I blink in shock, thrust my arm out and croak, “Oh my God!” and he relaxes a little. “I have to go. Bryan’s going to kill me!” Jumping up and forgetting all about the concussion, I swing the guy’s front door open, absolutely horrified by what’s outside. Groaning, I mourn, “It’s fully daylight? How long have I been here? Dawn is over. What time is it? Bryan must be losing his mind. Uh-oh…whoa.”
Naked muscles wrap around me before I hit the welcome mat. I’m carried back to the couch while he murmurs, “Okay, that’s enough. The only place you’re going to is the hospital.” As an aside he grumbles, “And here I thought you were saying, Oh my God, because you almost hit us, not because you’re afraid of letting down your stupid boyfriend.”
My mind isn’t normal so I confess to this total stranger, “He’s not my boyfriend. He’s a god.”
“Oh he is, huh?”
“And you don’t anger the gods.”
Dude cocks an eyebrow. “Whatever. Just stay here.” He disappears down the hallway and returns with a blanket, laying it over me before he heads for the kitchen. Time is playing tricks on me because suddenly a glass of water is being shoved in my face. “Drink this. It’s not poisoned. Just good, clean, drinking water.”
He kneels down and I sip while he holds the glass. “Thank you.” I lick my lips and mutter, “Who are you?”
Like he doesn’t want to tell me personal details about himself, he glares at me. I think I’ve pissed him off. Huge wall around his eyes. Maybe I shouldn’t have made the comment about his home.
So I sheepishly offer, “I’m sorry I thought you were a kidnapper. Now, who are you?”
He dryly mutters, “Not a god, that’s who I am.”
“Well, I know that!” I cry out like someone drunk. “What’s your name, human?”
His full lips twitch. “I’m Jeremy Cocker.”
“Like the singer, Joe Cocker?”
“If that sticks into your foggy brain, sure.”
“Are you related to him?”
“No.”
“Why not?”
He blinks like I’m an idiot. “Because I’m not. Who’re you, human? What’s your name?”
Footsteps approaching from outside pull his focus because the front door is still open. He rises up, each awe-inspiring inch of his insanely sculpted body sliding into vision a mere foot away from my eyes, ending with his crotch. “She’s in here!” he calls out. My fingers reach for the strings on his sweats and he swats my hands away. “Jesus,” he mutters.
My head lolls back and I meet his eyes. “Sorry. Primal instinct.”
Two determined EMTs appear next to him, one male and one female. Normal looking people, not like you see on television. All work and no play, they start locking down the legs of a rolling gurney. The female asks, “How’s your back? Your neck?”
“Not broken. And I don’t need that. I can walk.”
With authority Jeremy Cocker informs them, “No, she can’t.”
“I can!”
“She tried to take off, and bit dirt.”
This solidifies their sense of purpose. They completely ignore my repeated objections and lift me onto it while I glare at Jeremy. “I’m Meagan Forrester.”
“Charmed, I’m sure,” he mutters and turns to the policeman who just walked in. “Did you see the car?”
The mustached cop answers with a superior nod, “We drove past the scene on our way here. Now, why don’t you tell me what happened?”
As the gurney gently bounces me out of the house toward the ambulance I listen to Jeremy lying through his perfect teeth, “My dog saw a squirrel. Lunged into the crosswalk. She thought she was gonna hit him, turned the wheel too hard.”
Why’d he lie for me? I’m not complaining. A hiked insurance premium I do not want. Not exactly swimming in green backs since I bought my condo. Then I hear him finish the lie with, “You know how girls are.”
The police officer says, pretty loudly, “They can’t drive for shit.”
The two men walk out of the house as Jeremy agrees, “Exactly.”
Lifting my pounding head so I look them in the eyes, I shout, “I can drive just fine!”
Jeremy smirks and shouts back, “Says the girl being carried to the hospital!”
“I’m an excellent driver, you jerk! And I can walk on my own!”
