Cross + Catherine: The Companion

by Bethany-Kris

  Catherine was everything.

  His everything.

  “Looks like I stole all the blankets again,” Catherine murmured.

  Cross chuckled. “I kept a pretty tight hold on mine.”

  He had to.

  Otherwise, she would just steal that blanket from him, too. It was just what she did.

  Not that he minded.

  Over two decades of marriage taught him not to mind the small stuff. They just didn’t matter in the grander scheme.

  “So … about that coffee?” Catherine asked.

  Cross laughed, and smacked his wife’s ass over her boy shorts. “You’re so goddamn spoiled, babe.”

  Catherine rolled off him, and preened all the while. “But who made me this way?”

  He rolled his eyes at her as he moved out of the bed. “You say that like it was me. We both know you already came to me being spoiled rotten to your fucking core.”

  “But you love it.”

  Cross tugged on sleep pants, and called over his shoulder as he left the bedroom, “Yeah, can’t deny that.”

  Her laughter chased him from the room. He really didn’t mind getting up to get coffee, or to spoil her more than she already was.

  Whatever made her happy.

  He would do it.

  Cross was in the kitchen and waiting for the percolator to finish filling the carafe when a noise from outside the entryway caught his attention. A curse, it sounded like. And it didn’t belong to a voice he recognized, either.

  Now, when someone unknown was in Cross’s house—they signed their fucking death warrant being there.

  Simple as that.

  Cross reached for the gun hidden in the drawer where Catherine kept dish cloths. He had the weapon tight to his palm, and ready to fire just as the unknown intruder came into view at the entryway.

  Instantly, he relaxed.

  Set the gun down to his side, too.

  “Who the fuck are you?” Cross asked.

  The young woman—she was maybe eighteen, or nineteen—trying to sneak by the kitchen with her high heels dangling from her fingertips froze like a statue on the spot. She spun around to face Cross as he came closer.

  Her wide blue eyes were a mess of smudged makeup, and smeared mascara. Sleep still lingered in her gaze, though, as if she hadn’t been awake for very damn long. Her blonde hair looked like she hadn’t run a brush through it that morning, and the wrinkled, sparkly club dress she wore showed off a hell of a lot of leg.

  Embarrassment snaked up the girl’s cheeks in a bright red.

  Jesus Christ.

  The walk of shame.

  Oh, he knew that look well.

  Sure, it had been years since he sent a woman home looking like that, and he couldn’t remember a time when he had been the one to go home in that state. But Cross wasn’t so old or foolish that he didn’t recognize what he was seeing.

  The young woman gaped like a fish—she was a pretty enough thing, but he doubted this was the kind of morning the woman had planned.

  Cross chose to throw her a bone.

  This was humiliating enough.

  He waved the gun and gestured at her. “I don’t want to know your name—just go. Don’t even tell me a thing.”

  “Okay,” the girl squeaked.

  She was gone a second later.

  Cross waited until the front door of their Newport home closed shut before he went in search of the only possible explanation for the strange young female in his house. He soon found eighteen-year-old Nazio in his bedroom doing chin-ups on the bar that hung in the doorway of Naz’s connecting bathroom.

  On the TV, news played.

  The stereo—heavy metal.

  On the white board above the head of Naz’s bed—well, to Cross it looked like a bunch of jumbled, nonsensical numbers and symbols, but he knew just by seeing them enough times from Naz that it was a physics theory of some sort.

  And no, not high school level shit.

  Genius level physics.

  All of this shit played on in Naz’s room as he finished his chin-up set. The eighteen year old dropped to the floor without barely making a sound—six foot six, and two-hundred and thirty pounds of solid muscle.

  Yeah, where Naz had once seemed like all long arms and legs was now a very filled out young man. A good two hours of every day for Naz was dedicated to fitness whether it be weight training, or hard cardio. Not because he was vain about his body, but because his body needed to be able to keep up with him.

  He still liked his beanie, though.

  That reminded Cross of when his boy was young, and still little. Before all this genius stuff had come along to make Naz a little chaotic in his life.

  “Hey,” Naz said as he grabbed the black marker from his nightstand. “The weather is going to be good for that gun run to Kenya.”

  That was what was playing on the TV.

  Naz scribbled more shit Cross couldn’t even begin to attempt to understand on the whiteboard, and stepped back as the TV and radio blared on in the background. The young man surveyed his formula like he was satisfied—sort of.

  Cross was overwhelmed just standing there. It was too many things happening all at once, and too much noise to get his thoughts in order. Far too much movement, and everything else, too.

  He couldn’t keep up.

  This was Naz, though.

  This was Naz’s everyday life.

  His mind.

  Chaotic.

  Intense.

  So full.

  Non-stop.

  “Naz,” Cross said, “give me five.”

  Naz clapped once, and the TV shut off, Then, he snapped his fingers, and the music quieted to a dull roar in the background—much better than before.

  “You want more lights on for this, or …?” his son asked.

  “Whatever, son.”

  Naz clapped twice, and the lights brightened. A whole set up Naz had hooked up himself. Like everything else in this damn bedroom.

