The Alpha's Assistant & The Dom Next Door

by Michelle Love

  My attitude about that is the only thing that helped me get over Mary’s death and the terrible way she treated me and her own mother in the months before it. Maybe she thought she was doing us a favor by severing ties before her death, but love and loyalty don’t work that way. I kept fighting for her, and she broke my fucking heart—especially when she tried to take our daughter with her.

  If my daughter ever asks me about her mother’s suicide, I’ll tell her that her mom had a disease and couldn’t help herself. But Mary’s suicide wasn’t an impulse. It was meticulously planned, and from the start, it involved trying to kill Jenny too.

  I’m fucking sick of people using their problems as an excuse to destroy other people’s lives. It’s not their fault they’re sick, but letting a wound fester never helps it heal, and when your sickness can harm a lot of people, it’s irresponsible not to try to get a handle on it.

  “I know exactly what you mean. I had a few people close to me act a lot like that. The stuff Shayla’s doing is familiar to me … and that’s why I’m so worried.”

  The blush is back. It’s so damn cute that I pause for a moment to just look at her. But it still makes me a little sad. “Wow, you’re really not used to people giving a shit about you outside your parents, huh?”

  “No,” she mumbles.

  “Well, get used to it.” I look at her right in those soft brown eyes and see her blush deepen as she struggles to keep eye contact. It’s adorable … but right now, I’m deadly serious.

  She just stares at me, managing a nod but nothing else.

  I take a deep breath, compelled to explain myself. “People like Shayla try to isolate you from any support system so they don’t have to face real pushback for their actions. It’s calculated. I don’t want a person who thinks and acts like that in my neighborhood, causing problems for you and yelling so loud she scares my kid. So unless you tell me to fuck off and let you deal with it all yourself, I want to be your backup. The person you go to if there’s a problem.”

  I see her hesitate, and I understand that hesitation more than she probably thinks. Every time someone offers me a deal that seems too good to be true, I’m skeptical.

  She chews her full lip nervously, and I wish to God I could just take her into my arms and tell her that she’ll be all right from now on. That I’ll take care of her.

  Instead, I let the offer stand, and let her consider it undistracted for a while.

  “I … would feel safer if I had someone close by I could go to,” she finally says, and I struggle to hide my relief. “You’re right … she’s only gotten worse over time. I really didn’t feel safe today while she was in my house.”

  “Then your instincts are good. There are very few things more dangerous than when a person like that realizes you won’t take their shit anymore. Some get scared off, but others fly off the rails.”

  She pales then, and I realize that I’ve touched a crucial nerve. “She was reaching for me when you banged on the door,” she murmurs breathlessly.

  Fuck.

  “Okay,” I reply gravely. “In that case, I’m gonna have to insist. If she starts causing you any kind of trouble again, showing up uninvited or anything like that, then you come to me. All right?”

  She swallows, guilt and hesitation clouding her face. After a moment she takes a deep breath and it clears, and she smiles softly in relief. “Thank you.”

  Chapter 5

  Emmeline

  My phone beeps again, and I see that I have another message. Shayla has been calling. She’s been calling all night. But it doesn’t matter anymore, because I’m protected.

  Carl is making everything better. Well, not everything. I’m sure I have years of therapy ahead of me from dealing with that harpy, not to mention what happened to Mom and Dad. But that’s all right, because if Shayla causes any real problems beyond just whining, I have someone I can call.

  The best someone.

  If I had a little crush on the guy before, it’s at ridiculous levels now. I left his house smiling, and I feel like I’m floating two inches off the floor just thinking about it as I move around my kitchen.

  The phone beeps—another message. I make myself green tea with honey.

  The phone beeps—I don’t even look at it as I sip my tea. It beeps again twice before I finish my first cup. I pour myself a second.

  My thoughts are preoccupied with Carl. The warm glow I feel drowns out any anxiety over making Shayla angry. He cares. He wants to protect me.

  He even called me cute and said he’s attracted to me! How did I get so lucky? It’s always possible that he’s messing with me, but he just doesn’t seem the type.

