suit yourself,” he grunts before the sound of his boots against the hardwood grows softer, and I finally allow myself to breathe.
He didn’t ask me a million questions, never even tried anything remotely indecent, and he is making me breakfast. Eggs, to be exact. Something no man I’ve ever dated has done for me before. I need to put my attitude aside, saving it for the real person I am pissed at—and that man is Jamison.
I stand up and turn to face where the sound of his footsteps went. For a moment, I’m stunned and motionless. The kitchen is more beautiful and immaculate than the living room. Shiny black cabinets with white stone countertops. Totally manly.
He peers in my direction as he stands in front of the stove, looking like he does this every day. My mouth is suddenly dry as I soak him in, shirtless and covered in muscles and sporting a massive back tattoo, with his pants slung low on his hips.
“Toast?” he asks, giving his attention back to the pan and taking it away from me.
Fucking hell.
The man may not talk in complete sentences, but his body is smokin’ hot. Jamison, on
the other hand, is tall, thin, and not a single piece of ink. He is willowy and athletic, but in no way would I describe him as ripped. This guy, though… has the entire package.
When I don’t answer, he turns his deep blue eyes back to me.
I swallow, suddenly dumb struck and mute.
“Toast,” he repeats, smirking. “Bread. Do you eat it?”
I nod, not speaking.
“Wheat?”
I nod again because I’m a freaking moron.
Beautiful men with hot bodies aren’t new to me. But based on the way I’m acting, it’s as if I’ve never seen anything like him before.
“Bathroom?” I squeak out, somehow finding my voice lodged somewhere in my vagina.
He ticks his head to the right. “Down the hall. Second door on the right.”
I grab my phone off the coffee table and make a beeline for the bathroom, needing to check in with Kimberly. When I turn on my screen, I have five missed text messages, all from her and none from Jamison.
Thank God.
Kimberly (7:08 a.m.): Are you okay?
Kimberly (7:15 a.m.): I’m worried.
Kimberly (7:21 a.m.): Bitch, I’m texting you.
Kimberly (7:31 a.m.): Maybe I should call the police and send them to Nick’s.
Ahh. That’s right. I’d forgotten his name in the haze of last night. Thank God for her.
Kimberly (7:33 a.m.): I’m getting ready to call the cops. Last chance.
My eyes widen.
If the cops are about to beat on his door, it’s because my publicist is completely insane.
I dial her immediately, and on the very first ring, she answers. “What in the fuck is wrong with you?” she yells into the phone, almost blowing out my eardrum. “I’ve been up all night worrying about you.”
“I’m fine. Thanks,” I say sarcastically.
“Jo, I’ve been texting you for over a half hour. What in the fuck have you been doing? I thought he killed you and I was too late to save your life.”
“You seriously need to stop watching so many crime shows. Not everyone is a murderer.”
She makes a pfft sound. “You clearly need to get your head out of your Hollywood ass and realize there’s real life and fiction. You’re not living in a fairy tale or some sappy television sitcom. Bad shit happens to good people. And bad shit happens even more to rich people who live in the public eye. That bad shit also seems to happen a lot in small towns no one has ever heard of.”
