His Ex’s Little Sister: Insta-Love on the Run, #1

by Bella Love-Wins

  He orders another beer for himself, and doesn’t’ say another word until I get up.

  “See you around,” he tells me.

  “I’m going to stretch my legs before the next set.” I’m not even sure why I said that. It’s not like I owe him anything.

  The three or four women who made a move on him earlier all seem to swoop in on him from all directions as I scurry outside through a side door meant for staff only. Lacy had shown me this convenient spot that the rest of the staff use as somewhat of a hideaway from patrons during smoke breaks.

  As I sit on a stack of wooden crates while I’m getting some fresh air, the door creaks open behind me.

  Reid again.

  “Are you stalking me now?” I breathe out in frustration, getting to my feet.

  Standing in the doorway, he pulls his phone from his jeans pocket and holds it out to me. “Put your number in here.”

  I meet his gaze. He’s serious.

  “Why would I ever do that?”

  “Because you want to.”

  “Please stop kidding yourself. Besides, there are enough women inside climbing over each other to sink their claws into you.”

  “Does that make you jealous?”

  I let out a dismissive chuckle. “Hell no.”

  “Not even a little?”

  “I have to finish my last set,” I tell him, ignoring the question as I take a few steps toward him. He doesn’t move out of the doorway. Narrowing my eyes, I fold my arms and look up at him. “Are you going to let me pass?”

  “In a minute.”

  Reid bends forward until there’s only a few inches between our faces. He’s so close I’m caught up in the heat coming off his body and doing wicked things to my senses. Reaching a hand up to my face, he tucks some of my hair behind my ear.

  “You want me,” he tells me in a throaty whisper.

  I’m about to tell him to go to hell when he bends forward even closer, cups my chin with one hand, and presses his mouth to mine. I want to pull away, but it’s as though there’s a magnet pulling our bodies together. Closing my eyes, I let the inevitable happen. Or maybe I’ve been fooling myself about how attracted I am to him. All I know is that my mind goes blank now that his lips are on mine, and my body relaxes into his, and I give in to the salacious moment.

  Reid slides his other arm up to my folded arm, loosening them before he rests his hand on the small of my back. I drift closer, vaguely aware of his groin pressing against my belly as his tongue parts my lips and invades my mouth, tangling with my tongue and exploring with fervor. His hand on my back moves lower and cups my ass through my jeans. Good Lord, his touch is like magic.

  His tongue.

  His touch.

  My aching core.

  The bulge growing rigid at my stomach.

  Suddenly, the flashes of images are too much. I pull from the kiss with a sharp jerk, taking a massive stumble backward.

  “Why do you keep kissing me?” I ask, hand over my mouth.

  “Why do you keep letting me?” he replies with a confident smile.

  “That’s not fair. I’m not the one seeking you out.”

  Reid steps out of the doorway and stands on the pavement. “True. The thing is, you may be standing still, but that doesn’t mean that you don’t want me.”

  “Leave me alone, Reid,” I demand as I hurry past him to get back inside. If only my body would stop aching for another taste.

  10

  Reid

  Robin makes a point of not looking my way for the entirety of her second set on stage. I can’t blame her after that kiss. She’s a stubborn little thing for denying the attraction between us. I don’t think I’ve ever been so drawn to another woman before, but with my reputation for being a woman claiming wild man, I can see why she’d want to err on the side of caution.

  That’s all well and good.

  I can be a patient man when I want to.

  After she wraps up her songs, I decide to leave her alone.

  Then I can’t.

  More like won’t, because just as Robin is packing away her guitar from her spot on the stage, all the blood drains from her face when she makes eye contact with someone near the front entrance. It’s pure fear. She has never reacted to me that way. I follow her panic-stricken eyes to the source, and catch sight of him.

  From this distance, there’s nothing out of place with the clean-shaven, well-dressed man standing there. He’s in his mid to late twenties, wearing a wavy medium-length hairstyle, a tailored black suit with the jacket open and showing his lean physique under a white shirt. No matter what he looks like, his presence alone has Robin scared as fuck. That means he and I have a problem.

