Cousins In Love: An Alpha Bad Boy Romance (Book 3)

by Lisa Lang Blakeney

  Damn, I missed this. This kind of control. This absolute power. It's as close to an orgasmic experience as I can feel. Not to mention that I'm doing the world a public service by kicking this dirtbag's ass. Everyone out here has been talking about him under their breath but not doing one single thing about it. Somebody out here had to step up to the plate.

  Today it's me.

  I'm not sure how many days it's been since I've been on a run. I've lost track, which isn't a good thing, so today was hard. Real hard. My run didn't feel good like it usually does. The endorphins never kicked in. The shit felt like work.

  That was until I spotted this dirty looking skateboarding kid in the middle of the park, who was tearing into his girl's ass about something. Probably something trivial. Something that didn't warrant the venom he was spewing. Annoying the fuck out of me and everyone within earshot, by getting louder and louder by the minute, and making the girl tear up in public.

  The girl's a plump little thing with mousy brown hair and sad eyes. Wearing a dingy plaid shirt and ill-fitting jeans, the girl wasn't much to look at, but fuck if that mattered. She was somebody's daughter or perhaps someone's future mother. Hopefully never the mother of this devil's spawn. I literally watched this poor girl shrink by at least a foot from sheer humiliation today.

  So while it is completely none of my business, I just couldn't let it stand. Like I said my run has been shitty, and so I'm already annoyed. I had to make it my business.

  As their confrontation escalated, I casually finished stretching my hams and calves out, cracked my neck, and started to walk over to where the two of them were standing. Him yelling. Her shrinking. They were by the park's tallest white oak arguing, or should I say the prick was yelling while the girl cowered and took small steps back, farther and farther away from him. I can tell that he's done this before, and I'm guessing he's holding back because they're in public, because she's frightened but not surprised.

  They both noticed me as I silently began to walk over towards them. The girl diverted her eyes quickly away as if she was embarrassed that I'd noticed the scene that he's making. The asshole tried to hide the fact that he's cracking the knuckles of his right fist behind his thigh. He knows everyone is watching, and he knows he's being out of line; so I guess he calls himself getting ready for a confrontation with me, but I'm ten steps ahead of his ignorant ass.

  "What the hell do you–"

  Before he can finish biting my head off, I make sure that my fist connects with the bottom of his chin with one quick but powerful upper cut, ensuring that he will bite down completely through his tongue when his jaw snaps shut. I hope the embarrassment and more importantly the pain will help him remember this day for a long ass time, because it hurts like a motherfucker.

  I used to pull this move all the time when I played touch football as a kid with some of the older guys in the old neighborhood. It was a survival technique back then. Those assholes didn't care if I was younger or smaller. If you had the balls to play with them, then you had better had the balls to take body shots, elbows to your head, and a fist to your mouth. They didn't care.

  My signature upper cut move got me respect back then. I took several of them out of a game with it, but today I'm simply doing it for shits and giggles. Well that and the fact that I want to take this bully down a peg or two. I despise guys that beat up on women physically or verbally. It's one of the telltale signs of a weak man, and I don't have patience for pussies.

  "Wha da fluck did ya do that for asthole?!" he protests unintelligibly as blood oozes from his tongue.

  Huh.

  I crack my neck once to the side, because I'm thinking I'm losing my touch. He shouldn't have been able to say anything after that hit. I'm glad Cam and Cutter aren't here to see this shit. First my run, and now this. They'd be laughing their asses off.

  As I step closer to jab him a second time, he throws his hand up in defense. "Wathe! Dunna hit me again."

  "I thought you called me an asshole just now?"

  "No, sssir." He shakes his head and a little more blood oozes from his mouth.

  Okay, so I'm feeling a little better now. Especially because his girl hasn't screamed out of concern or kneeled down to tend to the jerk like I thought she might. She just silently watches him, then looks at me, and I swear I see a flicker of gratitude pass through her soft, quiet eyes.

  "You're lucky," I say to the kid. "I have a lot on my mind today."

