Waking the Lion

by Lacee Hightower

  Doing my best to keep from being so antsy, I just go for it. Besides, I have scissors in my bag.

  “It’s now or never,” I whisper, pushing the car door shut with my hip.

  My hands are full when I press the doorbell with my elbow, and a strand of hair falls across my eyelash. With a quick shake of my head, I give my best try at encouraging the long tress to the side. No such luck being the case, I finally blow a breath upward and the hair slips off my eye, dropping across my cheek and over my freshly applied peach lip gloss.

  “Shit,” I sigh, wondering why he isn’t opening the door. Maybe he’s paraplegic. Or unable to see. Seems like Reese Gentry could have given us a heads-up.

  My elbow pushing toward the bell one last time, I’m leaning at an awkward stance since my hands are full. The door opens at the exact same moment I try shifting my position, throwing me off-balance, and the corner of my arm jabs into a steel-hard, bare-chested, tattoo-covered, eyeful of magnificently splendid maleness. Awestruck, I can’t even manage an “oops” or “excuse me” as I’m engulfed in the solid lean body that’s robbed me of breath.

  Holy Damn! Holy Damn!

  I gulp. He’s wearing black sweats just snug enough to show toned, thick legs impeccably proportional to the narrow cut of his hips and waist, and his arms and chest are nearly godlike, warming my body in all the right places. There’s sinewy strength in his forearms, which not only roll with thick veins but are covered in sexy tattoos that trail over his chest. Suddenly I want to simply … touch him.

  “What?” he growls in a gravelly voice, the head of nearly shoulder-length, wavy deep brown tresses sweeping across his forehead as he frowns with narrowed eyes at my bag of styling products like I’m here to serve him a subpoena or eviction notice.

  Well hello to you, too! My pulse is racing as he pushes the hair from his face and looks back up, a beautiful pair of vividly shining slate-blue eyes swollen with dark circles underneath, glaring at me with what looks like pure, undivided, seething hatred.

  Well, shit!

  The hair all over my body stands at attention, and I realize I’m barely breathing. Muscles in my thighs clenching, I try my best to pry my eyes from his beautiful inked-up torso that makes me think of long hours of sex. Small streaks of arousal stun me, butterflies filling my belly. I can’t look away. Even through his angry gaze, my head is immediately tripping with thoughts of him completely nude. A girl would have to be blind, brainless, or bumfucking crazy not to notice his electric eyes and holier than thou smoking hot physique. I can only imagine what his ass looks like.

  Swallowing back the lump lodged in my throat as his eyes slowly roll over my body, I blink out of my trance, heat rising in my cheeks.

  “Whatever you’re selling, I don’t fucking want any!”

  With an unclear stare, what seems like a lifetime of raw silence passes. Finally, the door starts closing. Clearly, the man thinks I’m a solicitor.

  “Wait!” I manage to say. “I’m not selling anything.” The heavy tote bag is causing my arm to give out and go to sleep, so I lower it to the ground, rubbing away the uncomfortable tingling sensation, along with the slight feel of my knees that are about two seconds from buckling.

  Silent, he stares down at the bag I’ve set on his stone-covered porch with a curious gleam in his eyes.

  “Mr. Gentry, I’m here to shampoo and cut your hair … and give you a shave. Courtesy of your brother, Reese.” I smile, his brows creasing in confusion as he eyeballs my tote bag again. My nipples turn hard as I sneak a second glance at his amazing toned body and the outline of a long thick penis venting underneath his Nike sweatpants. He glares at me like he’d just as well spit on my foot, then rolls his eyes.

  How mature, jerkoff.

  “What? What the fuck? I don’t give a goddamn about a haircut or shave,” he literally hisses as his shoulders stiffen. “Tell my brother to mind his own fucking business. Here. This should cover your time.” He leans closer, the muscle in his arm flexing as he reaches in his pocket and pulls out a wad of cash, his icy blue gaze glued to my mouth. So damn easy to look at. I’m fighting like hell to take my eyes off the dark V-trail peeking from the top of his elastic waistband—the champagne of all drugs, according to my closest friend, Kim.

  Holy sweet baby Jesus!

  “Your brother already paid, Mr. Gentry.”