  Cross did not understand how he had ended up with a child that was a literal genius.

  But here Naz was.

  Graduated high school at fifteen. He was going into his third year of college, and would likely graduate with a doctorate within three or so years. That was, if Naz stayed in school and continued to work as hard as he did for his studies.

  Who knew if he would?

  Naz was brilliant, sure.

  But fickle, too.

  And restless.

  Sinful.

  Criminal.

  Amazing, really.

  The young man could attend six hours of classes five days a week, plus two hours of online studies. Then, in the evenings, he mentored under one of Cross’s Capos—and Zeke, too. Naz had been doing that since he was twelve because he wanted to be a made man like nothing else.

  And on the weekends?

  Naz ran guns.

  Sometimes with Cross, if it was a short run, but more often than not, with his partner.

  “Who was that woman?” Cross asked.

  Naz scribbled more nonsensical things to the white board. “Tess, or Treena … Tyler, maybe. Something with a T, anyway.”

  “Nazio.”

  “Met her at the club last night.”

  “What are you gonna do if they catch your ass in one of those clubs with a fake ID, Naz?”

  Nazio passed his father a look. “Buy a new one?”

  Jesus.

  “Naz!”

  “What?”

  “Since when do you break my rules—no women in this house when your mother and I are home. You know the rules.”

  Naz shot his father an apologetic look. “I wasn’t thinking.”

  “Since when do you not think?”

  Shrugging, Naz shoved his hands into the pockets of his training shorts. “When I’m buried in pussy, I guess.”

  Christ.

  “Naz,” Cross murmured, raising a brow high.

  “What? It’s the only time I don’t have to be …�
��

  “What, son?”

  Naz gestured at the white board, and then pointed to his temple. “This.”

  Cross frowned.

  Naz was a decent young man despite his bloodline and namesake. Sure, he was a criminal, too. Dark in his soul at times.

  But he was also eighteen.

  And pretty normal, all things considered.

  Even being amazing like he was.

  “Naz.”

  “Hmm?” his son asked.

  “No women in the house when we’re here.”

  “All right, Dad. Got it.”

  Cross smiled. “Unless, of course, it’s a woman you would like to introduce your mother and I to. That, son, is a whole different story.”

  A chuckle answered him back before Naz said, “I don’t think I am ever going to find someone to keep all of this interested for longer than it takes me to bust a nut.”

  “Never say never, Naz. And you know—you earn that kind of woman by being the man you think a woman like that deserves. She is never just going to be given to you.”

  Naz nodded, and for a second, their gazes locked. “Yeah, Dad, I know.”

  The Business

  Cece POV

  Cece kept her clutch close to her body as she weaved in and out of the people—very famous faces with very deep pockets, and far too many secrets to name. Working in this business of dealing drugs to the rich, famous, and spoiled since she was eighteen had taught her one very important thing: everybody had secrets to hide.

  It just so happened to be that Cece, and the drugs she supplied, was a secret far too many in the elite circles kept.

  Still, even though she knew a lot of the faces at the New York after-party, she didn’t feel very comfortable letting her guard down. She was twenty-two, not fourteen. She wasn’t some naive girl with the belief that she held all the power.

  Her mother taught her that lesson.

  Not to trust anyone.

  Not to give an inch to any-fucking-one.

  A woman gave an inch, and a man took a mile. Men were goddamn predictable like that. Creatures of habits when it came to getting what they wanted. Or better yet, being denied what they wanted, and their subsequent reaction that came from it.

  Cece couldn’t count the amount of times she had been propositioned by the men she dealt to—or someone in their inner circles—for more than just drugs. They rarely even made a secret about asking, instead seeming to get some strange, sick enjoyment out of asking her where everyone else could hear, too.

  She had no problem saying no.

  She always said no.

  They knew better, anyway.

  Her body—sex—was not on the table when she showed up to answer one of their calls. She was there to hand off the drugs they wanted, and get the hell out shortly after.

  Be their beautiful ghost, her mother liked to say. It was supposed to be a nothing more, nothing less kind of thing.

  Some of them didn’t want a ghost, though. Some of them wanted something much more tangible from Cece.

  This client in particular was one …

  “Cece!”

  She plastered on her fakest smile, but it still passed Mack Gordan’s shit-o-meter, it seemed. The famous football player was built like a brick shithouse, and had a booming voice to match. As far as Cece knew, he’d retired a couple of years ago from the game after a bad knee injury left him practically useless.

  He liked to party, though.

  His reputation preceded him. Everything people said about him was true, and then some. The guy was overbearing, a little too touchy-feely, and he didn’t seem to get the hint that Cece was not on his market.

  Or frankly, any fucking man’s market.

  He was a client, though. And so, Cece sucked up her issues and uncomfortable feelings whenever she got another call that he wanted something delivered, and did her damn job. She didn’t want to tell her mother that she couldn’t handle this guy.

  After all, Mack had never actually crossed a line. Not one that Cece hadn’t been able to handle, anyway.

