Cook's Choice: A Bad Boy Protector Romance (Lost Boys Book 4)

by Janice M. Whiteaker

  Cook’s eyes lock onto mine, hard and unyielding, barely narrowing. “Damn it, Pinky.”

  I haven’t cried in months. Crying doesn’t help anything.

  Action does. That’s how I ended up here. Dressed in an old woman’s clothes, in a bad part of town, in a strange man’s bed.

  Crying.

  He lets out a long, loud sigh. “Scoot over.” Cook pushes me across the mattress then lies on top of the covers beside me, wrapping one arm over my middle and pulling me close.

  He doesn’t tell me it’s okay. Doesn’t shush me.

  Just holds me.

  And I let him.

  Because grief makes you do strange things.

  Sometimes it makes you do dangerous things.

  Especially when you have nothing to lose.

  I sniffle against his shirt. “Why don’t you smell like food truck?”

  Cook chuckles and I feel it rumble through his chest. “You’re a different sort of woman, aren’t you, Pinky?”

  Different isn’t the word most people use.

  Weird. Stuck-up. Goody-goody. It’s what I’ve been called my whole life by the people around me.

  Until I found where I belonged, the people who understood me.

  Which, oddly enough also occasionally results in me being called other, even less flattering names.

  But they don’t mean it. The men and women who throw the insults my way are just scared. Confused. Lashing out because they are trying to protect themselves.

  “I’m no different than anyone else.” It took me a long time to figure it out. The octogenarians who call me names out of fear and self-preservation aren’t so different from the kids who called me names when I was younger.

  Everyone is different. Everyone is weird.

  Everyone is strange.

  Some people just don’t like to admit it.

  “I guess that’s true.” Cook breathes deep, his chest lifting and falling where it rests against me. “You can’t go around following men you don’t know, Carly.”

  “I think you meant to say shouldn’t.” I tip my head back a little so I can look him in the eye. “Because I successfully did.”

  It’s the first time his face has been this close to mine without a frown. My eyes drop to the lips usually twisted into some variation of a scowl when I see them. He has pretty lips. They are full and soft when they aren’t pressed tight together in frustration.

  “Damn it, Pinky.” Cook rolls away from me, one hand wiping down his face as he drops his feet to the ground. “Get up.

  “No.” I pull the covers higher around me, like they will offer some sort of added barrier. “I’m not leaving until you tell me what I want to know.”

  Cook tips his head my way, eyes barely on me. “Someone shot at you today, Carly. That should tell you all you need to know.” He stands. “Come on. We need to go get your shit.”

  “What?”

  “Those men who shot at you? They will be looking for you now that they think—” Cook’s head tips back and he stares at the ceiling.

  “Now that they think what?”

  His gaze comes to meet mine. “They’re going to think you’re with me, Pinky, and that means they will want to hurt you to get at me.”

  “But I’m not with you.” I can’t help but drop my eyes just a little at the thought.

  Not because I’m embarrassed, which is exactly why I can’t keep my eyes on Cook as I say it.

  I’m not supposed to notice how he looks.

  How he smells.

  How his hard body feels pressed against mine.

  “Damn it, Pinky.” Cook’s hands scrub his face as he turns away from me.

  “Why do you keep saying that?”

  “Because you frustrate the hell out of me.” He keeps his back to me. “Come on. Get up so we can go.”

  I flip the covers off, knocking them on the floor as I stand on the other side of the mattress. “I’m not leaving until you answer my questions.”

  Cook’s gaze moves to the pile of covers on the floor. “Don’t get all worked up. You’re going to have plenty of time to torment me, Pinky.”

  ****

  I BLOW OUT a breath as Cook passes my apartment building for the fifth time. “There’s no one here. It’s after midnight.”

  “I’m not dicking around with this, Pinky.” He finally pulls my car into a spot and parks. “We’re doing this fast, understand?”

  “Fine.” I don’t wait for him to say anything else. I pull out the keys to the door as I hustle down the walk.

