Sloth

by Ella James

  I spot a humming bird feeder hanging from the limb of a mid-sized Maple tree, and that seals the deal for me. This place is fine. I’m going in. I park my car beside an SUV with our school’s sticker on the back and spend a moment finger-brushing my hair.

  Then I grab my bag, step out onto the red dirt ground, and walk up to the porch. I’ve got a little .357 Taurus tucked into my jeans pocket. I’d hate to use it, but I’m a good shot, and I need to be able to protect myself if Matt’s friends turn out to be creepers.

  I hold my breath and ring the doorbell.

  Panic swells in my throat. What kind of people live so far out by the river? My eyes are searching through the glass panes framing the sleek wood door, looking into a wide, hardwood hallway for Matt’s round face and redneck clothes.

  As I’m watching for him, something comes over my eyes. Hands. I whirl. I try to whirl, but my captor does that for me, spinning me on my heels as my hand flails for my gun. “What the—”

  “Cleo Whatley.” The hand moves. I blink at—KELLAN WALSH!

  “Oh fuck.”

  I try to change my course of action—what I want to do is run—but my hand is already in motion. I’ve grabbed my gun and I can’t seem to stop my arm’s trajectory. The nose of my Taurus comes in line with Kellan’s collarbone.

  His eyes don’t even widen. He rips the gun from my hand like a professional fighter.

  His face is hard as he snatches my wrists, thrusts them over my head, and uses his legs and his free arm to nudge me toward the door. I don’t even see him open it before I’m jerked through doorway.

  “What are—”

  “Quiet,” he snarls.

  The next few minutes are surreal. My dazed mind marvels at how strong and deft he is as I am dragged down a high-gloss, hardwood hallway that runs alongside an elaborate staircase. Better Homes & Gardens comes to life around me as I’m spirited through a flawless kitchen and hauled into an enormous living area with top-notch furnishings, Oriental rugs, and yawning ceilings striped with exposed wood beams and long, glass skylights.

  He sets me on my feet behind a white suede couch, still holding my wrists tight enough to bruise. It’s weird to see Perfect Kellan look so... furious.

  Fuck, he’s glaring daggers at me.

  “Where is Matt?” I screech, jerking against his hold.

  Who would have thought that pretty face could be so cold? I hold his gaze, praying it will soften. When it doesn’t, my heart throbs sickly. “Let me go!”

  He shakes his head and locks his jaw. “I want an explanation, Cleo.”

  “What are you doing here?” I bleat.

  “This is my house.”

  I’M BREATHING HARD AND FAST, like I just snorted something. With my arms above my head and his angry face so close to mine, I feel tears sting the corners of my eyes.

  “W-what do you mean... your house?”

  I hear a thud from somewhere in the rooms behind us, and my heart stops. All the blood must leave my head, because the living room careens around me. Am I busted? I can’t breathe. I jerk against his hands, around my wrists, because I want to grab my throat. He lets me go abruptly, but before I can regain my balance, he scoops me up and throws me over his back.

  He stalks toward some built-in bookshelves, then cuts between a wing-backed chair and a pretty, stone fireplace. Stairs. There’s another staircase here at the back of the house. Kellan seems to be taking the stairs two at a time.

  A frenzied sob bursts from my throat. “This is a set up!”

  “Calm down,” he snaps.

  My mind races as my cheek slaps the fabric of his shirt. I get a bird’s eye-view of the living area below and marvel at how extravagant it is, even as I wonder: where is Matt, did Matt sell me out, what will Kellan do to me? And why the hell did I say ‘this is a set up?’ That was fucking stupid.

  The bounce of Kellan’s footsteps levels off, and the dark wood staircase with its plush, green runner morphs into the flat plane of a hall.

  I take in the décor—wine-colored walls that stretch to tall ceilings, framed by elaborate crown molding; contemporary abstract landscape paintings mounted between doors; a table with a lamp and palm tree beside a large bay window—while my arms flail in the air. I don’t want to grasp his back despite my need for balance.