  No, there’s no room in my heart right now for fearing Shayla or worrying about what she’ll do. My stomach’s doing little flips, but the apprehension is mixed with wild excitement.

  What if Carl asks me out on a date?

  The thought of it leaves me sitting there daydreaming while my second cup of tea goes cold. I never dated much as a teen, and not at all once I decided to join a convent after junior college. Now I’m left wondering ... what would being with Carl be like?

  “Being with,”… crap, I sound like a fourteen-year-old. I’m thinking about dating him. Kissing him. Fucking him—though I have no idea what that is like. But I’d love to find out.

  The phone beeps again, and I hesitate. I’ve been letting my voicemail fill up with Shayla’s tantrums and threats, gathering evidence. I hate having to prepare to get a protection order against my own sister, but it’s her fault, not mine.

  Finally, I give up and scoop up my phone. I stare at the message screen—she’s filled the mailbox completely. I save the messages to my cloud without listening to them, delete them off my phone, and then—after months of not having enough nerve—I block Shayla’s number.

  Eventually, she’ll buy other phones to call me from, and she’ll start hassling me all over again. But it will take her time, and she’s lazy. It means I can at least spend tonight in peace.

  Thank God. I could really use the break.

  This is the first time since my parents died that I have felt even a little bit safe. And it’s all because of Carl. It’s nice to know that I once again have someone who will look out for me and help me deal with the world—to know that I’m not all alone.

  Things might not turn out as well as I’m hoping. But if he doesn’t ask me out, then I’m darn well going to have to work up the nerve to do it myself. Now how do I do that?

  I’ll have to start small, or I’ll lose my nerve entirely. And I will have to work around his schedule, because I know he’d never abandon Jenny. So … coffee?

  I look around my house, with half the rooms bare still except for stacked-up boxes. I need to get to work unpacking and fixing everything up if I’m going to have guests. I’m suddenly embarrassed by all those weeks of doing only a box or so a day, no matter how hard of a time I was having.

  Would Carl understand? Probably. But that doesn’t stop me from wanting to put a better face forward. Especially now that his offer of friendship and protection has made me feel better than I have in months.

  I’m able to unpack the living room and get the dining room table and chairs put together that night before I run out of steam. It’s a big step. I could be ready to have Carl over in a day or two. If I can just get my downstairs together, it won’t matter if the spare bedroom and my office are still in boxes.

  At least my bedroom is done already, if he ends up upstairs. But that thought just makes me blush like crazy all over again.

  My arms ache as I bring the last load of broken-down boxes to my recycling bin outside. I need a shower and some more sleep. But I’m smiling, both proud of myself and grateful for this small turn in my lonely life. I’m still smiling half an hour later, when I climb into bed with my still-damp hair freshly braided.

  The knocking wakes me up a few hours later.

  I tense and roll over, listening to the continuous, insistent banging
as the fog clears from my head. It could be Shayla—or maybe the police, calling to tell me she rolled her car while throwing a tantrum in traffic. After a few moments’ hesitation, I get up and look down at my front curb.

  Shayla’s gold Mercedes is sitting there—still running, lights on, driver’s side door hanging open. Her parking is even shittier than usual, with one wheel up on the curve, turned at an angle to the street. As the sight registers, I hear her voice yell up, “Emmeline!”

  I freeze in indecision. Call the police? Call Carl? Go down and tell her to fuck off?

  I take a deep breath, feeling my stomach start to curdle again. It’s late. I don’t want to irritate Carl by calling, but he insisted.

  It takes me three tries to bring myself to phone him.

  He picks up on the first ring. “Hi, I’m sorry to bother you,” I start, but he cuts me off.

  “It’s fine. I already heard her and saw her car. I’m gonna call a buddy of mine on the force. It may be a bit before he gets there though.” His voice is calm, focused—all business.

  My blood runs hot and then cold again with my mix of emotions, and I take a shivery breath. “Thank you.”