I try to climb off the gurney but one of the EMTs warns me, “No no no. Take it easy. A concussion is not—”
“ —Don’t tell me to be calm!” Clamoring down like a marionette who’s got a child holding its strings, I don’t succeed. The white hospital blanket tangles around my legs and I fall in a heap of awkward. Worst part is the world spins in a slow, nauseating circle like I’m underwater, submerged in a sea of my own embarrassment.
Two pairs of hands lift me up, one of them Jeremy’s. He mutters, “Nice one, Grace.”
“It’s Meagan!”
“I know.”
“My head’s not on right!” The EMTs force me into the ambulance and I stop the struggle, but turn to point at Jeremy. “I don’t like you.”
He waves at me until the door closes.
And off we go.
“Go faster. Turn the horns on. Get me away from that guy.”
Sitting on a chair by my side while we bounce and sway with the vehicle’s increasing speed the female EMT smiles to herself. “I don’t know why you’d want to get away from him.” She reaches for medical gadgets and eyes me from profile. “He's one of the Cocker Brothers.”
“He said he wasn’t related to Joe Cocker! God, he lies about everything!”
The male EMT calls back from behind the wheel, “Joe Cocker was British. Performed at Woodstock. No relation. He died in 2014.”
“Oh,” I mutter.
She checks my blood pressure, wrapping my arm, strapping the velcro and pumping away until it’s like my arm is sucked dry by a python. “You don’t know about the Cocker Brothers? Are you from here?”
Now I’m annoyed mixed with defensive. We who are natives of the ATL are very loyal to our city. “Born and raised! Why? Who are they?”
“Six of the most gorgeous men in town, each as hot as the last depending on your flavor.” She glances down to read the numbers, satisfied I’m not going to die.
The male EMT sarcastically calls back, “Your flavor? What are they, scoops of ice cream?”
She smirks, “Better,” clearly thinking dirty things.
He shifts in his seat, turns on the radio and grumbles, “Nothing special about any of ‘em!”
She whispers to me, really quietly so he can’t hear, “The men may not like them, but the women sure do.” She didn’t actually wink but she might as well have. “If I weren’t married, I would’ve asked Mark there to take you to Emergency all by himself so I could stay back there, take my shot. My younger sister used to have a crush on Jeremy in high school. He’s all grown up now. Fair game.”
“What are you whispering about, Sheila?”
“Nothing,” she calls up to Mark.
In desperate need of pain medication, I couldn’t care less about what she’s saying, so I close my eyes and mutter, “Whoever Jeremy Cocker is, he’s no Bryan Marchand.”
Jeremy
A beer-gutted tow-truck driver is waiting at the wheel of his humming vehicle, parking behind the smashed, hot pink, tin can.
With familiarity they nod to each other.
“Bob,” the cop greets him.
“Hey Sam,” the driver smiles. His door creaks open and old work boots slap the ground.
I’m here to explain the story again, and get this cop out of here as quick as I can. Officer Sam is a piece of work, one of those pricks who joined the force to have legal power over civilians. I’ve seen his kind before, in the Marines. Thank God they’re rare.
“So you were on that corner?” He motions to it with his chin.
“Yeah, and the squirrel headed across the street this way.” I point out the imaginary squirrel’s journey.
“Aslan wanted to chase it up that tree. We were in the street at the beginning of the crosswalk here. I didn’t want him going after the squirrel so I yanked his leash, but Meagan thought she was going to hit him, turned her wheel hard and then bam. This happened.”
“So when the dog couldn’t chase the squirrel, the girl decided to give it a shot,” he dryly jokes, throwing me a look that says, we’re both in on the private gag called women-are-beneath-us.
I nod to play along. Fact is I pegged this cop’s true nature the second I saw him. There was an evil glint in his eyes that I’d seen before. It’s now become my job to keep Meagan safe. By the way he was looking at her on the couch, I knew he’d try and have a go at her.
She’s got the same shade of warm brown hair and caramel eyes as Natalie Portman, with a heart-shaped face like hers, too. None of the aloofness though. Pretty funny, too, and she’s got a fight to her.
Meagan was the perfect candidate for stalking by a shady cop like Officer Sam. I’ve got nothing against authority except when it’s abused.