  Cook is right at my back as I unlock the door, blue eyes scanning the lot as I work the deadbolt. “This place is quiet.”

  It is. That’s why I like it here. No one is hosting loud parties. No one comes and goes late at night. It’s mostly people twice my age who keep to themselves.

  It’s the kind of life I’m used to. The kind of life I’ve always had.

  Quiet. Calm.

  Solitary.

  I push the door open and go into the single story two bedroom I’ve called home for the past six months, flipping on the light in the living room as I go. Cook only comes in a couple feet before stopping, his lips turning down as he scans the space. “How long have you lived here?”

  “Um.” I eye the stacks of boxes still lining the walls. “I’ve been busy.”

  “Too busy to unpack?” He checks the lock on the door before going to peek between the slats of the metal blinds hanging from the windows. Cook turns back my way, lifting his brows. “Go get your stuff.” He goes back to staring out the window.

  “I have to work in the morning.” At first I thought camping out at the big fire station wouldn’t be a bad thing. I could use the time to annoy the information I want out of Cook and whoever else there knows about Herbert Wallace.

  And I think they all might. I recognized the man in the suit and the man with long hair from the stakeout I did on the address the internet said might belong to Herbert.

  But now that it’s all sinking in, I’m not so sure it’s a reasonable thing to do.

  Certainly nothing my mother would approve of.

  But she didn’t approve of much.

  “I’ll take you to work.” Cook doesn’t even turn my way.

  “I hardly know you. How in the world can you expect me to just pack a bag and come over for a sleepover?” When I say it out loud it sounds even worse than it did in my head. I’ve met the man twice, and have already been in his bed.

  In his arms.

  And I liked it.

  Which makes this all even more confusing.

  Cook slowly straightens as he turns my way, his expression one I haven’t seen before. It’s not hard like when he’s pretending to be an asshole.

  But it’s also not soft like it was right before I cried.

  “You should of thought of that before you decided to be a pain in my ass.” His words lack the bite they sometimes carry.

  “You should of thought of that before you refused to answer my questions.” I toss it back at him.

  His lips barely lift. “Maybe I’m not as upset as you are about the sleepover.”

  “Am I—” I struggle to swallow as he continues to come closer. “Where am I going to sleep?”

  “In my bed.” One finger presses under my chin, tilting my face toward his. “All alone.”

  “Where will you sleep?”

  His blue eyes move over my face for the first time. Cook is always trying to stare me down, keeping his gaze firmly fixed on mine, but now it’s roaming, sliding over my features to hang on my mouth for just a second before dropping to the spot where his finger rests on my chin. It immediately snaps away as Cook steps back. “Go, Pinky. Get what you need so we can leave.”

  This is not how I imagined all this would go, and now I’m not sure how to handle it.

  My life did not prepare me for this situation.

  “Okay.” I turn and hurry back to my bedroom. I need a minute to figure out what to do.

>   How to get out of what I’ve gotten myself into.

  Unfortunately, I’m struggling with that part. I know I should want to find a way to get out of going home with Cook tonight. Nice girls don’t do things like sleep in a man’s bed after only meeting them twice.

  My mother drilled it into my head that there were certain things nice girls just didn’t do. She was all I had, so I worked hard to make her proud. Show her I listened to everything she taught me.

  Not that you can tell it by looking at the pickle I’m in right now.

  But desperate times.

  “Pinky.” Cook’s voice makes me jump.

  I turn to find his narrowed eyes scanning the room, pausing on the boxes in one corner before resting on the mattress on the floor.

  I have a frame. It’s propped against the wall, waiting for me to make a friend who might be strong enough to help me assemble the thing.

  His gaze comes back to mine. “Put a wiggle in it.”

  Then he’s gone, leaving me to bask in embarrassment alone. I wasn’t expecting to have company. Definitely not company like him.

  It takes me ten minutes to pack an overnight bag, making sure I have work clothes for tomorrow along with all my toiletries. Cook is pacing by the time I’m finished, prowling around the bare space I call home.

