Out of Love

by RC Boldt

  “So … she spent the night at your house?” Yep. She’s fishing all right.

  “Ma. I’m at work.” I try to cut her off. But, again, this woman knows me. And I swear I can hear the smile in her voice when she responds next.

  “Ah. I see.”

  I roll my eyes. Because even though Ma knows much of what I’ve been through, she doesn’t know everything and she still wants the whole happily ever after shit for me.

  “Nothing to see, Ma.” I attempt a stern tone.

  “Foster Bryant.” She sighs. “You like her. Don’t deny it. But please tell me you respected her last night and didn’t do your little manwhoring business?”

  My own mother is asking me if I took advantage of Noelle? Fucking stellar.

  “Ma!” I try to communicate everything in that one word, my disgust and disbelief. That, and I’m praying she doesn’t somehow use her Mom-dar to detect that I actually considered it. That I considered pulling Noelle’s lush body against mine, devouring her, and just, well … fucking the everloving hell out of her. And I’m not proud those thoughts crossed my mind during a time when it was the last thing Noelle needed.

  “Foster.” My mother lowers her voice to a near whisper. Like anyone’s listening in and my phones are tapped or something. I do private security consulting; I don’t work for the CIA.

  “Ma.” I’m beyond ready to get this call over with.

  “Be kind to her, okay? She needs that right now.”

  Closing my eyes, I will patience to set in. “Yes, ma’am.”

  “Love you and I’ll see you soon. Be careful, okay, sweetie?”

  “I will. Love you, too.” I hang up the office phone slowly, my thoughts already going back to the call I received about Hendy. I know I’m being suspicious as hell, but it was like the hair on the back of my neck stood up, alerting me in that way us Special Forces guys recognized as pegging the “Something’s not fucking right” odometer. It might seem like profiling, but the accent the guy had and the way he posed his question… I can’t put my finger on it, but it’s making me uneasy.

  “Hey.”

  I raise my eyes to see Doc watching me with his usual unnervingly intense gaze. He’s just under six feet tall, light brown hair, fit, but slender with green eyes. The former SEAL sniper is more on the quiet side, yet always über observant. There’s not much that gets by him. Which sucks ass in my case since I’m certain he’s picked up on … things.

  “Need me to look into something for you? I finished up my documentation from the last assessment Ford and I did.” He and Lee often paired up for their designated jobs. She’s already finished up for the day and is headed home to be with her fiancé, Lawson.

  “I might,” I mutter in response, my attention on the paper where I jotted down some notes during the call. Picking it up from my desk, I stand, walking over to hand it to him. His green gaze skims over it and once his eyes meet mine, I recognize the look.

  “You don’t think it’s legit?”

  I shake my head. “I don’t. Sounds crazy, ri—”

  He cuts me off with a wave of his hand. “No. It doesn’t.” His eyes narrow as he rereads what I’ve jotted down on the paper. “I’ll check into this. I’ve got a guy who might be able to help.” Doc glances up. “It might take a bit to get ahold of him.”

  Ah, I know who he’s talking about. Mercer. Nodding, I give a little laugh. “He’s still off-grid, huh?”

  Doc’s lips tilt up at the corners. “Yep.”

  Mercer is one hell of a guy. A little off, but then again, anyone who’s been in Special Forces of any kind has to be in order to go through what we have to endure. Once he got out of the military, he went completely off-grid, and when I say that carrier pigeon is the one way to get a message to him, I’m not kidding. It’s basically to this extent.

  “Thanks, man.” I glance at the time. “You want lunch? I forgot to grab something on my way in this morning.”

  One side of his lips curve up. “Yeah, I noticed you were in earlier than normal.” Doc’s eyes shift over to where Noelle’s sitting at her desk before settling back on me. “I’m good, though, thanks for asking.”

  I hold his stare, silently telling him, No, I didn’t screw our office manager, even though I’m pretty sure he already knows that since I alerted everyone of Noelle’s situation so they could be on the lookout and more alert than normal. That, and the fact that neither I nor Noelle are acting the least bit relaxed in the We just got laid kind of way.