  I head over to her. “Is everything all right?”

  “Yes. I’m…I’m fine,” she stammers, voice tense, eyes trained on the man.

  “You don’t look fine right now. Were you planning on leaving now?”

  “I…yes. I’ve got to go.”

  Because she’s still staring at the guy, I finish closing her guitar case, and rest the handle on the palm of her hand, but Robin’s shaking like a leaf as she clenches it. I have to assume she’s terrified of this guy.

  “I’ll walk you to your car,” I tell her.

  “You don’t have to do that,” she replies, still not looking at me.

  “I didn’t have to kiss you either.” Picking up her purse, I grab the guitar from her and take her hand. “Let’s go.”

  My instincts are right on the money as we get a few feet from the man. Up close, there’s a malicious expression on his face. His watery gray eyes are devoid of emotion, and the closer we get to crossing paths with him, the more his eyebrows bunch. The man licks his thin lips as he stares at Robin’s and my joined hands. Robin slows her pace, cowering, with part of her body behind me.

  “Well well. Look who it is,” he says, almost snarling. “How are you doing, Robin?”

  “You don’t have to talk to this man if you don’t want to,” I state with self-assuredness.

  Out of the corner of my eye, I see Leo and Beau drain their beer mugs. Leo slaps some cash on the counter and approaches us. That’s one thing I can always count on. My boys have my back in a pinch.

  “Relax, asshole,” the idiot crows out. “I’m going to have a word with my girlfriend here, and neither you or your band of jacked-up muscle heads are going to stop me.”

  “I’m not your girlfriend, Dave,” Robin shouts, which also tamps down any surprise I felt about the guy’s announcement. “And I don’t want to talk to you, or see you, just like I said the last time you came around.”

  “You heard her, buddy,” I add. “Step aside.”

  “Who’s going to make me?” Dave scoffs. “You? Who the fuck are you, anyway?”

  I release Robin’s hand, and both Leo and Beau step in front of her protectively. Leaning down to show this dickhead that I mean business, I meet his eyes. “Who I am, is the guy that’ll make you regret not moving out of my way when you had the chance.”

  Dave tilts his body to the right, trying to make eye contact with Robin. “You’re gonna play this, Robin?” he snaps out the question. “Okay. We’ll see how it works out for you.”

  With a nod and a grimace in my direction, Dave stands down. He’s mad as hell, but he eventually turns and leaves.

  “What the fuck was that about?” Beau asks me.

  “Hell if I know.”

  “We’ll keep an eye on him while you get your friend home,” Leo says with finality, heading outside. Damn straight I’m taking her home, whether she likes it or not. Even if I have to follow her in my vehicle.

  I turn to face Robin. She’s still shaking like a leaf. Every instinct inside me is itching to pull her into my arms and hold her tight. “Christ. That’s your boyfriend? No wonder you won’t give me the time of day.”

  “Ex-boyfriend,” she corrects me.

  “How long ago did you two break up?”

  “Almost a year.”

>   “And did good ole Dave get the memo?”

  She runs frantic hands through her hair, eyes still fixed on the door. “Forget about it, okay. I just want to go home.”

  “Are you sure you’ll be fine there?”

  “Yes,” she answers, but there’s nothing positive in her voice.

  “Will you be alone?”

  “Yes.”

  “That’s not a good idea, Robin. Look at you. You’re scared of this guy. Can I at least take you to your parents’ place, or a friend’s?”

  “My folks are away. My best friend is too. I’ll be all right.”

  “I won’t let you face this guy by yourself. I’m betting he’s out there, sitting in his car, waiting to get you alone so he can confront you.”

  She absent-mindedly runs the fingers of her left hand down her right wrist. “It wouldn’t be the first time. Eventually, he gets the hint and leaves. And when he doesn’t, it’s just a matter of reinstating another temporary restraining order.”

  “Jesus, Robin. I have a real problem with that. He shouldn’t be showing up in the first place. Wait a second. Has he…has that bastard hurt you?”

