"Meema," I smiled, releasing Miss. George's arm and reaching across the table to cover her meaty hands with my own.
"Look at you," she gushed, pulling her hands away to bat at the tears on her cheeks. "Finally home. Come on, sit. We'll get you some lunch."
"No thanks, ma'am. I ate on the plane. I need to go see if the motel has any openings and settle in."
"Motel?" she gasped and I felt my eyes close as I took a deep breath. Crap. "You will not be staying at the motel. You have family 'round these parts. Unfortunately, I am all full-up right now but maybe Cassie..." she said, gesturing to a cousin I remembered as nothing but a tattle tale when we were kids, all bleach blond hair and too-dark tan as an adult.
"I don't want to put anybody out, Meema," I said, shaking my head.
"Well why can't he just stay at the apartment?" Cassie asked, clearly as jazzed about the idea of me crashing with her as I was.
"Apartment?" I asked, brows drawing together. Last time I was in town, there were houses and there were trailer parks, but there were no apartments save for the one or two on top of the stores in town.
"Your father's apartment," Cassie said, her tone at once authoritative and disdainful.
"What happened to the trailer?" I asked and saw most of the eyes at the table look down or away. "Ah, I see," I said, shrugging. I did see. He lost it. It was a piece of shit on more land than he could afford and he was never good at holding down a job. "So dad was staying in an apartment," I prodded as everyone stayed stubbornly silent.
"Brand spanking new place off of Clark," Miss. George said, nodding at me. "Private in the ground pool and tennis courts and everything," she added, sounding excited about the prospect.
Across the table, my grandmother had hauled her purse up off the floor and had it sitting on her lap, rummaging around the contents. "Here they are," she said, producing keys and jingling them at me until I took them, all the while I bit my tongue so I didn't tell them that my dead father's apartment was the absolute fucking last place in the world I wanted to spend the night. "2B," she told me with a nod.
I pocketed the keys and started to slide back out of the booth. "Right. I am going to go get settled in then."
"You sure we can't get you to stay for some sweet tea at least?" my grandmother asked but the look in her dark green eyes, the dark green eyes I inherited from her, were threatening me not to take her up on her offer. She did, after all, need to cry and moan to her ladies about her loss and having the only person in the world who might contradict her claims of her sainted son's passing was not going to get her the kind of attention she craved.
"No ma'am. Next time. Ladies," I said, turning to the table as a whole and giving them a smile that made more than one of them blush, "always a pleasure."
With that, I left the diner, making myself take the walk back to my car slowly even though all I wanted to do was run, put the pedal to the floor, and get the fuck out of there. Instead, I got into the car and slowly turned it in the direction of Clark Street. I had no actual intention of staying at the apartment, mind you, but curiosity got the better of me. I wanted to check it out. Then I would go right to the motel and get a room.
The thing that I never appreciated growing up was how green Alabama was. Back home, the wilderness was tamed into perfectly manicured lawns in the suburbs and completely missing in the more industrial parts of town like where I lived. But as I drove down the streets, all I saw was various shades of green. Old oak trees were bent over the street, moss hanging off the limbs lazily. It was soothing enough to have some of the anxiety slipping away. I wasn't, by nature, an easy person to rile. But there was something about family, about facing your past, that made even the most level-headed of people lose their cool.
Clark Street Apartments was a three story building made of brown brick. Each apartment had small balconies which were cluttered with various items. As I was told, out back I could see a pristine Olympic-sized swimming pool and a tennis court off to the side. It was all nice and new and, from what I could guess, way out of my father's price range. I grabbed my bag and fished the keys out of my pocket. It didn't surprise me when the front door wasn't locked. It didn't even surprise me that there was no one manning the front desk. This was the South. No one locked their doors. No one saw the need for added security.
The halls were a fresh shade of grayish-blue with all the doors to the apartments painted white. There were no obnoxious paintings on the walls and the hardwood floors were waxed and shiny. I took the stairs up to the second floor, finding six apartments. At the end of the hall was my father's.