  Fucking Matt. My stomach clenches as I question Lora, too. I’m feeling about three strides from barfing when he curves slightly to the right, pushes one of those schmancy wood doors open, and steps inside... a bedroom. My heartbeat throbs in my eyes as I blink at a plush, tan rug, and the bottom half of a dresser. I struggle to lift my head, catching a glimpse of tall, plum-colored walls, a giant Monet reprod, and the top half of a burly oak dresser.

  I’m filled with what-the-fuck as Kellan lowers me onto the rug. It’s a big bedroom, dominated by an enormous canopy bed, but that’s all I note before my eyes are glued to him. He’s standing right in front of me with his arms folded, his face set in a stern, avenging look. With his well-built body clad in a pale blue button-up, dark jeans, and brown leather boots, he looks as righteous as ever: Chattahoochee College’s very own morality enforcer.

  He also looks pissed off to behold me. Like I’ve wronged him. This makes me feel both angry and breathlessly afraid. “Why’d you bring me up here?” I manage in a froggy voice.

  I glance again around the bedroom.

  The wall in front of me is nothing but a sheet of glass, offering a stunning view of the tops of pines, and the river rushing over rocks below them. Above the treetops, the pale sky stretches on and on, broken only by a soaring hawk.

  I roll my gaze around the room, taking in its deep plum walls, the high ceilings. There’s even a fancy indention at the center of the ceiling, something that looks right out of a home and garden magazine. And to my left is the bed: a deliciously masculine oak monstrosity, with tree-trunk posts, a deep green duvet, and curtains that drop down around it.

  A bed for fucking.

  I’m still shaking slightly, so I fold my own arms, mirroring his stance. “I want my gun back.” I wait a beat for him to speak, and when he doesn’t, I scoff, as if all I feel right now is irritation. “Where is Matt?”

  My eyes flick to the window-wall. I notice there’s a balcony outside it. Something about the balcony makes my knees wobble. Or maybe it’s that bad look on his face.

  Shit—I’m starting to feel faint.

  His jaw flexes, and I may be going insane, because I think I see some of the hardness melt off his features.

  “Matt’s not here right now.”

  “He set me up.” There’s no way around that fact, although I wish there was. I pulled a gun on Kellan Walsh. I’m at his fucking house, loaded down with wads of cash. A horrible thought steamrolls me. “Are you a secret agent? Like an... FBI?”

  He laughs at that. The asshole actually laughs. He takes a small step closer to me, his eyes never leaving mine. “You think I am?”

  “God, just fucking tell me. Don’t keep playing games.”

  He’s close enough to touch me now. His arms uncross. His face goes calmly neutral as he shifts his gaze around the room. It pauses on a wing-backed chair in a corner on the opposite side of the bed. I freeze as Kellan steps toward me. He steps around me. He strides over to the wing-backed chair, hefts it over his shoulder, and brings it to me.

  He sets it near the foot of the bed and waves at it. “Sit down.”

  I shake my head. Out of nowhere, tears spring into my eyes. “Don’t drag this out. It’s cruel.”

  I grit my teeth as hot saliva pools in my mouth—as if my tears are being redirected.

  “Sit down,” he says, more sharply.

  I do. I don’t know why. I tuck my arms around myself and fix my gaze on the glass wall. The balcony is stone—expensive-looking, as if gargoyles ought to perch on its stone railing. I can see the river gleam between the pines. I’m so damn fucked. I’m so stupid. I drop my head into my hands, because the tears are falling and I hate to
be caught crying.

  “Cleo?” He sighs, as if he’s irritated. I feel his hand close on my shoulder. “Look at me.”

  I can’t. “Just let me leave,” I whisper to my knees.

  Why did this happen? Matt seemed nice. I wipe my eyes and look up at Kellan. “Did you guys set me up for... some reason?”

  His eyes, on mine, are calm and blue. I find no malice there. Also, no outrage at the question, at my insinuation that Kellan Perfect Walsh is in cahoots with Matt, a known unsavory.

  Kellan shifts his weight. His gaze drops to his feet, then drags back up to mine. “Not in the way you think.”

  “What does that mean?”

  He lifts his chin. He tilts his head at something past me. “See that vase?”

  I turn around. I half expect something hard to come down on my head, but Kellan just waits while my gaze drifts over the built-in bookshelves lining most of the left wall of the room. Just beyond the mini library, set close to the corner by the top, right bedpost, is an antique wash table—also oak—that holds, among other items, a black glass vase.