  The wad of cash trickles to the ground as he shoves it toward me, his fingers brushing my palm ever so slightly. Call it loneliness or pure carnal lust, but there’s a quick jerking blast of energy between us, and I want to touch this man so badly that I ache.

  “Fuck off,” he mutters, slamming the door so closely to my face that it misses my nose by less than an inch.

  “Well, that went well.” My pulse pounds as I ignore the cash and haul my ass and hair products back to the car. No amount of money or hot shoes is gonna make me ask twice. I can’t get out of here quickly enough.

  Chapter Six

  Rhett

  Anger never brings on good decisions.

  Once I’ve called my brother and told him to fuck off and stop trying to coddle me like some kind of needy infant needing a tit to suck on, I force myself to take a quick shower and wash away the stench from my reeking hair. Not because I gave a damn. I don’t. Only because I can smell myself and even I don’t intend on leaving the house smelling like shit.

  Why does hockey gear have that weird smell, babe?

  The offensive rumbling of my stomach reminds me I need to eat, so I find myself in the kitchen leaned over the open refrigerator. Not a lot of choices left, I toss out what appears to be mold-covered cheese and slam the door shut.

  The pantry doesn’t prove to be much better. Other than boxes and cans that involve cooking, there’s nothing that qualifies as actual food, so I grab an open bag of Baked Lay’s, sliding two in my mouth.

  “Motherfucking shit!” I spit the rancid-tasting stale chips in the trashcan and open the top drawer underneath the glass cabinets, pulling out a pizza menu. Three small grapefruit candles lie next to the stack of takeout menus, the scent nauseating me. The tea candles, or whatever the fuck she calls them, make me want to puke, so I grab all three and take them, along with the frayed menu and my phone, and head out back to toss the candles into the trash bin full of empty beer bottles.

  Spread out in a lounge chair overlooking the pool, is Polar. “Hi, buddy. I guess you expect me to feed you, huh?”

  He’ll starve, baby. Somebody’s gotta feed him.

  Hell!

  With an intense, long meow, glaring at me with slanted, sky-blue eyes, he stretches his paws and shows off his sharp claws. The purring riles my nerves, but fuck, I guess he’s gotta eat.

  “Sorry, buddy. There’s no cat food left, but if you’ll chill with me, I’ll share some greasy pepperoni here in a few.” In two seconds flat, the cat stands, lifting his ass up in the air like he’s royalty. With another soft purr, he jumps down and walks between my legs, brushing his matted fur against my skin.

  “I know. I know. You’re not here to see me, are you?” As if the damn stray understands what I’m saying, he purrs again, then walks toward the metal fence, jumping between two pickets and running off. The cat could give a shit about me. He knows who once fed him every day. Made sure his ceramic water bowl was always filled with fresh water.

  And it’s not me.

  The doorbell chimes through the outdoor speaker system, meaning pizza is here. The order charged to my credit card, I reach into my pocket, only needing a couple of bucks for tip money.

  “Jesus! Fucking hell!” The only cash I had left to my name is somewhere between here and fucking Timbuktu. I gave it to the stunning brunette earlier.

  Absolutely fucking excellent.

  There’s a young kid, can’t be a day over eighteen, sporting what is probably a fake diamond in the side of his nose, along with another piercing in his eyebrow with a fishhook-looking contraption stuck through the small slit. My pizza box is on the po
rch while the boy scoops up cash that’s scattered across the limestone shipped from India for the front porch and back landscape.

  Oh my God, Rhett. This is perfect for the porch.

  The kid’s cheeks are glowing like he’s just chosen the winning Powerball numbers as I stand and watch. After a few more seconds pass, I clear my throat to get his attention. The skinny kid sees me and reaches for the pizza box with a wad of twenties, hundreds, or whatever I’d had in my pocket at the time, crumpled in his other hand.

  “Oh … sorry, dude,” the kid says, the lisp in his speech telling me he probably also has a piercing in his godforsaken tongue. “All this cash was blowing out in your yard and on your porch.”

  “Just take it and give me my pizza … dude.”

  I reach for the cardboard box and slam the door.