  Which was why I was out for a run.

  To quiet my head.

  To figure out my fucking life.

  "But then you disturbed it with all of your bullshit. I really wanted to put you in the emergency room. That's how much you irritated the fuck out of me, and everyone else in this park. So here's my gift to you, asshole.

  "I'm not going put you in the hospital today for ruining my run. I'm just going to give you a piece of advice that I suggest you take. Next time you think about talking to her like a piece of shit, remember this day. Remember the hole in your tongue. Remember the coppery taste of the blood rolling down your throat. Remember exactly how I knocked your ass down, and how you begged me not to do it again like the pussy you are. And I want you to definitely remember that your girl saw it, and she'll sure as hell remember it too. She'll always know from this moment on that you're a total front. A fraud. A worthless piece of shit."

  "And you–" I turn my attention to the young girl, who's still looking a bit shell shocked from what I've just done and said to her boyfriend. "Maybe you don't have a mom or any big sisters to tell you any better, so I will. You're better than this. Next time this guy calls, don't answer. Next time he comes by, tell your parents or whoever you live with to call the cops. This guy is trash, and there isn't much hope for him, unless he has some sort of come to Jesus moment in the near future. Otherwise this is your chance to get out before it gets a lot worse. You feel me?"

  "Yes, sir," was her only response.

  I just hope I got through to her. I wasn't lying. This thing between them would get a lot worse if she let it go on. I'd seen it a dozen times in the old neighborhood. In fact, I'd had first hand experience. My mother didn't like to be without a man and more than not, they were bums who talked to her like a piece of shit. It turned my stomach, but I was too young to really do anything about it at the time. I'd seen fourteen-year-old girls from the block who held their own better than my mother.

  Nowadays I normally turn a blind eye to this type of shit. I'm not some vigilante out here fighting for the rights of young girls, before they destroy the little bit of self-esteem they may have left. But today I'm restless.

  I haven't seen or really spoken to Elizabeth in forty-eight hours, because she's been in School Bucks mode. It sounds a little crazy. What's two days right? I never even used to go back to any woman for seconds, but now that I'm with her, I don't know how to act. I'm greedy. I want seconds, thirds and fourths. I want her all the fucking time.

  Finally a text.

  Elizabeth: Whatcha doing?

  Me: Wiping blood off of my hands.

  Elizabeth: Ha. Ha.

  She thinks I'm kidding. This girl's too good for me.

  Me: Finished working?

  Elizabeth: Yep, I'm all yours.

  Me: Will be there in 30.

  Elizabeth: ♥♥♥

  Thirty minutes. Who am I kidding?

  I make it to her house in under twenty.

  Brick fucking hard.

  CHAPTER FOUR

  ROMAN

  I smell a set up.

  As soon as Elizabeth opens the door for me, the pungent and delectable aromas of Old Bay Seasoning, fresh garlic, butter, and seafood hit me in the gut. I'm hungry. Plus, I've been out to enough overpriced meals to know that I'm about to sit down to at least fifty bucks worth of ingredients. Now the interesting part of this scenario is that Elizabeth can't cook for shit.

  That means something's up.

  And it ain't just lunch.

  "Still not using yo
ur key I see." Elizabeth says in a tone of voice I can't quite put a finger on. "Come in and sit down. Are you hungry?"

  I'm here a lot. I helped Elizabeth pick out a flat screen TV for the living room. I keep a toothbrush and several changes of clothes here. I work a lot from the second office in here as well. But even considering all of that, Elizabeth knows that I never use my key to her place, because giving her room to decide on whether or not she wants to let me in her house or not is about the only space that I admittedly manage to give her in this relationship of ours. So I don't want to infringe on that. No woman is ever going to have the distinct pleasure of ever being able to call me smothering. No matter how badly I want to be up under her sweet ass everyday.