  “I need to get home,” she announces, avoiding my question. “It’s none of your business.”

  “I’m making it my business.”

  “Look, you don’t have any reason to do that. You’re not my friend, you’re not family, you’re not even a coworker. Just let it go. I can take care of myself.”

  “You know I can’t do that, Robin.”

  “Then you’re no different from him,” she shouts.

  This woman is testing my patience right now. “I’m nothing like him. Can I at least walk you to your car and make sure you get home in one piece? I’ll drive my own car, and I’ll only wait a few minutes. I’ll even stay outside your place. You don’t have to let me in.”

  She mulls it over for some time, and looks up at me. “Okay.”

  “Good. Let’s get you out of here.”

  I take her hand again and lead her outside. Leo and Beau are in the parking lot waiting for us.

  “Is he gone?”

  “Yeah,” Leo answers. “It took some convincing.”

  “Thanks. Did you get his plate number?”

  “Got it. He was driving a red Jeep Grand Cherokee.”

  “I’ll keep an eye out.”

  “Beau and I need to get back to the office. Give us a holler if he shows up again.” Leo pulls out a business card and passes it to Robin. “Take care with that one,” he tells her. “I’ve got a kid sister your age, and ain’t no way I’d let a man like that near her. Our emergency number is on there. Call anytime at all if you have a problem with him.”

  Robin hesitates for a moment, seeming to contemplate whether or not to accept the card. “Thanks,” she answers, and takes it, sliding it into her purse.

  I walk her to her truck. There’s a lot I want to tell her, but she has already insisted that she doesn’t want me to stick around at her place, so I respect her wishes. Still, I follow her for her trek home, watching my rearview mirror like a hawk just in case this dickbag shows up. We take the side roads to get to the small, detached one-level house she’s renting out near that spot where she was taking pictures. The place is secluded. On her side of the road, the houses are separated by large yards, and there’s nothing but bare land, cattle, and a few barns on the other side.

  Robin steps over to my driver side door once she parks in her driveway and unloads her purse, guitar, and a file folder that was in her back seat.

  “I’m good from here,” she tells me.

  “I don’t agree, but I’m not gonna argue.”

  “Thanks. Have a good night.”

  The unsettled feeling in my chest doesn’t let up after she goes inside and locks up. It’s still with me when I get home. I twist and turn all night, and there are several points where I want to vault out of bed to check up on her. The next morning, just so that I don’t end up going batshit crazy, I take the long way to the office, intent on passing by her house.

  Except I don’t count on seeing Robin’s baby blue relic of a Chevy truck a few cars ahead—or a dark gray late model Honda sedan that seems to be following her.

  11

  Robin

  Some wise and wholesome sage said to never take your smartphone with you into the bathroom.

  Bad advice.

  Crappy, if you ask me. No pun intended.

  The one time I decide to mosey on into my bathroom without it, all hell breaks loose.

  I shouldn’t even be here this late in the morning. Normally, by now I’m sitting at my desk at work, waiting for Mr. Rochford, my one-man-show do-everything lawyer boss, to belt out all manner of unreasonable demands that I follow, no questions asked. I may have a passion for singing country western classics, but I have to remind myself that my voice and guitar playing skills don’t pay all the bills.

  Today, I get in my beat-up truck, drive halfway to work, and what do I do? I forget something at home. The file folder. It’s the one my boss sent me home with to research well into the night. And it’s sitting right where I left it at two o’clock this morning. I can blame both this morning’s forgetfulness and my lateness on the sleep deprivation, or on that mini-standoff between Reid and Dave, but my boss won’t care.

  After the fifteen-minute return drive to my tiny old one-story house about twenty-five miles west of the Las Vegas Strip, I hurry inside. Rush hour isn’t bad on the highway, but it’s way too late for me to get in before Mr. Rochford today. I drop my keys and phone on the wall-mounted all-in-one coat rack shelving in the entryway, get the file, and then my nervous stomach kicks in. I’m sure to be late, but I know better than to leave the house without taking care of my bodily functions.