  “It’s fine, sweetheart; the cops are on their way. Just hold tight. That’s a steel-core door, and if I hear any glass break, I’ll be over in a flash.”

  “Okay, I uh ... I’ll stay up here until they show.” I chew my lip. I hate the idea of dealing with Shayla’s embarrassing behavior in front of the police. But if she does something horrible, and it happens to be illegal, at least I won’t have to deal with her for a while.

  But I’ll have to deal with the aftermath of whatever she does. Please let the police get this under control before I come out.

  “Okay. Call me back if you get scared.” He hangs up.

  Downstairs, the banging continues. Shayla is cursing and calling my name. She sounds drunk. I wonder how she got over here without destroying her car.

  I move to the window again to watch her. I don’t know how long she has been out there, but it’s probably been a while. I’m a light sleeper, but only when omething disturbs my immediate space.

  Finally, I catch sight of red and blue flashing lights, and stare in amazement. Absently, I grab my robe off the back of my chair and wrap it around myself, wondering how in the world Carl got the police to get here so fast. Thank God for small favors.

  I step into my slippers and make my way down the stairs as the knocking suddenly stops. I can hear the hysterical tone in Shayla’s voice as she confronts the police. I don’t know what she’s saying, but I hope it’s something so abusive that she ends up in handcuffs.

  I make my way down the stairs and walk up to the front door, hesitating. I can hear Shayla sobbing and whining about something now, in a much lower voice. I open the door with a sense of relief washing through me.

  Shayla is standing at the base of my stairs, mascara running down her face, hair askew, hugging herself. Two uniformed cops flank her, looking both tired and a little confused. One of them, a dark-eyed, fox-faced man, turns a stony expression to me.

  “There’s the bitch, that’s her!” Shayla cries suddenly, stabbing an accusing finger in my direction. “My own sister locked me out of our house in the cold!”

  I stare at her, so stunned that my heart painfully skips a beat. The rush of adrenaline sends cold needles through me as I watch my sister turn into an expert impersonator again.

  “Shayla, why did you change the locks? I live here! I have no place to go!”

  I shake back the brief, agonizing flashback, and the irony pisses me off to no end. “She doesn’t live here,” I say in a mix of confusion and outrage. Only the confusion is played up. Really, after everything she has done, I should have seen this tactic coming.

  Foxface’s brows knit together and he looks over at his partner, a mellow-looking Creole man with a carefully trimmed fade beneath his uniform cap. “Have we got a confirmation of their home addresses?”

  “I can provide mine, if you need it,” I say in the steadiest voice I can manage. My eyes are too blurry from panic and exhaustion to read their name badges, but I manage not to cry or yell at anyone.

  My cooperativeness seems to get their attention. Foxface sighs. “Miss Lacroix, as reluctant as we are to get involved in a family manner, your sister here claims that this is her place of residence, and you’ve locked her out in the cold.”

  “Um, I’m really sorry that this has happened—” I say immediately, but Shayla cuts me off.

  “I can’t believe she changed the locks while I was gone! How could you lock me out, Emmeline? I have no place to go!” Her voice rises to a wail in a dramatic mockery of my grief on that night that I slept on the porch—and suddenly there’s nothing in my head but rage.

  “Officers, please, my sister’s ID, mail, and keys will all prove that she lives in our family home in the Garden District.” I give them the address. “I moved here after she locked me out. Now she is harassing me because I blocked her phone number earlier tonight.”

  “She’s lying!” comes the screech, and I shudder, my heart pounding hard. How in the world does Shayla manage to yell this loud without hurting her throat? “I can’t believe this. I know she hates me, but this is legal! You have to arrest her and let me in!”

  I’m shaking now, but I stand my ground. “Half of my things are still in boxes. I just moved here, alone. There’s one bed set up, and you know we’re not sharing one. I will take you inside and show you, but please, do not let my abuser into my house.”

  Foxface’s eyes light up with sudden understanding, and he and his partner exchange a glance. There’s something fiercely knowing in the Foxface’s stare—but the other man shakes his head slightly, unimpressed.