  “Yes,” I rasp. I see the vase.

  “Go get it.”

  I turn back to him, so I can see his face. Perfection. Warmth spreads through me, chased by nervous cold. He nods toward the vase.

  “Why?” I whisper.

  “Just do it.”

  “Where’s my gun?”

  He reaches down and pulls it from his left boot like a cowboy. He holds it out to me. I swallow as I take it.

  It’s too light. Fear rips through me. “You disarmed my gun?”

  He huffs a laugh. “Of course. You shoot, I bleed—and we’re a long way from a decent hospital.”

  “I want my bullets back!”

  He nods past me. “Go get the vase, Cleo.”

  “Are you going to give my bullets back?” I tuck the gun into the waist of my pants.

  “Drop back by here one day, without the gun.”

  I glare at him and walk around the foot of the bed, past the curtained side of it, and to the table. The vase is vaguely fishbowl shaped, about that size as well, and it looks empty. As soon as I pick it up, I can feel it’s not. There’s something fuzzy in the bottom. After only a second, I realize...”It’s my stuff.”

  A glance behind me reveals that Kellan’s got his poker face on. I reach in and curl my hand around my long lost nuggets—but... they’re not nuggets. This is... one long bud? I draw it out and frown down at it. “I don’t understand.”

  I bring it to my nose. Inhale its sweety-sour scent.

  “Can you smell a hint of grape?”

  I set the vase down on the bed. “I’m confused...”

  He flicks his fingers. “Come here, Cleo.”

  I don’t know what I’m expecting, but my hands are shaking. Kellan doesn’t take the bud from me. He nods down at the brown chair I was in before, and I find I have the urge to do as he asks. “Have a seat,” he orders.

  “Not until you tell me what’s going on.” Even as I say that, I’m sitting.

  “That strain’s called The Grape Escape. It’ll knock you on your ass. Unlike the swag you sell.”

  I frown down at the long bud. Back at Kellan. Unlike that shit you sell...”Are you saying you... ?” I shake my head. “I must be missing something.”

  His lips smooth into a thin line, revealing dimples on each side of his glorious mouth. His brows lift as his face takes on a pensive slant. “I’ll throw you a bone, Whatley. Matt’s with me.”

  I blink a bunch of times. I can’t stop myself. Somehow, what he said makes even less sense than me being set up. “He’s... ? Matt’s... are you saying you’re—?” I laugh. “Are you saying you’re a drug dealer?”

  “I’m not a dealer. Matt is.” His lips remain pressed together, and his blue eyes seem to twinkle, as if he’s in on a big joke.

  “Are you a supplier? A grower? The money man? Are you a fucking cop, Kellan?” My voice trembles. “Where’s Matt?” I jump up out of the chair. “I want to know what’s going on!”

  “What do you think?”

  “I don’t know, but you need to tell me.” My breath hisses out my nostrils. “I don’t like surprises.”

  “I don’t either,” he says, stepping close enough so I can smell his cinnamony breath. “So imagine my surprise when one of my guys told me he was losing clients to a sorority girl. A pretty girl with a nose ring and long, dark hair.”

  His words are like drop-kicks to my chest. I hold my hands up while I try to comprehend. And then I do, and I see motherfucking red. “You’re a dealer. You’re a fucking dealer! What the fuck?”

  He shakes his head, rubbing his mouth. “Matt’s a dealer. Not me.”

  “You’re a grower!”

  He shakes his perfect blond head. “Soil’s too rocky out here.”

  “You must think I don’t know anything. No one grows it outside.”

  “Most don’t,” he agrees. “You and I know that plants grown outside tend to yield higher bud counts.”

  “So you are a grower!”

  He shakes his head.

  “You’re a money man. You loan money to a dealer—”

  He shakes his head. “I don’t loan my money out to anyone.”

  I watch him bring his hands together, lining up his fingertips as his face takes on a thoughtful slant. “I’ll make this straightforward, Cleo. On the condition that, if you ever tell anyone about our encounter here today, you’ll come to regret it.”