During boot camp my observation skills became so sharply honed I can read most people before they speak. As soon as I got there I’d kept my mouth shut and stuck out the loneliness of being away from the family I’d always been so close to, especially my brother Jake. We were roommates until I decided to enlist and we were inseparable. That was part of the problem.
There I was with a bunch of strangers, all of us put through the most rigorous training a person can receive. I was quiet a lot. A little lost. I watched people. Learned to trust myself when my instincts proved accurate time and again. And it’s a good thing. When we got deployed I was careful around the locals we had to live amongst in countries that didn’t want Americans around. The skill at judging people and trusting my instincts kept me alive.
That, and luck.
“Looks like she should leave squirrel-chasing to the dogs,” I smirk, hiding that I want this over with.
Tow-Truck Bob takes the keys from her ignition and calls over his thick shoulder, “What should I do with her purse?”
My lie tumbles out as casually as if it were true. “I said I’d return it to her. Her house keys, too.”
“I’ll just keep the fob.”
He tears it off the ring and hands them over with the phone, and a purse so heavy I mutter, “Jesus, what’s in here? Maryland?”
Officer Sam informs me, “I need her phone.” My eyebrows twitch like I don’t get it. His face gets severe as he explains, “Need to get her phone number off it so I can call her for the report.”
“Oh, right. Hang on.” I pretend to click it open, hiding the screen from his line of vision. “Fuck. Sorry. It’s got a password lock on it.” I stuff it into the bag next to the lamp, sofa, and live giraffe. “But I’ll make sure she calls the station to give the report.”
His eyes narrow. “You friends with her?”
“With Meagan? Hell yeah.”
“Thought she introduced herself to you back there.”
I chuckle, “Oh, when I said, Charmed I’m sure? I said that because I’ve known her forever. Friends since Confirmation class. She just bumped her head pretty badly. I’ll call her parents when I get back. Let ‘em know she’s okay.”
His suspicious eyes go dead. Can’t argue in the face of Catholicism. He turns to Tow-Truck Bob like I just ruined his weekend plans. “How long?”
“Few minutes, Sam. Gotta jimmy the thing off of this tree.”
“You need anything else from me?” I ask, friendly as can be. “I can stick around. Help you get it on the truck.”
Glad to be rid of me he waves his nasty fingers. “Nah, Go on. Git.”
“Thank you, Officer.”
“Wait up!”
I glance back and see him holding out a card. “Have her call me to give a report.”
Wow, this guy’s stubborn.
I walk over, taking the diseased slip of paper like I’m impressed. She’ll never get this card. Ever. “I’ll give it to her, first thing. Have a good one. Gotta go walk my dog. He never got a chance to do his business.”
I tip my head to both of them, then break into a jog, the purse gripped in my fist. As soon as I’m near enough for Aslan to hear me I shout, “I’m comin’ buddy!”
He lets out one of those howl-yelps, which instantly makes me feel bad for him. Breaking into a sprint I whip open the door and let him out to sniff the front lawn for the perfect spot.
I shouldn’t be sifting through Meagan’s things…but I’m only human.
Three lipsticks that all look the same.
Wait, no. Different names. Berry’s Burden. Nude Pleasure. Lilac Lover.
“What the fuck,” I mutter, tossing them back inside.
A pair of sneakers wrapped in a plastic bag. Probably for the gym. Yep, here’s a gym bra.
Two magazines — Bon Appétit and Gourmet.
Three cooking ladles.
One spatula.
Loose coins.
Travel toothbrush. Toothpaste. Sample bottle of Listerine. Waxed dental floss, its lettering rubbed off by wear.
“Girl’s got a thing for oral hygiene.”
I open up her wallet, hot pink just like her car, while continuing to talk to myself as I figure her out. “License. Meagan Leigh Forrester. Twenty-five-years-old. Lives around the corner if this is accurate. A couple well-used credit cards. Triple-A Roadside Assistance membership card. Could’ve used that one today, huh, Meagan? What’s this? Half of a paper, one-dollar bill? Who’s got the other half? Family member? Bryan the god? Ho ho ho, what’s this? Your business card?”