  With his friends all around, a large party happening, and witnesses … she doubted he was very threatening to her. Harmless, really.

  “Hey, Mack,” Cece said.

  She took his hug, but didn’t offer more than an awkward pat on the football player’s shoulder in return. If he noticed, he didn’t say anything.

  Then again, he was a little too occupied by dragging his hand lower on the back of her black body-con dress until his palm rested right on the swell of her ass.

  Nope.

  Cece took a wide step back, and had to practically take Mack’s hands off her body.

  In the background, she could feel eyes blazing on her. Cece had a job to do, so she focused on that instead of looking for the man she knew was there to watch her back. He would do his job, and only step in, if he really needed to.

  But she still wondered …

  “Don’t you want to party with us tonight, Cece?” Mack asked.

  His smile was too wide.

  His pupils pin-small.

  The guy was already high. Already entirely fucked up. And clearly not on her drugs because she had just arrived.

  Why was she even here?

  “Actually—”

  Mack didn’t let Cece finish her statement. He grabbed her wrist in his beefy palm before she could even finish, and dragged her to a leather sofa. She had all she could do not to trip in her heels, not to mention, keep herself somewhat modest when she was dragged onto the couch.

  On Mack’s lap.

  Nope.

  Nope, nope, nope.

  Fuck no.

  She was going to try to get out of this situation with as much dignity and respect she could muster to Mack, but that was all she could offer the man. At this point, he had already taken things way too far.

  She didn’t know if it was because he was putting on a show for someone, of if it was because he was already high.

  He knew the rules.

  He kept trying to cross them.

  “Sorry, Mack, not to—”

  Mack’s hands tightened on Cece’s waist to an almost painful point when she tried to stand up. “No, you can stay right where you are. Say hello.”

  Cece’s gaze drifted over the people at the party. Famous faces—other football players, and socialites. In essence, people who would be more than willing to turn their cheek to something that happened because they didn’t want their faces or names attached to that kind of problem. Not to mention, their precious fucking reputations.

  Screw this.

  Cece tried to be nice.

  She tried to do this cleanly.

  But she was done.

  Done with Mack.

  Done with being the girl who handled his calls and product.

  Done with dodging his advances.

  Done with his games.

  Cece’s hand slipped up her thigh, and while Mack’s head and attention was turned on someone else, she pulled the knife out from its sheath. For some clients, Cece never even felt the need to keep protection on herself.

  They were genuinely decent people—minus the occasional drug use. They never made her feel unsafe, never crowded her personal space, and never ever got handsy with her. Nothing like Mack had done time and time again.

  It was sickening, really.

  Flicking the knife up and around in her palm with a quick spin of the hilt around her fingertips—a cute little trick her mother taught her when she was fifteen—she had the blade resting against the side of Mack’s throat that his guests couldn’t see. The side that was facing the window, not the people.

  Mack stiffened.

  His grip on her tightened.

  Cece pushed the blade harder against his pulse in his throat. “You will bleed out before an ambulance ever gets here. Now, you know I’m not interested. You know you’re not supposed to touch me. Remove your hands from my body, or I will make sure the heel of my stiletto will be the last thing you
see before it crushes your skull.”

  The whole time, she managed to keep her voice at a respectable, calm level. She didn’t even let that fake smile of hers fall.

  Talent, really.

  It all took talent.

  Cece heard Mack swallow hard a second before he let her go. A bit too hard, and with a quick shove, but she was quick on her feet. If the asshole meant to surprise her, she was already planning for a move like that.

  Again …

  Men were predictable.

  Cece was quick to hide her blade behind her arm as she turned to face Mack, and his now-confused looking friends. “And this is where our night—and business—ends, Mack. I will let the regina know to take you off her client list.”

  “You can’t—”

  “I can do whatever I want to do, actually,” Cece said. “What, do you think the regina will replace me with some other poor girl for you to harass and bother? Unlikely. Have a good life. I’m sure I will see you on a new series of Celebrity Rehab in a few years.”

  With that, Cece turned away.

  Maybe that was the mistake.

  Not going in there.

  Not letting Mack get too close.

  No, turning her back on him.

  A hand came to lock around the back of Cece’s neck before she had even taken a second step away. She knew it was Mack, but her flight or fight instinct kicked in hard at the feeling of somebody grabbing her like that.

  Nobody touched her that way.

  Not without permission.

  Finally, those eyes that she had felt watching her from the moment she stepped into the party made their presence known.

  Juan.

  The only man her mother sent to watch after her when she worked. Her only bodyguard, so to speak.

  But he was so much more than that, too.

  He was everything to her.

  Sometimes, it was confusing. Sometimes, they were on, and they were off. Sometimes, they didn’t know if they were together, or not.

  It didn’t matter.

  Juan looked after her.

  Juan was hers.

  He was six feet, five inches of two-hundred and forty pounds of Latino muscle coming through the crowd. And the man could part a crowd just by fucking looking at it. How he managed to blend in as well as he did with that God-like face of his, and those dark eyes, she didn’t know.