  As I’m sitting there wishing I had my phone to at least call my boss and tell him about my lateness, I hear a loud thud. The floor and walls shake. There’s an ear-popping noise next, and the sound of glass breaking.

  I lift the curtain covering the window behind me and crane my neck to look out the window that faces the backyard. The sky is still blue. There’s not a cloud around or anything else in the sky, which means that ruckus can’t be daytime fireworks, aircraft flying overhead, or rare bad weather.

  My ears start to ring from the pressure change.

  It can’t just be someone opening the front door, but I have hope for a logical explanation.

  “Hello?” I call out, praying that it’s Josh, my older brother, and that he just used his set of keys, slammed the door really hard, and broke something on his way in. It’s a longshot, given that he lives and works over half-hour away in North Vegas. Still, I’m wishing for a simple reason for whatever is happening on the other side of this door.

  “Josh? Is that you?” I shout.

  There’s no answer. Then something else crashes nearby. I’m one hundred percent sure that I did not leave the front door open, so the sound has to be coming from inside the house. I finish my business in the bathroom, making sure to flush and quickly wash my hands, just in case it’s my landlord. I highly doubt it, on account of the fact that he’s a busy part-time casino owner and full-time cattle rancher who owns all the land around here for at least half a mile in each direction.

  “Hello? Who’s there?” I shout out one more time over my shoulder as I dry my hands on a towel.

  As I turn to reach for the doorknob, I notice the smoke.

  What the hell?

  Smoke starts to seep into the bathroom from under the door. It’s thick and black. I take a chance and touch the doorknob lightly. It’s hot as hell. That can’t be good. My father is a retired fire chief, and Josh is also a firefighter, as are pretty much all my male cousins, so I know what this means.

  Fire.

  A serious one, likely from some type of explosion so hot that it immediately burned some of the house contents to ash. The knot grows in my stomach as a new reality sets in.

  I am trapped in the bathroom.

  P
art of me wants to push the door open and run like hell out the only other door that can let me outside fast—the kitchen door at the back of the house. I know better. I’d be unconscious from smoke inhalation, and probably dead from the killer heat before I make it ten feet. Shit. I should be thinking about my immediate survival, but my judgment is temporarily clouded by the panic-inducing fact that all my worldly belongings are burning on the other side of this door, including my phone and my boss’s files. If I survive this blaze, Mr. Rochford will kill me.

  Giving up is not something I’ve ever done willingly before, so I begin to problem-solve. I grab all the towels on the rack, dump them in the bathtub and turn on the shower faucet to soak them. Once they’re good and wet, I wrap one around my mouth, nose, and head. Bundling up the rest, I jam them up against the opening at the bottom of the door. It does a good job of stopping more smoke from coming in, but I can’t delude myself about the trouble I’m in. A quick exit from this death trap is the only thing that will save my hide.

  I look around the bathroom and check the double-hung window behind the curtain above the toilet tank. Each section on its own is way too small to get my hips through. Even if I strip down naked and grease myself down with petroleum jelly or lube, I’m sure to get my ass stuck. But hell, I’m willing to try anything. If I can punch or kick out two sections of glass and their wooden frame, maybe I can squeeze out sideways.

  Opening this window is risky all on its own. I have to make certain assumptions, the biggest one being that once I break glass in this window, it’s not going to become another venting route for this blazing inferno on the other side of this door. Just case it is, I douse myself with the leftover water in the bathtub. Climbing up on the ledge of the tub, I drag down the curtain rod, throw the plastic shower curtain as far away from me as possible, and I slam one metal edge of the curtain rod through the window to break it. I make myself a small as possible in the tub, counting to thirty just to be safe.

  No backdraft.

  Probably because the front window must be open and feeding enough oxygen to the blaze. Nothing changes in the room except for the fresh air entering through the now broken window. That’s a great sign. I remove as much of the glass from the window as possible, and when that’s done, I begin to bang against the wooden frame at the center of each double hung section. You would think panic has allowed the adrenaline and accompanying superhuman strength to kick in, but I’m no stronger than I was five minutes ago, before this all happened.