Out of the Blue: Reed Security: Book Two

by Robin Leaf

  “Where you were at your friend’s wedding and were going to put the moves on the girl you love but got rejected, right?”

  I blink at her, stunned.

  “Remember, I was in the room when you told Mabel,” she explains. “Sorry, go on.”

  There’s no judgment on her face, so I continue.

  “He seemed to be there overseeing the movers, but I suspect he was there waiting for me. He explained that his mother had requested that he come get her while I was gone because she said that she was afraid I was only after her money, and that she was scared I was stealing from her. She wanted nothing more to do with me now. He gave me a week to move out of her duplex so they could put it up for sale.”

  She rolls her mouth to the side, I’m guessing to carefully measure her words. I’m a little surprised, since I’ve only known her to blurt out what she’s thinking.

  “You didn’t call Mabel to confirm?”

  It doesn’t sound like an accusation, but I still fear her reaction.

  I shake my head and look out the passenger window. “No.”

  “So you came home after not getting the girl to find out that your awesome neighbor… Wait, did you say all this happened in January?”

  When I nod, she surprises me by hitting the steering wheel.

  “January was the first time Mabel came into the ER. Her grandson brought her, and she told me she was scared that this would mean her son would move her into her other house with her grandson. She didn’t want to move in with him, and the grandson, I forget his name, said he wasn’t happy about it because it meant that he’d have to find somewhere else to hold his business meetings.”

  “Business meetings? He runs a promotion company, mostly working with liquor companies. They throw parties, complete with half-naked models, lots of drinking, and probably cocaine, and Mabel was afraid her Malibu house was a good place to do it, since its huge backyard overlooks the ocean. She took me there once to check on the house. I met the grandson. His name is Braxton. He’s a tool with a douchy name.”

  “Agreed,” she giggles, glancing my direction. “Well, I’m hungry, and I don’t want to pay for another fifty-dollar, room-service hamburger, so what do you crave for dinner tonight?”

  “You don’t have to stop now. I can go get dinner later or we can call –”

  “Nonsense. I am offering to stop and grab something. We’re out. What do you feel like?”

  “Italian?”

  She smiles. “Awesome,” she whispers, turning on the blinker to switch lanes. “I know the perfect place.”

  Thirteen

  Ember

  Douglass leans back on the couch, licking his fingers from arguably the best garlic knots ever. Really, there is no argument; they simply are the best.

  “I’m fucking stuffed, Blue. What made you try that place?”

  “The name. Cuoco Irritata. I thought it might be owned by Kaley Cuoco, and I’m a huge fan. Turns out it just means ‘irritated cook’ in Italian.”

  He smiles. “You thought that little ramshackle restaurant would be owned by an actress?”

  I shrug. “What do I know about who owns what? The food was good though, right?”

  “Yeah, apparently irritated cooks are good cooks.”

  “And most of the clientele look and sound like Fat Tony from The Simpsons, so you know it’s got to be good.” I shove another bite of pasta in my mouth.

  He sighs and closes his eyes, probably wanting to make a comment about my safety in a joint like that. “The lady who took our order sure likes you.”

  I nod, chewing and swallowing before I speak. “Mama Louise is good people.”

  Smiling, he shakes his head. “She kept giving me the stink eye.”

  Twirling more pasta on my fork, I shrug. “She’s protective. I’m surprised you didn’t get the third degree.” My fork makes it to my mouth, slapping noodles on my chin.

  His smile turns more smirky. “Maybe she should be your bodyguard.”

  “Oh, God no,” I say around my pasta while wiping my mouth with my napkin. “I’d weigh two hundred pounds with all she’d try to feed me. And she’d try to hook me up with her son again.”

  Chuckling, he pats his obviously full stomach. “Well, that was the best chicken parm I’ve ever eaten.”

  “Yeah,” I say, taking another bite of the last garlic knot. “I noticed you scarfed it down pretty quickly.”

  He winks, and my insides jolt. “And you’re still eating.”

  Throwing my napkin down, I make sure to swallow before asking, “Are you disgusted?”

  “Quite the contrary. I’m impressed how you can pack away the grub for such a tiny little thing.”

  Rolling my eyes, I shove the last bite in my mouth. “Again with my size.”

  “I seem to remember you making a size joke about me earlier.” He stands, moving closer to me, with his hands on his hips. “Slim Jim. At least mine is accurate.”

  My eyes travel to his crotch reflexively. Yes, the outline of the bulge in his jeans is way bigger than slim, so I may have to admit it… someday, maybe. Not today.

  I turn my head sideways and squint. “Um… yeah. I don’t see it.” I force my eyes upward to his. “So, I’m sticking with my former assessment.”