  After an entire large pepperoni and double jalapeno pizza fifteen minutes later, I’ve ignored two phone calls from Spunk and Dubnyk, a text from my mother, and swallowed another dark beer. I gather the pieces of pepperoni from the bottom of the pizza container and walk outside to give the scraps to the damn cat.

  No cat. He hasn’t come back.

  I toss the pizza remnants in the trash and sit down in the same chaise lounge I’ve spent what seems like a hundred hours in. Fatigue from fatigue is about to get the best of me, so I lean back, hoping like hell for sleep to come. I’m so tired I can barely keep my head up. Downright exhausted, I need some real rest. But every time I close my eyes, I realize it’s the last thing I’m going to do, so I give up and continue dealing with extreme insomnia.

  Hours and more hours pass before my eyes give up fighting and slip off into slumber, my brain finally unable to function any longer.

  ****

  The sound of quacking ducks wakes me up. The sun is just rising, and I’ve slept in this chair through the night again, the shooting pain in my neck and shoulders an instant reminder. Motherfucking, pesky bastards always choose the same route—across my roof—to make their exit. Not a worry in the world, they also find it perfectly acceptable to stop by and take an occasional swim in my pool, meaning one thing. Duck shit! I watch the group of six or seven flying low across the cloud-streaked sky, listening to their noise, which resembles an annoying honking car alarm. Fortunately, in only seconds, they’re gone, their obnoxious sounding bullshit fading away beside them.

  I shove the hair from my eyes and rise up from the outdoor lounge chair, rubbing my neck at the violent spasms giving in to the beginnings of a crick while I head to the kitchen and reach for a K-cup—the last one.

  A trip to the grocery store is inevitable. Unless I plan on starving.

  Chapter Seven

  Rhett

  I look back … and regret everything.

  Home ownership is nothing but work. Bills. Dealing with the housekeeper, the yard guys, the pool man. Grocery fucking shopping. Cooking. The list is never-ending. After never giving a second thought to shit like this, it’s next to impossible to overlook the lack of anything being done around here recently. The kitchen is empty. The house looks like complete shit. The yard and pool both need tending.

  An hour later, I’ve managed a shower and have on fresh clothes. I feel better now that I’ve cleaned up, but it doesn’t relieve the dread of grocery shopping.

  Baby, will you pick up some shredded coconut on your way home?

  Deep into making a mental note what I need to buy so I don’t have to come back anytime soon, I reach for the Porsche SUV keys next to the garage door, also telling myself it’s time to get the housekeeper and pool guys back on a regular schedule. With a swift arm, I lift the Blue Hawks keyring and just as quickly return it to the rack. I’m not ready for this yet. The fucking trip to Kroger can wait a little longer. Just a few more minutes.

  ****

  Kroger’s parking lot doesn’t seem too crowded this time of day.

  Don’t forget Polar’s food.

  There’s a silver Tahoe parking beside me, a drove of kids inside. I move up to the next spot to avoid a guaranteed door ding and take an anxious breath, smoothing out my wind-blown hair before raising the windows and closing the moonroof. With a press of the key fob, the doors lock, and I stare for a long second at the SUV I’d surprised Lindy with when we moved into the new house. Another painful reminder of better days. I push the keys in my pocket.

  I speak briefly to a gentleman who calls me by name, then glance up at two women standing beside the grocery carts, deep in conversation. Both go silent as they see me approaching, all four eyes dropping down my torso in a perfect mechanical sync. Jesus Christ, could they be any more obvious? Is my fly open? Do they want me to pull out my dick? Give them an up-close and personal look? Fuck that. I sneer, grabbing my crotch and readjusting myself just to be an ass.

  “Ahh. Feels much better.” I shoot both women a crudely insulting stare, and they both immediately glance sideways like I’ve flashed a blinding light in their eyes.

  “Have a wonderful day, ladies.” I force a smile, noticing the pink shade rising up the redhead’s pale cheeks. If I didn’t hate the whole grocery shopping experience so much, I’d probably find the whole incident amusing. Most likely, the women know who I am, and I should be used to the stares. But right now, they only make me uncomfortable. Before Lindy, I’d fallen hard for the beautiful women of Texas and their southern accents and charm, and probably would have been all over something like the brazen moves of the two ladies.

  When I met Lindy, my entire way of thinking changed.