And the door was open.
I stiffened slightly, hearing noises from inside, inwardly having flashbacks to coming home from school and finding people stealing our shit because Pops owed them money. I dropped the bag silently outside the door and pushed the door open, quietly making my way across the floor toward the sounds I heard in the open kitchen area.
"Come on you stupid, evil thing," a female voice said, but it wasn't low and angry like the words sounded; it was said in that high, soothing voice women used on animals and children, like she was trying to coax something.
I rounded the kitchen counter to find a woman kneeling on the floor in the corner, trying to reach underneath the cabinet for something. My eyes drifted over her backside. Her short jean shorts were doing nothing to hide the round ass and shapely thighs. Her white tee was riding up slightly as she bent forward, revealing a few inches of her back. Her long black hair was in a low side ponytail, all glossy and begging to be touched.
Well then. Maybe my stay wouldn't be so bad after all.
I cleared my throat and fought a smile when she jumped, slamming her head up into the half-open door to the cabinet. Her hand was reaching up to rub her head as she fell back onto her ass and looked up at me.
Fucking hell. That face.
She was of some sort of Spanish heritage that brought back images of the six months I spent in Mexico with Breaker and Alex, hiding out from the shit we got ourselves into. Six months of native ladies with their exotic eyes and long dark hair and curvy as fuck bodies. Oh, yeah. I had a good time in Mexico.
But this woman put each and every one of those ladies to shame.
Her jaw was on the square side; her nose straight and thin; her lips were plump and perfect. But it was the eyes that did a man in. She had deep, heavy-lidded bedroom eyes, looking sleepy and sexy at once, and were the darkest shade of brown possible. Her skin was on the light side which only served to make her dark hair, eyebrows, eyes, and lashes stand out all the more.
My eyes slid lower, taking in her body with a leisurely inspection I was sure she didn't appreciate from a complete stranger. But I just couldn't help myself.
She had it all: lush tits, hips, thighs, ass... and she somehow managed to have it all while still looking fit. It was a biological impossibility that all of mankind owed her parents a heartfelt gratitude letter for making possible.
"Hey there angel," I greeted, lips quirking up.
Oh yeah.
Maybe the trip wouldn't be a total waste after all.
Two
Amelia
I hated that stupid cat.
I hated her from the first day Ben Allen brought her in from the dumpster where she had been living for months, hissing at me whenever I went to toss my trash and swatting her nasty little cat claws at my shoes, usually managing to leave some scratches around my ankle. She was a she-devil but, for whatever reason, she took to Ben in a sort of disinterested just-feed-me-and-leave-me-alone way only cats can pull off.
In general, I stayed clear of her. But Ben had been gone for two days and I couldn't keep going into his apartment to take care of her. His relatives were sure to start showing up and they didn't need to see me there. So I had every intention of letting myself into his apartment one last time, grabbing the demon-cat, and taking her back to my apartment until I could figure out what to do with her. She w
as, of course, not too keen on my plan and as soon as I bent down to pet her, slashed at my arm and flew under the kitchen cabinet.
"It is too darn hot for this," I hissed as I fanned myself, annoyed that the AC unit was busted. It was the middle of August and there was no escaping the stifling heat in Ben's apartment. I sighed, lowering myself down on the floor and reaching under the cabinet. "I'm gonna get you sooner or later, Millie. You might as well just give in now. I have a big ole can of cat food just sitting on my counter waiting for you." I sighed when she hissed and moved further out of reach. "I'm talking to a cat," I murmured to myself, feeling the edge of a furry paw and closing my hand around it. "Come on you stupid, evil thing..." I cooed at her.
The sound of a man's throat clearing had two effects: one, Millie raked her nails over the back of my hand, and two, my heart flew up into my throat as my body automatically jerked. My head slammed into the bottom of a open cabinet door as my body twisted and I landed down on my butt hard.