  Walking back over to my desk, I focus on grabbing my keys and cell phone from my desk, not glancing up as I speak. “Davis, I’m heading out to grab some lunch.” There’s far more than a beat of silence following, and I finally raise my eyes to find her staring at me expectantly.

  “Are you telling me or asking me?”

  And, there we are. Right back to normal.

  “Seriously.” There’s no masking the exasperation in my voice. “Do you want to get food or not?”

  “Wow. With an invitation as sweet as that one, who wouldn’t? I mean, a charmer like you?” she remarks drily. She’s such a damn smart-ass.

  And, yeah, okay. I like it.

  A lot.

  Rolling my eyes with a grunt, I start making my way to the door. “If you’re coming with me, let’s go.”

  There’s the sound of a desk drawer being quickly opened and shut before I hear the rollers of her chair being pushed in. “I’m coming, Dr. Nefario.”

  She thinks she’s got me with that Dr. Nefario reference, the character from the animated movie, Despicable Me. But she forgets my sister is a fifth grade teacher, which means I get exposed—whether I want to or not—to some of the pop culture shit geared toward kids.

  As we near the door, I hold it open for her, waiting until she’s crossed the threshold, and lean down—at just the right moment—whispering in an Eastern European accent similar to Dr. Gru in the same movie, “I said cookie robots, not boogie robots.” Steering her dazed form out the door, I close the door behind us, grinning cockily at her back.

  Because I, Foster Kavanaugh, just got the last word, damn it.

  Chapter Fourteen

  Noelle

  “We’re not going back to my place?” I glance over at Foster as we drive down South Fletcher Avenue—in the opposite direction of my house.

  “Ma wants us to come over for dinner.” He says it casually and, no, it’s not weirding me out. I’ve gone to eat dinner at Foster’s mother’s before.

  I’ve just never ridden in the same vehicle with Foster on the way to dinner at Momma K.’s house before. Me and Foster. Together. In the same vehicle. On the way to his mother’s house.

  It feels like a date. Even though it isn’t. But I can’t help it. I’m starting to feel all girly and thinking things like: What if he were to reach his hand over the middle console and grab mine to hold? and What if he were to lay his arm across the back of my seat? Would his fingers play with my hair?

  I’m having a total ‘What the fuck?’ moment here. Noelle, get it together!

  “You’re awfully quiet over there, Ursula.” His deep voice snaps me out of my inner turmoil.

  Facing my window, I let out a melodramatic sigh. “Just plotting, Jafar. Just plotting.”

  He pulls the truck into the driveway of his mother’s small one-story home right beside Laney’s car.

  “Laney’s here, too?” I love Foster’s sister—I do, really. But if she’s not reined in by her friends when Foster and I are in the same vicinity, she will pick, poke, and prod because she wants her brother and I to be together—as in a couple. And it makes me feel like I’m a teenager anticipating getting asked to prom.

  Which means, this feeling? No bueno. I don’t want to ever revert back to those days.

  “Guess so.” He shrugs, turning off the ignition, flashing me a curious look. “What? You don’t like my sister?”

  “I like your sister. I just…” I trail off and tip my head to the side, trying to find the rig
ht words. “I’m not a huge fan of her pushing us together.”

  One eyebrow raises and there’s a gleam in his eyes which instantly puts me on the defensive. His next words confirm it. “Why’s that? Because let’s be honest. Deep down,” he lowers his head with a cocky expression, “you know you want us to be pushed together.”

  Why does the word pushed sound so dirty all of a sudden? How does he do that?

  “Kavanaugh.” My tone is full of warning, giving him my best flinty-eyed stare. Which does nothing, of course, because here’s a guy who can probably bench press three or more of me, for God’s sake. His grin is full of mischief and cockiness.

  “Davis.”

  “Time to go inside.” My words are short—abrupt—as I turn, gripping the door handle in order to exit. Before I can get the door open his hand stops me, his large palm resting on my forearm.

  Turning back, his expression is serious. “I’m sorry in advance if Laney makes you uncomfortable. I know it’s the last thing you need, considering everything that’s going on right now. She just…” He shakes his head with a tight smile. “She just wants me to have what she has.”