Turning it over reveals that it’s not hers. It’s Bryan Marchand’s. As soon as I gather he’s a bigwig chef her phone rings and guess who it is.
Jeremy
Without hesitation I swipe to answer, “Hello?”
The guy’s volume nearly blows my ear off. “Where the hell have you been?! I’ve been calling you for over an hour!”
“Sorry, dude. I don’t swing that way.”
He pauses. “Who the hell is this?!”
Aslan lumbers into the house, happier and lighter now. I kick my front door shut after him, thinking I’m in need of some fun. Smirking, I ask Bryan Marchand, “You want to know who I am?”
“Yes!”
“Me?”
“Yes, you!”
“You want to know who I am.”
“Goddammit! Yes! Who the fuck are you and why are you answering Meagan’s phone?”
“I’m her lover.”
“What?”
“Her boy toy. Her sex pooch. Her slave. But only on Wednesdays. She won’t give me more than that.”
“What?!”
“Wait, are you her Fridays, you lucky bastard? Because if you are you’re two days early. Sorry, I’ve got dibs today. Check your calendar.”
Dead silence on the other end of the line for a whole three seconds.
“Don’t you dare fucking tell me she’s in your bed, whoever the fuck you are, when she’s supposed to be at work!”
Shoving my index finger in my ear and wiggling so I can get my hearing back, I mutter with believable innocence, “Oh shit. This is her boss? God, sorry, man. Yeah, she’s passed out from all the hot sex.”
“Get her on the phone!”
“She said to tell you she’s busy.”
“She WHAT?!”
With a grin I head into the kitchen to brew a much-needed cup of coffee. “She’s busy.” He starts swearing like a sailor after his boat sank with booze in it. When he quiets I dryly ask, “You done?”
“Yes.”
I chuckle, “I’m kidding, Bryan! She’s not here. She was in a car accident. She’s at the hospital. I’m the guy she almost hit. They took her away in an ambulance and the cop gave me her purse to return to her. I’m just fucking with you because you shouldn’t talk to a lady that way. So calm down and go make sure she’s okay.”
Another silence. “You were fucking with me.”
&n
bsp; “I was.”
“She’s hurt?”
“Yes.”
“How bad is it?”
“Hit her head. Concussion, I think. Will need some time off. With pay.”
“Fuck that!” he explodes. “If she misses my grand opening this Saturday I will—”
He hangs up, threat hovering in the air undefined.
“What a dick,” I mutter, staring at the phone.
I decide to poke around.
I won’t dig too deep.
Eh, maybe I will. We’ll see.
In the texts window, his thread is at the top. Aside from the slew of texts this morning demanding to know where she is, I focus mostly on his side of the convo on previous days.
You fucked up again. What do I pay you for?
When I say to order truffle oil, you order truffle oil. Stop asking me what kind and take some fucking initiative!
My lawyer emailed and you didn’t tell me immediately? Did your parents drop you as a child?
“Jesus, I want to punch this guy in the neck,” I mutter, reading on until…
That red blouse you wore today? Wear it again. Tomorrow. No bra.
My eyebrows fly up.
The wink-emoticon she replied with makes me chuckle to my dog, “Aslan, she’s not seriously dating this asshole is she?”
Sliding the phone in my pocket I hit the single cup brew button on my functional, low-frills coffee maker and lean against the counter.
I don’t get it.
How the fuck does a smart girl like that, with her fight and courage, end up with a jerk who talks to her that way? Two seconds after she opened her eyes I clocked her as being smarter than half of society. But she lets him treat her like she’s beneath him, stupid, and incompetent.
I want to see his face.
See what a god looks like in the flesh.
I’m curious.
Aslan’s toenails tap tap tap their way into the kitchen and I bend over to give him a good rub down before he lies down, eyes on me.
Grabbing my sole coffee mug from where I left it to dry on a ratty hand towel by the sink, I lock eyes with my dog. “Hey Aslan…you thinking what I’m thinking?”
His ears go back, head cocked.
Cocky Soldier: A Military Romance (Cocker Brothers of Atlanta Book 6) Page 2