  I'm pretty sure I know what's going on and I don't like it. The meeting between Joseph and I that she basically blackmailed me into attending didn't go well and now she feels badly. But it's been two damn days since I've been inside her or even laid eyes on her and she's cooking to make it up to me? She should have answered the door butt ass naked. That would have been the starting point for a proper apology.

  "Is that a problem?"

  "What?"

  "Me not using my key."

  "Just making an observation."

  "Just trying to respect your space like we agreed. It's your place, not ours."

  Elizabeth notices the cuts on my hand and lifts it up.

  "I thought you were kidding. Were you really bleeding today?"

  "He deserved it," I say matter of factly.

  "He?"

  Elizabeth grabs a first-aid kid from one of the kitchen drawers and begins to quietly work on my right hand. It's nothing serious, just a few cuts from the douchebag's jacked up front teeth. Obviously his mother didn't give two shits about him when he was a kid, because he's definitely never seen the inside of an orthodontist's office in his life.

  I watch closely as Elizabeth pours the peroxide on my hand, then gently dabs it dry with a clean piece of gauze. Her meticulous care of my hand seems almost like a metaphor for how careful she has been with me and my heart. I'm so fucking lucky. So lucky that sometimes I don't trust it. Like I'm waiting for the other shoe to drop.

  Her brunette curls are all swept up in a messy bun on the top of her head with a pencil going through it, but a few wisps have fallen out of the bun and are stuck to the side of her neck. All of this showcases that beautiful neck of hers, which is adorned with a very delicate gold necklace that she never takes off. A gift from her mother on her sixteenth birthday. A sweet story if it hadn't been given to her by a woman who probably thinks (or hopes) that I'm going to break her daughter's heart and disappear.

  I shake that negative thought away and continue my perusal of Elizabeth's body. She's wearing a soft gray cotton tank top, gray leggings, and her feet are bare with red painted toenails. She looks fucking stunning and sexy as hell without even trying. So I can't help myself. I grab her like I've been wanting to do for days and wrap my arms tightly around her. At this moment I don't give a damn what she's up to or why she's cooking shit that she doesn't know how to cook. I just want my girl close.

  "I'm all sweaty, Roman." She half-heartedly objects while trying to swat my arm away. "And I'm not finished with your hand."

  "I don't give a shit," I growl.

  And I don't. I grab her around the waist and pull her even closer into me.

  "You smell so good." She giggles while burrowing her face into the side of my neck. After her text, I practically flew home in the Rover, showered, threw Tibbs in the backseat and headed to her place.

  I place my hands at the base of her throat and pull her back for a long kiss. Her response is hesitant at first, but after a few seconds, I feel her body melt into mine. Like it always does. As if it's just where it belongs. Intertwined with mine. I explore her mouth with my tongue. Making sure to revisit all it's nooks and crannies. Ending it with a soft pull of her top lip.

  "I missed you, Duchess."

  "Me too," she replies immediately.

  I pull my head back to take a long look at my girl. Elizabeth has been mine for almost a year now, and I want her more each day than I did the day before. I hate feeling like this sometimes, because I've always despised distractions. And Elizabeth has to be the biggest distraction I've ever experienced in my life. But I wouldn't do a thing to change it. In fact I pray almost everyday that I don't fuck it up. I fought really hard to get her, for her to accept her feelings for me, and to not worry about what others would think of how we met. How we're related. But sometimes I feel as if I'm fighting twice as hard to keep her.

  Her parents still aren't fucking okay with me, which I know has to be tearing her up inside, even though she will never admit it. The old man even kind of mentioned that if I really loved Elizabeth, I'd be doing whatever I could to make it right. It's not like I don't think about fixing this shit with her parents, but in all honesty, I don't see why we need their approval to be together. We're grown. And frankly I can't change who my father is, which seems to be the bigger issue.

  Her friends seem to be okay about us, but it's obvious that we won't be doing a lot of double dates or group outings with most of them. They're all fresh college grads that come from good homes. Normal homes. I'm from the streets. They've all got some sort of entry level job or are in graduate school, and I'm far beyond them with enough money to live on for the rest of my life if I invest wisely. And that doesn't make me feel superior to them, or inferior, it just makes us very different; in very different places in our lives.