My eyes landed on his shoes first, my brows drawing together. He had on black and white checkered creepers. Who the heck wore creepers anymore? And, further, who the heck wore creepers in the middle of summer in Alabama? My gaze slid up, taking in the tight (but not too tight) black skinny jeans and the faded black ZZ Top tee over a body that looked fit, but not excessively so. His bare arms were covered in bright, colorful tattoos and I started to have a sneaking suspicion of who was in Ben Allen's apartment. My eyes shot to his face and, holy heck.
His face was on the thin side, his eyes a familiar dark green. His hair was toeing the line between blond and light brown, cut short at the sides and slicked back in the middle. His ears were gauged with black plugs in the holes. He was, well, he was hot. He was way hot in that he's a bad boy who will roll you around the sheets and never call you again way that most women went all gaga for.
"Hey there, angel," he said, his lips quirking up and making his already handsome face devilishly so.
He had one of those voices too; one of those panty-melting voices. I'd always heard voices like his described as 'smooth like butter', but that wasn't right. It was smooth, yeah, but it came with a kick too. Like an Irish creme liquor.
Oh yeah. I knew who he was alright and it didn't matter how good looking he was, he was a real sonova...
I pushed myself up off the floor, having the sudden need to be level with him. At my full height, I was still several inches shorter, but at least I didn't have to look up at him.
"Johnnie Walker Allen," I said, my brow raising in a way that I knew was haughty and didn't care. "It's about time you showed your face."
His head cocked to the side slightly, brows drawing together for a second. "You know who I am?"
"Oh yeah, I know who you are," I said, crossing my hands over my chest, suddenly really self-conscious about my outfit. It didn't exactly do any favors for my body. It wasn't that I was insecure, I just had no illusions either. I wasn't a skinny girl; I would never be a skinny girl. It didn't matter how much I worked out or ate right, I always had a little extra padding. And, for whatever reason, a lot of that padding seemed to wrap itself around my thighs. And it was hot and I wasn't planning on seeing anyone that day so my shorty shorts were doing nothing to flatter my figure- my thunder thighs were on full display. Great. Okay. So they weren't exactly thunder thighs but they were thick and I freaking hated them. I especially hated them when I had them on display in front of this guy. Why, exactly, that mattered was beyond me. I wasn't trying to impress Johnnie Allen. I loathed him. But, somehow, I didn't want to look like a slob around him either.
That had absolutely nothing to do with the fact that he was the best looking man I had ever talked to in person before. Nope. Nothing to do with that at all.
"And, what exactly, have you heard about me, baby?" He asked, the smooth voice of his going positively silky as he took a step closer to me.
"I'm not your baby," I snapped, holding up a hand as he kept advancing, "and, trust me, I know all about you."
"About how devilishly handsome I am?" he asked, smirking. "Or how clever or how..."
"Or how little respect you have for recovery," I cut in, eyes shooting daggers at him.
The smile fell from his lips and he took a step back, his brows lowering. "Say again?"
"What? Did you think it was a secret that you kept sending Ben cases of scotch every month? Do you have any idea how insensitive that is to do to someone who is trying to stay clean? Who does something like that?"
Like a weight suddenly landed there, his shoulders slumped as he took another step in retreat, leaning his back against the counter. "Pops was clean?"
"Two years," I said, nodding for emphasis. "No thanks to you."
His gaze went to his feet and, for a second, I thought he was feeling guilt or shame. But then his head came back up and his green eyes were dancing, a smile tugging at his lips. "What happened to all that scotch then? 'Cause none of it ever got sent back."
"I intercepted it," I said, lifting my chin a little. It always came right on schedule, the tenth of each month. I always made sure I got up early and grabbed it before Ben could see it. Two years was a long time to be clean, but even with that kind of time in, a huge case of scotch could have been too hard a temptation to fight.
"You intercepted it? What a little secret agent you are," he chuckled. "So who are you, Detective? You belong to my Pops?"
"Belong?"
"Yeah, honey. You and him... were you a thing?"