  “I know,” I tell him quietly. “I get it.” We stay this way for a moment before I realize he hasn’t removed his hand, his thumb is now grazing my skin, back and forth in the lightest caress. I don’t think he even realizes he’s doing it.

  “Ready?” My voice comes out sounding hoarse, making me cringe internally. Geez, I’m acting like I’ve never been touched by a guy before. Apparently, my embargo on men—which, in turn, means zero sexy time—for the past year, is taking its toll.

  With an inscrutable expression, he nods, pulling his hand away from me. Instantly, I feel the absence of his touch.

  Mentally shaking it off, I turn and exit the vehicle, both of us coming around the front of the truck to walk up to the front of Momma K.’s house.

  Momma K. is pretty much the mother I’ve never had. Being raised by my Aunt Bev, who was much older and didn’t exactly jump up and down in The Price is Right style when I was sent to live with her when I was a wee one, was not exactly fun. It was more a cross between Series of Unfortunate Events meets Cinderella. Minus the whole magical component, of course, because no, I didn’t end up with a fairy godmother. I ended up learning to cook like a champ, sew, and fend for myself, thanks to good ol’ Aunt Bev.

  That woman’s long gone now—off terrorizing and haunting other children along the hallows of hell somewhere, I’m sure. Aunt Bev was super cool like that.

  Foster and I step up to the house and just as he reaches for the screen door, the inside door swings open and Laney greets us with apparent excitement.

  “Hey, you two!” Excitement seems to be paired with a little hint of something else in her eyes. Which means nothing but trouble. T-r-o-u-b-l-e.

  “Laney McBrainy. Are you flying solo tonight?” The affection in his tone is apparent and even though she rolls her eyes at him, Laney’s love for her brother is easy to see.

  After we step inside, she affectionately punches Foster in the shoulder. “Zach has parent-teacher conferences scheduled back to back. He’ll be home later than usual.” Foster hooks his arm around her shoulders and ruffles her hair.

  “Fos! Stop it! I’m not seven anymore!” she hollers, instantly gaining their mother’s attention from within the kitchen. Momma K.’s voice carries out to them as we stand—or I stand—while these two crazy kids wrestle each other; one apparently trying to give the other a wet willy and the other trying to break free.

  “You two had better behave,” their mother admonishes from where she’s likely preparing a heavenly meal, like always. I can hear the love beneath her stern tone. Like she’s used to this kind of behavior from her kids, yet she knows they’re only playing around.

  I can’t help the smile that spreads across my face, watching Foster and Laney, as his sister squeals when his wet finger hits its target—her ear. But that isn’t the only reason for my smile. It’s because in moments like this, I witness a lightness in his eyes, watch as the blanket of darkness lifts the slightest bit. I get to see a glimpse of the lighthearted boy beneath the hardened, closed off man he’s become.

  Laney finally gets loose when Foster relinquishes his hold on her and scrubs a hand over her right ear with an expression of disgust intermixed with humor.

  “Dude. You’re disgusting. God only knows where that tongue’s been.” She wipes her hand down the side of her shorts.

  Foster’s eyebrows raise tauntingly. “And now it’s touched you.”

  She turns away from him, heading toward the kitchen, muttering, “I don’t understand how you put up with him on a daily basis, Noelle.”

  “Tell me about it.” My dry response elicits a nudge at my side. Looking over, I see Foster’s amused expression.

  “You like putting up with me, Davis.” He grins wide and it has cocky written all over it. “You wouldn’t have stayed this long otherwise.”

  The problem with being around Foster when he’s at his mother’s house and around his sister? I get even more harassment from him, yes. But it’s also more dangerous here because his harassment shifts to something more intimate with a lightheartedness to it. It’s beyond perilous to my defenses. Having Foster Kavanaugh—burly, tough, intimidating, and stern—harassing me is something I can handle. I can put him in a box far more easily. The Do Not Touch: Off Limits box. When his demeanor changes—when his teasing changes—is when my defenses begin to dwindle. Because he’s just so darn adorable in these moments.

