by Jo Raven
Chapter Two
Raylin
The rain lashes at the windows until late the next morning, and I watch it, sipping at some yucky instant coffee I found stashed in the pantry room. Dry and protected behind the bay windows facing the beach, I’m warm and cozy.
It sucks, because it leaves my mind loose to wander and visit worries, fears, and the memory of a certain muscular guy pressed up close and personal, asking me if I’m okay.
It also brings back the memory of the thug after me, and I feel itchy with nerves.
He can’t have followed me here. What is this, a James Bond film? Nobody knows where I am.
I slide out of the loveseat someone thoughtfully placed there—to watch the rain like I am? I wonder—and think about Storm or whoever he is as I rinse my cup in the kitchen sink.
What was he doing last night jogging in the hurricane? Okay, almost hurricane, and sure, it’s his own business, but only a blind man would have missed the front coming. He was right outside the house whose fence he was fixing when I noticed and went to take shelter.
Instead, he headed out for a run. On the surf.
A little disturbed at the dark suggestions my mind offers as to his motivations, I return to the terrace. Pushing the screen door open, I walk to the end, to the steps where he held me by the hips and asked me who I am. The tiles are cool under my feet, and my toes curl a little at the sensation.
He headed into the storm. Did he want to hurt himself? Put himself in danger?
None of your business, Ray. None of your damn business. Don’t you have enough with worrying about your own little self? Hitmen sent after you not enough trouble for you?
So it makes no sense that I go into the bathroom and fix my hair, pulling the dark strands into a ponytail, and straighten the halterneck top of the only dress I own. Just on the off chance he passes by later.
Pathetic. Seriously.
The rain isn’t showing any sign of letting up. No internet, no TV. It’s like being stranded on a desert island. Some more digging unearths a stack of musty romance novels, and I plop myself back in the loveseat to read. My stomach rumbles, but I ignore it, too comfortable to move.
I wish I could stay here forever, in this bubble of warmth and safety. Not having to worry about myself, my family and the debt collectors after me.
Not having to remind myself every day to keep breathing and that life is worth living, even when the people who are supposed to look after you, love you above all, have abandoned you to the wolves—no, worse.
When they’ve set you up as a sacrificial goat and watch from the shadows to make sure you’re caught, so they can go free and enjoy life without complications. Without my complication.
And not a tear left to shed over them.
It’s later afternoon, the sun dipping low over the horizon, the rain turned into a drizzle. I’m on the terrace, finishing my crackers and peanut-butter-and-jam sandwiches, when he appears, running toward me, his head bowed and the moisture gleaming on his bare torso.
I swear, he’s doing this in purpose. I choke on my cracker and reach for the glass of water I have nearby. Such a body shouldn’t exist outside of romance novel covers.
Such men aren’t for the likes of me.
But as I’m getting up to carry my dish and glass inside, he turns and jogs up the beach.
Toward me.
Crap.
In danger of tripping and falling again, I back away toward the house door. Not fast enough. He bounds up the steps and takes the dish and glass from my hands. He puts them down, and I stare at him, my mouth hanging open.
“What are you doing?” There. Words. Finally.
“Checking on you.” He turns my hands over in his much larger ones and runs his thumbs over my scored and bruised palms.
The sensation does strange things to my body and mind. I mean, we’ve established I’m in lust with the guy, but this? This light caress shoots straight to my core. I’m throbbing so badly between my legs I think I might go over the edge just like that, and there’s a pressure in my chest I don’t understand.
Never felt the need to touch a man’s shoulders, his face, his lips before. Not like this.
Refusing to linger on the thought, I pull my hands back. He resists, I pull harder, he lets go—and I knock into the still closed door. My bruised backside sends a jolt of agony up my spine, and I yelp.
“Dammit, I knew you were hurt.” He grabs me and turns me around, so that I face the door, and I put up my hands to stop from faceplanting into the wood. He tugs me backward just in time to avoid that, and his hands are on my ass.