  The cop in front of me, Foxface, holds up his hands. “Okay, look. How about I go in, with your permission, have a look around, and you can explain the whole thing. Do you have any—”

  “Hey! Damn it, you stupid cop, why are you talking to her instead of me? She’s the one who did something wrong, I told you—”

  “Ma’am,” his partner growls, “I am talking to you, and Officer Eames is talking to your sister.”

  “But ... but ... you should listen to me, not her! I’m the one who called you!” Shayla seems so baffled that I don’t know if she’s being manipulative, or if she’s simply delusional.

  “That doesn’t mean we know who between the two of you is lying yet,” Officer Eames snaps over his shoulder. Shayla sucks in air and I tense, half expecting an explosion. He turns his attention back to me, his expression going neutrally professional again.

  Shayla uses the one tiny scrap of wisdom she possesses in not talking back to the cop, and I swallow my disappointment.

  “I’m sorry,” he says to me, “but it actually would help if I could see the state of your home to corroborate your story. And it would help even more if you had a witness to verify who lives where.”

  “I’m happy to help with that.” A tall, broad-shouldered shape in a familiar motorcycle jacket walks up to my front gate, speaking in a clear, calm voice. “Carl Black. I live next door.”

  Shayla lets off whining at Officer Eames’s partner and levels a glare of pure hatred at Carl. He offers a cold smile in return—but when he turns to me, his eyes twinkle.

  My hero, I think, heart lifting with relief.

  Chapter 6

  Carl

  From the desperate look on Emmeline’s face and the way she sags in relief when she sees me, I know my timing’s good. As for my drinking buddy Jamie, who has been our beat cop along with his partner Tom for eighteen months, we exchange a brief glance before he goes back to doing his job. I have to pretend I don’t know him well, or Shayla’s likely to kick up a stink about corruption.

  “Well, sir, we got a phone call from Ms. Lacroix about being locked out of her house by her sister.” He gestures at the bitch, who is glaring at me like she wants to murder me right there. I wink at her, and she goes white.
<
br />   “Locked out of her house? This woman doesn’t live here. In fact, I had to tell her to leave this afternoon because she was threatening Emmeline. I could hear her screaming from my kitchen. So could my kid.”

  I can’t imagine the last time I said anything to an on-duty police officer that gave me this much satisfaction. “I’ve been here two and a half years. She doesn’t even live in this neighborhood.”

  Looking at Shayla’s bleary outrage and incredibly shitty parking job, I put two and two together. “Maybe she’s just an aggressive drunk, but twice in one day is too much for me.”

  “Oh, so drunk and disorderly? And possible drunk driving? Tom, get the breathalyzer.” Jamie gives Shayla a knowing look that takes a lot of the wind from her sails. Then he turns back to Emmeline. “We’re going to have to document this, but right now, with her behavior, it can only work in your favor if you end up pressing harassment charges.”

  “I’m getting a protection order,” Emmeline speaks up, her voice choked but clear. “She can’t just—”

  Shayla lets out an incoherent scream and lunges at Emmeline. I leap the gate and bolt across the lawn, but both cops are on it, grabbing her and pulling her back. She starts fighting them, flailing and screaming, while I bound toward Emmeline and pull her out of range.

  I gather her against my chest and turn us so my body is between her and her crazed sister. She shivers against my chest, her face pale. “It’s okay, sweetheart. Just let them do their jobs.”

  “You can’t do this! You can’t! This is my house! They’re both my house! I’m the oldest! Everything that bitch has is mine!” I look over and see that Shayla is fighting them with everything she has as they drag her toward the squad car.

  “We’ll take care of this,” Jamie promises. “I’m gonna need statements from all of you, though. Can you take care of things here, and come in to give statements first thing tomorrow?”

  Emmeline nods against my chest and I nod at Jamie. “Is nine all right?”

  “That’s fine. Call me if anything changes.” I have no idea how he can keep such a calm tone while stuffing a screeching drunk into the back of his cruiser, but now that the cuffs are on, he’s doing exactly that to Shayla.