  “That’s a little fucking creepy,” I snap, though I want to wail and flee. This is a fucking mess. I’m scared. I keep fear off my face, instead acting annoyed. “What’s your problem?”

  He shakes his head. “Those sort of threats come with the business, right? I’m protecting my interests.”

  “So you are in the weed business! Holy fucking shit.”

  A soft smile flits over his lips. He lifts his brows. “I have a proposition for you,” he says softly.

  “I cannot believe you did that!” I laugh, even as my heart is beating hard from pure, old-fashioned rage. “You scared me shitless, you asshole. You’re a fucking double-timing liar—and you stole my shit!”

  He takes a smooth step back. Holds up his hands. “Whoa there.”

  “Whoa my ass! You took my shit! You ruined my business. Now I’m—” I suck air in.

  “Now you’re what?”

  “I won’t be your competition anymore,” I rasp. My vision blurs from furious tears. “What you did led me to call my regular person. I must have sketched him out or just plain pissed him off, because now he isn’t dealing to me anymore.” I whirl around and lean against the bed’s footboard. I’m breathing so hard, I’m kind of worried I might pass out.

  I feel his hand on my back. On the lower part, the curve of my spine just above my ass. It’s an intimate gesture, one that lets me know immediately he’s as controlling and enticing as I ever heard.

  “Stop it.” I whirl.

  He smirks—gentle, as if he understands why I’m upset and only wants to alleviate my anxiety. “I’m your SGA president, Cleo,” he says patiently. “I wouldn’t lead you astray.”

  “That’s bullshit! You threatened me! You lied. You’re such a big fat liar! You’re insane!” I take a step away from him, away from the bed. “I should leave right now. I mean, damnit.”

  “Are you sure?” He takes a small step toward me. “There’s lot of money on the table. You can earn more working with me than you can on your own.”

  I snort. “I could never work for you.”

  “Fine—that’s not my offer.”

  “What is?”

  “Working with me.”

  MY EYES ROLL UP AND DOWN his body. Kellan Perfect Walsh isn’t. He’s a drug dealer. Who wants me to work with him. My mind spins at the crazy shift in our dynamic, and as it does, I realize I feel... tempted.

  Shit.

  I don’t even stop to analyze my feelings. I snap, “No way. You must be insane,” an
d make a beeline for the door.

  He’s on my heels. My ears pique, but he doesn’t speak. Good. I close my hand around the doorknob, but my hand’s shaking too badly to turn it. As I fumble with the knob, my traitorous eyes slide back to his handsome face.

  “Just hear me,” he says softly.

  I turn around and press my back against the door. “It doesn’t matter what you say, Kellan. My answer’s no.”

  “Then no harm in hearing me, is there?”

  I shrug. The answer is ‘yes’ but I’m not telling him that. My temptation is a secret. Secret shame.

  “So if you decided to try dealing for me, the first thing we would do is, you’d live here for a few weeks,” he says calmly. “We would get to know each other. Come to trust each other.”

  I scoff, even as my mouth goes dry. Living with Perfect Kellan... I shake my head. “I wouldn’t live with you if I was homeless.”

  He closes the gap between us and looks down at me. “There’s a lot of money in this, Cleo. You could still be part of your sorority. Still be treasurer, even.” He smirks, as if the idea of me as treasurer is amusing. “But for a couple of weeks, you would live here. And during that time, I would train you.”

  He rolls his shoulders. He looks tense, as if discussing this is taxing and he needs to loosen up. “I’m not a grower and I’m not a dealer. I’m an operation. I supply to everyone working campus, like Matt, and even to a lot of the town too. And I’ve got a steady supply of medical grade shit.”

  I snort, so he can’t tell I’m stunned. “I’ve heard that before.”

  He nods. “But have you seen it?”

  He’s looking at my hands, and I realize I’m still holding the bud. I run it under my nose once more, breathing deeply as I try to think.

  I don’t trust this guy as far as I can throw him. Which isn’t far. He’s bulky as hell and the sad fact is, I haven’t lifted my puny five-pound arm weights in months.

  When he touches my hand that’s holding the bud, I start to sweat. Not just because I don’t trust him. Because he’s very attractive, and for some inconvenient reason, my body reacts to his.