I repeat, his hands are on my ass. Eep.
“What do you think you’re doing? Hey!” I twist around and slap at his chest, pushing him away. “Hands off.”
He lifts his hands, and oh God, he’s grinning. So not fair. It’s a crooked, sexy grin that lights up the blues in his eyes and melts me into a puddle of goo.
“You’re cute,” he says, and that sexy raspy bedroom voice will be my undoing, I swear. After his body does me in, of course, and let’s not forget the way his concern touched me.
Ugh. “I’m not cute.”
“Yes, you are.” He reaches for my face and trails his thumb over my lips. “Cute and funny.”
I sputter. That’s not what I want a handsome, sexy guy to tell me. But before I find the right swearword to fling at him, the flare of something darker in his eyes stops me.
“Well, I’m fine, as you can see,” I say, my voice shaky and kinda breathy. Why the hell is my voice breathy?
“Yes, you’re fine,” he agrees, his eyes darkening more, dipping to my breasts. His other hand smacks into the door above my head, and the length of his hard, strong, half-naked body presses into mine. His tongue darts out and licks his lower lip, and now he’s looking at me like I’m dessert.
Right on cue, my stomach grumbles.
Damn!
His eyes flick back up to my face, and his brows arch.
“Sorry,” I say and try to pull away from where he’s got me pinned against the door. This is the mother of all bad ideas. “I just…”
“Come over for dinner.”
“Dinner?” Wait, wait. I blink. He’s still there, waiting for my answer. “No way. I don’t even know you.”
He grins again, and my panties are on fire. “I told you. I’m Storm. And don’t I stay far from here.” He winks. “You saw me fixing the fence. You know where the house is.”
Shit, he noticed me then. “That where you’re staying?”
“For now.”
“You housesitting, too?”
“Something like that.”
Haha. Funny. “And you’ll cook?”
He shakes his head and snorts. “Maybe.”
“Well, I can’t come.” Because I shouldn’t. But I’m hungry. And he’s pretty. Okay, more rugged than pretty. Still. “I really don’t know you. What if you’re a serial killer or something?”
“I promise you, I’m not.”
Yeah, well. “And I don’t know your real name.”
His expression shutters. “Storm is what everyone calls me.” He draws back and scrubs a hand over his face. “It’s up to you, sweetheart. I’ll be sitting outside, if you happen to walk by.”
He backs away, a frown drawing his dark brows together, and cold air rushes between us, raising gooseflesh. I rub my hands up and down my arms, missing his warmth, the feel of his body, the brightness of his gaze.
“I’m Raylin O’Brien,” I call after him.
Hell, I have no idea what has possessed me to tell him this. He doesn’t need to know my family name. Doesn’t need to know anything about me—about my past and my involvement with dangerous men and guns.
But as he turns, walking backward, that sexy grin lighting up his face again.
“Storm,” he calls back. “Just Storm. Nice to meet you, Raylin O’Brien. I promise you a good time if you drop by tonight.”
Holy crap. I groan quietly
as he leaves, swallowed by the evening gloom. He isn’t talking about food anymore, is he? Or my mind’s gone down the gutter.
You’re not going, I tell myself. No matter how lickable his abs are, how hot he is, and how you’d like to peel those wet shorts off him and see how big he is when he’s aroused.
Cause that’d be the worst idea ever.
STORM
What are you doing, Storm?
Hell if I know. Inviting her over for dinner. Like I do this kind of stuff back home, when things are fine… Which I don’t.
But I want to get to know her—plus, she was hungry. Damn if that little growl of her stomach didn’t grab me by the throat and flipped on all my protective instincts. The need to take care of her is overwhelming. It won’t let me breathe.
And the need to bury myself balls-deep into her is just as strong, eating me from the inside out. Fantasies of her are taking over my thoughts—of me touching her, pleasuring her, of her riding me, bending over for me.
Fucking hell.