"What? No!" I almost shouted, my hands flying out and gesticulating like they always did when I got riled. "Just because you're a horndog doesn't mean your father was. And, just in case you haven't noticed, I'm a little bit young for him."
"A horndog?" he repeated, looking like he was trying to fight a smile.
"Yeah, horndog. Player. Ladies' man. Womanizer. Lothario. Slut."
He stopped fighting the smile and it stretched across his handsome face in an all too charming way. "Spend a lot of time reading your thesaurus, huh sugar?"
"Oh my gosh. What is with all the cutesy names? I have a real name you know."
"Yeah, honey, I'm sure you do... but you haven't told me it yet."
Oh. Right.
"I'm Amelia Alvarado. I live next door."
He kept the smile in place and extended his hand. And, well, I had no real choice but to take it. "Well, Amelia Alvarado from next door, I'm Shooter. It's a pleasure to meet you," he said, leaning down to kiss the back of my hand. I repeat: he kissed the back of my hand. I did not feel a shock of desire at the contact either. Nope. Not at all.
"The pleasure is all yours," I growled, snatching my hand from his.
Not offended, he just chuckled. "What happened to your hand, darlin'?"
I looked down at my hand, too frazzled to remember what he was talking about. The scratches were superficial, just a couple bright red marks that would probably fade by morning. "Your dad's cat," I said on a shrug.
"My dad's... cat?" he repeated like it was the most ridiculous thing he had ever heard before.
"Yeah. Millie. She's evil and hates literally everyone. I was trying to get her from underneath the cabinet to bring back to my apartment until I figured out what to do with her."
He rubbed his brow and, for a second, he looked almost lost, unsure of himself. It was quickly brushed away and he clapped loudly, making me jump. "Alright. Let's get her out of there," he said, moving over toward where I had been kneeling a few moments before. His shoulder brushed mine in the close space of the small kitchen and I jerked away. His brow raised at my reaction, but he said nothing.
"Go ahead and try," I said, chin raising. "She'll probably claw that pretty face off."
"You think my face is pretty, huh?" he asked, smiling over his shoulder at me and I felt my cheeks start to heat. What the hell was wrong with me?
"No. But you obviously think pretty highly of yourself. Just figured I would warn you."
He winked at me and lowered himself down to the floor, reaching one of his arms under the cabinet. He made a weird tisk tisk tisk sound under his breath and not more than a few seconds later (a few seconds!) out slid Millie, Johnnie's arm wrapped around her back. I had been trying to get that cat out of there for like... twenty minutes. Millie was a fat, ugly as all sin white cat with big patches of brown and gray all over her coat. One of her eyes was blue, the other brown and I swear her mouth was perpetually set in a kitty-frown. She looked up at Johnnie for a minute, her head cocking to the side. "Who's a pretty kitty?" Johnnie asked, running his hand down her back and she purred. The she-devil spawn of satan actually purred at him.
"She's the ugliest cat I've ever seen," I said, shaking my head as I watched him bundle her up and cradle her to his chest and she just... let him.
"Maybe that's why she doesn't like you," Johnnie said, stroking her head as he smiled at me.
"So that's what you do? Compliment everyone, even the... unfortunate looking ones, and you get what you want?"
Johnnie shook his head, his smile turning more into a smirk. "Do you need to excuse yourself to the bathroom for a minute?"
"What?" I yelped, thrown off.
"Well with an attitude like that, I figured you must have your panties in a bunch, darlin'. Maybe you need to excuse yourself to... remedy that situation."
Oh, what a jerk! Who the heck said things like that to relative strangers?
Well, he wasn't going to get away with it, that was for darn sure.
I lifted my chin. "I'm not wearing any panties and you're a jackass," I said, brushing past him, making sure to slam my shoulder into his as I went by. I stomped toward the door. "I hope you like cats, because she's yours now," I said, slamming the door hard behind me.
I let myself into my apartment, slamming my own door for good measure, and started pacing. Alright, so maybe I was easy to rile. My temper could fly off the handle at any moment. But darn if that man didn't deserve it.
Killer Page 2