  While I know how to make money, I don't know shit about how to make money doing what Elizabeth does. I'm flying blind in that world, and sometimes it bothers the hell out of me. I wish I could help her build a million dollar tech business, but I don't seem to be much help in that department. Not in the way she needs it. She needs a few ridiculously smart computer geeks on her team, or a high-powered publicist to spread the word about the app; not someone with my particular skill set. I could probably buy her those things (in particular a high-powered publicist), but I know she wouldn't accept them. She's very independent in that way, which I totally respect. So until she needs me to punk the shit out of someone, or blackmail someone, I'm basically useless to her.

  "What happened today?" she asks.

  "This skater boy in the park was making a spectacle of himself by belittling his girl, and I couldn't take the shit anymore. No one else bothered to step up to say anything to him, but you could tell everyone wanted to kick his ass."

  "That's interesting."

  "What is?"

  "Did he hit you first?"

  "Hell no!" I say it like she's lost her mind. Then I pay closer attention to her facial expression and the meaning behind it. "What? You don't approve?"

  "You never do stuff like this. You never seek out a confrontation. Not unless it has to do with work, and even then you try to avoid getting physical."

  This woman puts me on a pedestal that I don't deserve. She doesn't have an exactly accurate idea of what I do and what I don't do.

  "I was standing up for the girl. Women's rights and all that good shit. I thought you'd be proud."

  "I think being proud would definitely be overstating how I feel about this hand," she says as she finishes wrapping my knuckles in a bandage. "Clearly you sucker punched him. That's not necessarily heroic or necessary."

  Her words eerily remind me of similar ones said to me by my high school counselor.

  "Are you fucking serious right now?"

  She shrugs her shoulders.

  "What's going on with you?" I ask. I didn't expect a ticker tape parade, but I can't say that I totally expected this reaction.

  "What?" she replies nonchalantly, using very poor acting skills.

  "You're in there cooking, and let's be honest, babe, you don't do a lot of cooking. Plus, you're acting like I just committed a crime, when all I did was do the world a damn favor. So what's going on? Second time I'm asking," I warn.

  "Well there are
a couple of things on my mind I guess."

  "Talk."

  "Well the first thing isn't necessarily a bad thing. In fact, it's a great thing. You know that coder I hired a while back to work for me virtually? Well he's recently moved here to Philly. That's who I've been meeting with the last two days. We'll be able to work together in person and on a regular basis here at the house. I'll definitely get a lot more accomplished this way. You know how hard it is to work virtually with coders sometimes."

  She's practically puking words. Trying way too hard to convince me. I don't like this shit one single bit.

  "Uh-huh."

  "Remember that this was always the plan, Roman. Hiring someone who I could work with here in the house."

  "I remember," I say icily. "It was my fucking plan."

  I just didn't foresee the plan playing out quite this way. I don't know jack shit about this guy who she's hired to work for her, because I promised her that I wouldn't interfere in her business. Just like she doesn't interfere in mine.

  They've worked together for a while, but most of it was through chats and Skype, so I never felt the need to do a full background check on him. But him moving here. And her telling me after the fact. That's something totally different, and that's not something I can honestly say that I can just let ride. There are too many unanswered questions about the whole shit.

  Did he move here specifically for her? For this job? Do they talk about more than work shit? Is he single? What does he look like? Is he attracted to her?

  Wait, I've just bumped my head and lost my damn mind. Of course he's attracted to her. He's a man, and Duchess is a man's wet dream.

  "I'm going to need to run a check on him obviously," I say to her. "What's his name?"

  "Really, Roman?"

  I ignore the attitude.

  "What's his fucking name?"

  "I've mentioned it to you a thousand times. Now you want his name again, because he's moving here?"

  "Do I have to ask a third time?"

  "Blake! His name is Blake Harrison," she yells.

  "Now what else did you have to tell me?"