I rub the towel over my wet hair and pull on my favorite pair of worn jeans, stuffing my hard dick inside with some difficulty.
Dammit, I’m hard as a diamond just from having been near her, from feeling the softness of her cheek under my fingertips and the scrapes on her palms. It’s getting to be a common occurrence these days. I’d be working out in the gym room, swimming in the pool or in the sea, fixing something in the house or watching TV, it doesn’t matter what. The image of her, the sound of her voice, her subtle scent of vanilla follows me everywhere, stuck in my mind, priming my body for her.
God, I wish she comes over. Raylin. I need something to take my mind off the chaos of this past year, get out of this funk, and she’s… interesting. Fascinating. Full of contradictions.
Pretty. Damn hot. Fiery.
Fuck, I want to push through the flames and hold her. Have her under me, pound into her as I eat up her pretty mouth, take her from behind against the sofa, in the shower, in the pool… everywhere. Lick her where she burns, break down her every wall, make her scream.
Make her mine.
Shaking off the thought, I head into the kitchen to busy myself with dinner. Oh yeah, glorious food. I debate ordering take-out, then say fuck it, and dig out a deep-frozen lasagna. This is good stuff. Mario special, my uncle’s favorite.
Dammit, last thing I want to do is think about my uncle now. I turn on the oven, then pour myself a Jack on the rocks while waiting for the oven to heat up and lean against the granite island. The whiskey burns pleasantly as it trickles down my throat, warming me up from the inside, and my head drops forward as my muscles start to relax.
God, I don’t know what to do with this life, this stress. I ran away from it, and I was wrenched right back into it. Death always drags me back to a business I don’t want and people I despise. I was supposed to find my own path and, dammit, I was halfway there.
At least that’s what I thought. Working construction and behind the bar, sleeping wherever I could find probably isn’t everyone’s idea of the path to enlightenment. But I wasn’t looking for any deep wisdom, any answers to the purpose of life and the universe.
No. I wanted answers to the purpose of my life, my existence. I never liked the world where my parents lived and died—their business, always at the intersection between legit, shady and downright criminal. Often I wonder if the accident that took their lives was really that, an accident. If the memories I have are real or a figment of a dream.
Dammit. I rub at the roses inked in my side, the scar curling over my ribs. If only I could remember more, understand what the images in my head mean…
Doesn’t fucking matter, though. Too late for answers to that.
What matters is I didn’t find my purpose in life by leaving. I didn’t find happiness. But I also didn’t find bullets and blood and pain, as I did the moment I returned home. Being away was a peaceful time, and it didn’t last nearly long enough.
I yank the oven door open with more force than necessary and stick the lasagna inside, smacking my hand into the hot tray.
Ow. Shaking my head, I grab my drink and head out before I punch something. I should’ve jacked off, taken off the edge.
What if she doesn’t come by?
I chug down the whiskey as I walk around the pool and wonder why my heartbeat is pounding in my ears. I trace again the scar on my side and swallow down bile.
What the hell’s happening to me?
Click on the cover below to buy STORM: the beginning of the Sex and Bullets series (or read for Free with Kindle Unlimited).
https://www.amazon.com/dp/B015WKG9P2
Jo Says
It was a pleasure to return to the world of CAVEMAN and catch more glimpses of Matt and Octavia and the whole family. I admit I have a soft spot for Merc and can’t wait to write his story, too, but first…
Bad Wolf
Gigi was quite cynical when it came to love, back when we first meet her in Caveman, and she was very focused on outside appearances. She rejected Matt Hansen for her sister Octavia based on the rumors circulating about him, and on his age – though she appreciated the fact he was said to be attractive. She also dated a guy named Quinn because he was cute and approved of their handsome neighbor Adam as her sister’s flirt, until he was proven to be a psychopath.
So in Bad Wolf we see her feel her way through the dilemma of appearance vs. the truth. Jarett is hot, but is he good? What makes a guy good? What is important in a man, in a relationship? How does our perception of someone affect that someone – how can her belief that he is good bring out the good in him?