  Not that I’d ever tell him. Not in a million freaking years.

  Trying to remain expressionless, I toss out flippantly, “Or maybe I just need a job to keep me from having to turn tricks on the streets.”

  I turn to follow the path Laney took to go see Momma K., but am immediately stopped by Foster. His grip around my wrist isn’t painful, but firm enough to bring my movements to a halt. His touch, the feel of his calloused fingertips against my skin, sends tingles of awareness throughout my body.

  I raise my eyes to meet his, watching warily as he steps closer to me. He lowers his head to speak in a low tone. “You need to let me know if that’s ever the case.”

  Chapter Fifteen

  Foster

  Noelle appears confused, brows furrowed. “What?”

  “If you ever consider turning tricks because you’re not making enough.” I hold her gaze, hoping my quiet tone conveys my seriousness.

  Her lips part, likely to give me a sassy response, but then she falters, like it finally dawns on her I’m actually serious. Dead serious. And concerned. Because no two ways about it, it’s troubling as hell she might be considering this as a possible option.

  Tipping her head to the side, she gives me a weird look. “Kavanaugh, first of all, you pay me plenty. Second, I seriously doubt anyone would pay me for this.” With her free hand, she gestures to encompass her entire body, as if implying she isn’t the least bit appealing. Like any guy in his right mind wouldn’t give his left nut to be with her.

  I don’t think—I just act—tugging her against me, so close she has to tip her head back to meet my gaze. I can see the different hues of blue in her eyes. My voice is quiet and husky with warning. “Don’t.”

  “Don’t?” She draws out the word in a question.

  “Don’t doubt it.” I pause for a moment, feeling as though I’m being held captive by her gaze, before I whisper softly, “You’re beautiful. Never doubt that.”

  The astonishment on her face pisses me off because it means she’s either not been told that enough to believe it, or I’m more of an asshole to her than I realize. Not sure why it matters, but I’m bothered she appears surprised I find her beautiful.

  “Fos? Are you molesting Noelle?” Laney calls out from the kitchen. “What’s the dang hold up?”

  Swallowing thickly, Noelle attempts a light tone. “She thinks you’re molesting me so we’d better hurry up and get in there.”

 
I release my grip on her wrist, but before she can turn to head for the kitchen, one of my arms slide around her waist, other hand coming up to cup her cheek. And I act on pure instinct alone.

  My lips. On hers.

  I’m kissing Noelle Davis, my lips leading the way while a tiny part of my mind is noting that I’m not kissing her like I usually kiss women. This kiss is soft, sweet, and has a tender quality to it. It just feels different.

  Until it suddenly changes, like something inside of me snaps. The instant my tongue slides inside and touches hers, it’s like a surge of electricity zaps me. Every part of my body sits up in attention.

  Every part.

  Which makes this far more inappropriate since I’m getting a major hard-on in my mother’s house. With my sister in the kitchen.

  Classy, Kavanaugh. Classy.

  For a split second, I realize what I’m doing—what we’re doing—and know I should pull away. But the moment her hands fist the sides of my shirt, her body arching against mine, her tongue darting and sliding against mine, eliminates the thought.

  “Foooooossssss! Dude! What are you doing out there? You better not have pissed Noelle off and made her leave!”

  Laney’s voice startles us and we break apart, our breathing ragged. Immediately, thoughts race through my mind at warp speed.

  Holy shit. I just kissed Noelle.

  Where’s the nearest flat surface? Because as long as Laney gives me two minutes, I’m good.

  Two fucking minutes? That’s just embarrassing.

  Fuck! She’s my employee. I can’t do this shit.

  Maybe I can kiss her again. Really quick. With more tongue this time.

  I’m so fucking screwed.

  “You planning on letting go of me?” Her attempt at bravado falls short. She knows it; I know. The lingering, breathy quality to her voice gives it away.

  “You planning on letting go of my shirt?”

  Releasing her tight hold, she smooths it out, avoiding my eyes. And that part I get. I’m feeling awkward, too, at complete odds, but I’m also scared shitless. Because if I see a hint of that something in her eyes, I’ll take her on my mother’s damn dining room table.