  “Why do you live like this, Pinky?”

  “Like what?” My apartment is nice. It’s got all new carpet and appliances. The area is certainly better than where he lives, and rent isn’t cheap.

  Cook shoves one finger toward the stack of boxes making up my dining room furnishings. “This?” He walks to my fridge, yanking it open to show how bare it is. “There’s nothing in here to eat, Pinky.”

  “There is too.” I open a cabinet filled with items. “I have lots to eat.”

  “Are those ramen noodles?” He grabs the economy-sized box from the pantry before leaning down to peer deeper into the space. “This is all shit, Carly.”

  “Well I’m sorry my kitchen isn’t up to your culinary standards.” I snatch the pack of noodles away and shove them back into place.

  “This isn’t up to any adult’s standards.” Cook opens another cabinet.

  I slap my hand to the front of it, slamming it shut.

  His head turns slowly my way, brows lifting. “What’s wrong, Pinky? Don’t like someone invading your life?”

  “I don’t like someone acting like they’re better than me.” I clamp my lips together, but it’s too late. The words are already out.

  Words I’ve never said to another soul, no matter how many times I thought them.

  Agonized over them.

  “I’m not better than you, Pinky.” Cook’s hand falls from the handle. “Not by a long shot.”

  I suck in a breath, trying to calm the frustration building, fighting to keep it in like my mother taught me. “Shouldn’t we be going? Isn’t someone out to murder me?”

  Cook’s eyes stay on mine for a second. “No one’s going to murder you, Pinky. I promise.”

  The sincerity in his voice threatens to dig deep into a spot that’s never seen the light of day. “I’m not worried about it.”

  I go to grab my bags, turning my back on him.

  “I got it.” Cook beats me there, scooping them up.

  “I can carry my own bags.” I try to take them, but he steps away.

  “I’m a lot of things, Pinky, but even I know a man is supposed to carry a woman’s bags.” Cook nods to the door. “Time to go.”

  His chivalry doesn’t surprise me. It’s the even I part that I’m not expecting.

  Seems like Cook thinks no one can see right through his facade.

  I start to unlock the door, but Cook’s deep voice stops me. Not because of what he says, but because of how close he says it. “When you open the door, back up with it. I go out first, Pinky. Got it?”

  I probably do have it, but the heat of the words as they pass through his lips makes it impossible to reply. He’s so close his body must almost be touching mine.

  I would know if I was brave enough to peek over my shoulder.

  But I’m not.

  Because if he is that close I should do something about it, and I’m afraid what I would want to do is much different than what my mother taught me to do.

  I stay tucked behind the door, opening it slowly, because while I might not be concerned about what could happen to me, I am concerned about what could happen to Cook.

  That concern should center around the fact that he is the key to all I need to know.

  But it doesn’t. Not entirely.

  “Come on, Pinky. Lock the door quick.” Cook steps onto the cement stoop, facing out, his body blocking me while I lock the door. The minute the bolt flips he’s reaching for me, one arm wrapping tight around my body while the other balances both my bags. “Fast steps, Pinky.”

  Cook is practically dragging me across the lot. Instead of going to the trunk or even the passenger’s side, Cook goes straight to the driver’s door, pulling it open and shoving me inside. “Go across.” His tone is sharp now, eyes hard as they snap around the lot.

  I roll across the console and land on the passenger’s seat, feet up, head down.

  Cook throws my bags through the gap and into the back seat, before jumping into the car and starting the engine. His door isn’t even closed before we’re moving. “Hang on, Pinky.”

  5

  “THERE’S NOTHING FOR me to hang on to.” Carly glares up at me from the floorboard.

  “Then close your eyes and try not to puke.” I whip her car out of the spot and floor the gas, managing to squeal the sensible sedan’s tires just a little. The car I saw idling in the dark back corner of the lot pulls out behind us.

  My hurried exit makes it clear I saw them, and I don’t give a shit right now.