  With a few bullshit items thrown in the basket, I head to the produce aisle for fruit and trail mix. Maybe a bag or two of salad. Ten minutes later, I’m still trying to figure out where they’ve got the fucking trail mix with coconut and macadamia nuts hidden. I love that shit, but don’t see it anywhere.

  Wouldn’t it be in the produce section, for fuck’s sake?

  Exasperated with this entire grocery shopping fiasco, I take another glance at the fruits that I’ve already seen, and still it’s nowhere. Oranges, bananas, pears, ten different types of apples, and every damn thing else, and still … no goddamn trail mix.

  Red delicious are always the sweetest.

  “Where the fuck is it?” I hiss, looking up at a lady whose eyes are covered in aggravation as her two belligerent kids insist on wailing at the top of their lungs, sending sharp piercing sounds through the whole area, resembling a screeching siren.

  Then I see her.

  Exquisite, soft femininity only feet away.

  The hair stylist who, as much as I try denying it, lifts my whole body with need, making me think of long hours of deep, brutal fucking. Goddamn, this beauty bleeds womanliness. Every damn thing about her defines sex.

  She’s only feet away, looking at apples, her eyebrows arching as she assesses each yellow-colored piece of fruit like one is actually different from the other hundred in the pile. No ponytail today, instead she’s left her silky hair down, styled in soft waves that encase the silhouette of her beautiful face just perfectly. Her big blue eyes stare down at the apple filling the majority of her petite hand while her hair falls over her shoulders. Holy hell, she’s beautiful.

  Just as I start to turn away, those bright, beautiful eyes blink up at me, stiffening my dick. Her penetrating gaze holds mine for a moment before her expression softens and becomes a smile.

  Fuck.

  I don’t want to see you again.

  The quick notion that my nosy brother has paid her, yet again, to follow me to the grocery store, crosses my mind. The sly move is definitely something Reese would consider. Only four years my senior, my elder brother has opted to turn all father-figure lately, a complete turnaround from the pussy-chasing brother I’m accustomed to. Yet, I know what he’s doing. The same damn thing I’d do for him if the situation was reversed.

  “Mr. Gentry,” she says in her soft whispery voice that’s every bit as feminine as the shape of her petite body. “It’s nice to see you again.”

  Fuck.
Fuck. Fuck.

  “Rhett,” I bark. “The name’s Rhett.”

  Ignoring my asshole tone, instead she pushes her grocery cart toward mine, looking like a sweet angel, a friendly smile covering her lightly coated, apricot-colored lips that, once again, make my dick salute the sky and divert my thoughts way more than I need or want.

  “Rhett,” she repeats, her lashes sweeping upward as she blinks.

  Black skinny jeans are practically glued onto the toned legs of her petite, curvy physique, accentuating the contour of her hips. Her shoulders fill out an equally tight t-shirt, her small rounded tits ideally outlined by the black cotton and leaving very little to the imagination. I glance down at a pair of bright pink Adidas, wondering if she’s a runner. Her body damn sure looks the part.

  The instantaneous, raw chain reaction of energy that sparks doesn’t go unnoticed by either of us. I’m still … because I can’t move. I’m silent … because the words won’t form. My eyes are glued on her lips and soft smile that have me wanting to sweep her in my arms and kiss her for long, needless minutes. Her body screams for my hands, my lips, all my body parts to explore every delicate inch until I know her from the inside out.

  But I can do none of these things. And I won’t give her any reason to believe otherwise.

  Conversation is the last thing I want, but my body nevertheless continues to stand at a stiffened halt. My fists are clenching at my sides as the tone of her dainty, soft voice repeats my name, causing my dick to squirm again. As hard as I try returning her smile, I know it looks forced. Because it is. Her cheeks rise with a pink shyness that has me aching to settle my hands on the curve of her smooth back.

  “Just let me know if you want me to come by and take care of that haircut and shave your brother paid for. Here.” She reaches in her purse and comes back with a business card.

  Kassidy Johnson

  Addison Hair Company

  214-555-2323

  “I appreciate it.” Like a fucking asshole, I crush the card between my palms and slide it inside my pants pocket. Her expression turns awkward at the shit move, and with nothing but a curt nod, I step around her and push my cart toward anywhere but here.