Jarett is such a tortured boy. I just love him so much. He keeps losing the people who believe in him, who really care for him, until he settles for less and builds an altar to any form of affection and loyalty he can find around him. His promise to Mrs. Lowe, his promise to Sebastian to look after him, is his lifeline. He can’t lose this last family he found. He’s strong, but he’s also afraid, and he’s convinced that’s the best he can get.
Until Gigi comes along, of course, and shows him family is more than that, and that she’s there for him. Because happy endings are Life!
The theme of this story: of WOLVES and KINGS
First of all, as the title indicates, as I wrote this book, at the back of my mind I had the fairytale of Red Riding Hood. I’m fascinated by fairytales, particularly the older versions meant for adults as much as for children, their symbolism and their origins.
Reading about the original tale of Red and the Wolf, I realized that probably it is less about the grandmother and the basket of goodies—and more about the girl and the man in wolf’s clothing who’s trying to get her into his bed. See, in the original tale, Red wasn’t necessarily a little girl. She was probably a girl old enough to have relations with a man, and the wild man who meets her in the cabin in the woods asks her to undress before getting into bed with him.
Hint, hint…
He also eventually eats her, which could be a symbol of taking her virginity. In other words, nailing her…
Or he ate her. Literally. Who knows? That’s the beauty of fairytales.
Second, the etymology of names had to fit in with my theme. I’m slightly obsessed with names. I can’t write a story before feeling that the character names fit, and if their etymology fits with the theme, well, even better.
So I chose all the surnames Jarett had over the course of his life to actually mean WOLF. OCD, here I come… LOL.
Fenris, the last name he goes by, is a form of Fenrir, a monstrous wolf in Norse mythology and is the son of god Loki. Randall, the family name of Jarett’s real parents, Connor, the name of his dead foster father, and Lowe, the name of his last adoptive family, all seem to originally have meant WOLF, or are some composite word containing WOLF.
What about the name Jarett? Well it apparently means brave, or a ruler of people.
And Augusta, well, that’s a title of Roman empresses, the female form of Augustus,
the emperor.
Now if you’re familiar with the story of origin of Rome, the story of Remus and Romulus, the twins suckled by a she-wolf and who later went on to found Rome… It all seemed fit in my fairytale retelling – of a wolf-boy who seduced a princess, broke her, until she broke him with her love, and he was reborn as a man and a ruler by her side.
Take all the above with a grain of salt—I can’t promise that’s what the names mean, it’s just what the internet says— and Red Riding Hood is a loose fit for this story, but hey… it made my little author heart glad!
And in any case, they lived happily ever after…
BAD SON: Prequel to Bad Wolf
I’m writing the prequel to Bad Wolf where you find out how Jarett and Gigi met, and much more about both their background and traumas. We also get a glimpse into Merc’s demons. It’s a short novella that I hope to release around the time of BAD WOLF’s release, so look out for it!
What Comes Next
You should see my To Be Written list. It’s frighteningly long. But here is what I think comes next:
The story of Sydney and her boys. This will be a Reverse Harem book, and by this I simply mean it will be one girl and three boys, getting their happy ending. Together. All of them.
Then will come Merc’s story, Ross’s story, and Evan’s story (if you read Caveman and Mancave, you know who they are: Octavia and Gigi’s brother, Octavia and Gigi’s half-brother and Matt Hansen’s friend from Destiny).
After that, I may write another book in my M/M (gay) romance series which started with Jagged Edge.
The Lost Boys series which is a spin-off of the Inked Brotherhood and Damage Control series has been on my mind a lot and I would love to start working on it
Also in the plans are a third book in the Hot Candy series (well, a third standalone), books in the Bad Boy Escorts series which started with Riot, the Soulstain trilogy, about the tattoo shop guys who visited Damage Control in OCEAN and Jagged Edge.