  Because even in a base-model sedan, I can still outrun whoever’s behind the wheel of that car.

  “What’s happening?” Carly wiggles around, trying to work her way upright. “Who was there?”

  “Not sure. Don’t plan to find out.” I check the mirror. The headlights behind us are keeping a pretty decent pace. “Keep your head down.”

  Carly sinks down in the seat she just managed to get her butt into, her brown eyes wide.

  For the first time in all this she looks scared, and it bothers me.

  I reach over to pat her knee. “Everything will be fine.”

  Carly grabs my hand before I can pull it back, holding it tight with both of hers. The soft press of her skin against mine is distracting as hell, and right now I need to focus.

  But I don’t want her to be afraid. I squeeze her hand. “I won’t let anyone hurt you. I promise.”

  “Why is this happening?” She sniffs a little. “Is it because of me?”

  “What?” I glance at her. “No. This is because of—”

  I manage to bite off the rest of the sentence I intended to say, reworking it. “It’s because of a rivalry.”

  “With who?” Carly twists to peek back between the seats.

  “The Horsemen.”

  Her attention snaps back to me. “Seriously?” Her lips press into a frown. “Are they trying to collect your heads before Halloween?” Carly yanks her hands from mine. “I’m not an idiot, Cook. Don’t treat me like I’m stupid.”

  “I’m serious, Carly.” I wipe the hand she rejected down my leg, trying to forget the way it felt to hold hands with the woman beside me. “They’re a club.”

  “A club.” She rolls her eyes. “Whatever.” Carly crosses her arms and turns to face out the window, scowling like we aren’t being followed by the same group of men who shot at her earlier today.

  Yesterday.

  “Stop being a brat.” I take the next turn harder than I have to, knocking her my way.

  “I’m not a brat.” Carly shoves at me. “Not answering my questions is one thing, feeding me lies is another.”

  I glance in the mirror for the hundredth time, waiting for
the headlights. “I don’t give a shit if you believe me or not, Pinky. The truth is the truth, whether you understand it or not.”

  Carly stares at me with suspicious eyes and that scowl that’s almost a pout. “Explain it then.”

  “They’re a bike club.”

  Her brows come together. “Like bicycles?”

  I snap my eyes to her. “Do I look like I ride a fucking bicycle?”

  She doesn’t answer me. Instead her eyes slowly pass down my body, moving over my inked-up arms and hands.

  I don’t care that she looks at me. Lots of people look at me. Judging. Thinking they know what I am because of how I look.

  But that’s not how Pinky looks at me.

  And that’s a problem.

  Especially considering how things are going to be for the foreseeable future.

  “Motorcycles.” I need to get her attention back where it has to be. “They are a motorcycle club.”

  “Do you ride a motorcycle?” Her voice is a little softer, almost a whisper.

  So much for getting her attention where I want it.

  “Sometimes.” I keep my eyes on the road because I don’t want to see anything that might be happening in the seat beside me.

  Doesn’t matter anyway.

  Right now Pinky is falling deep into the idea pit that every other woman I’ve met has wallowed in.

  Women like the idea of me.

  They like how I look. The tattoos. The piercings. They like my bike. Want me to take them for a ride.

  Frequently I do, and it usually doesn’t end at the bike. I’m the bad boy women chase with lust in their eyes. I can give them a taste of danger and excitement.

  But women don’t like what’s under the surface.

  “Are you in a motorcycle club?” Carly’s voice tempts me to glance her way.

  “I guess that depends on how you look at things.” I take another turn, working my way back to the firehouse.

  “I don’t know what that means.” Carly pulls the ugly black shirt she’s still wearing tighter around her.

  I switch on the heat. “It means some people might consider it a bike club, but it’s not. Not really.”

  She doesn’t ask any more questions and the car is quiet. The headlights following us have disappeared, lost a handful of turns back. The Horsemen might be led by an unpredictable and vicious president, but they are fighting on a turf that’s not their own, which gives us an edge.