  He chuckles and shakes his head. “Alright, Blue. I need a shower. Will you be okay for a few minutes?”

  “I’m good.” I lift the remote and point it toward the TV. “I’ve got Joey and Chandler to keep me company.”

  He smiles and walks into the bedroom, leaving the door open a crack.

  Jesus.

  I have to shake off the thought that the man will be naked just a few feet away from me in the shower I will use shortly. Oh, to sneak a peek in on his fabulous ass would probably blind me for life.

  And trust me, it is a fabulous ass. Grab-able. Bitable. Dare I say… lickable?

  Ugh. If I didn’t have to work tomorrow, I would find some tequila to distract me from the deliciousness going on in the next room. All I have is tea, so I set the next episode to play and begin to fill the pot to heat the water. Luckily, there’s some decaf sleepy-time tea left by the hotel staff.

  After the small pot fills, I fill my mug halfway and place the tea bag inside to steep for a minute before hurrying the process along by dunking it a few times. I don’t like super-hot tea, so I fill the mug the rest of the way with the extra bottle of water Mama Louise gave us with our meal. I take a sip and feel myself relax, pretty sure it’s just a trained response to the tea and not an actual, fast-acting side effect. It’s the perfect temperature, warm but not scalding.

  I sip away and sit on the couch, letting Joey lament about throwing a girl’s artificial leg on the fire in the background while I check my email on my phone. Before I left work, I sent a message to my student nurse, Jasmine, to remind her of our meeting in the morning, so I need to know if I have to leave a little earlier to meet up with her. I want to gauge if her chosen profession is really right for her and find out the reason behind her change in behavior and why she has lost her enthusiasm.

  The new email is not a response from her, but it’s from an address I don’t recognize. I open it, not thinking, and read the message.

  “Is this your boyfriend?”

  Below the text is a picture of Douglass and me standing by my car before we left the hospital. I’m face to face with him, well, face to chest, but I take a second to notice how he’s looking at me. I mean, I could be wrong, but what is that in his eyes? I’ve not ever experienced someone look at me that way before, like I’m something to… behold. Hmm. I get a tiny thrill at the notion how Douglass is gazing into my soul before the gravity of the situation settles. This picture was taken by my stalker.

  This. Picture. Was. Taken. By. My. Stalker!

  This fucker is actually stalking me!

  Okay, breaking into my apartment to clean it is one thing. Yeah, I was violated, but I never really felt scared, scared. However, taking pictures of me from acros
s the parking lot is super fucking creepy. This is actual stalker behavior, and now I’m really scared.

  “What is that?” Douglass asks from beside me, startling me so much I fling my tea… all over his fresh white t-shirt. If I weren’t so freaked, I might admire the wet, semi-transparent shirt clinging to his midsection right now.

  “Oh my God, I’m so sorry,” I whine, grabbing some napkins to wipe up the mess. “Thank God it wasn’t hot.”

  “It’s fine.” He brushes my hands away before I can touch him and points to my phone on the table in front of me. “What was that?”

  I lift my phone and hand it to him. He studies the picture for a minute.

  “This was sent right after the picture was taken,” he grumbles, scrolling through his phone and lifting it to his ear. “Noah, Ember got another email. This time, he took her picture.”

  His eyes shoot to me quickly before returning to my phone. He reaches under his shirt and absently scratches his abdomen, so I see a tiny sliver of skin. It distracts me from concentrating on the freak who is stalking me.

  “No, it was of the two of us leaving the hospital,” he says before clearing his throat. “The message asks if I’m her boyfriend.” He glances at me. “No, she seems okay, but I’m watching her.” He pauses, swallowing hard and still scratching his stomach. “I’m not sure. We’re at the hotel. I didn’t notice anyone in the hotel lot, but honestly, I wasn’t paying attention. It didn’t occur to me to watch if we were being followed.” I hear that Noah is talking while Douglass clears his throat again. “Yes sir, I know,” he croaks, clawing at his skin. “I’ll,” he swallows and clears his throat again, “see if she… wants to –”

  He stops and gasps, still desperately raking at his stomach. My nurse instincts finally kick in, realizing that he’s in distress. Grabbing his phone, I tell Noah we’ll call him back and end the call.

  “What is your allergy?” I ask.

  “Chamo…” he gasps, “mile.”

  Fuck. The tea.

  I grab the hem of his shirt and rip it over his head. Hives cover everywhere the tea has touched him.

  “Epi-pen?”

  He nods, points at the floor, and gasps, “Backpack. Front po—”

  I flip his backpack onto the couch, ripping open the front zipper. The Epi-pen is the only thing in there, which makes it way easier for me. I sit him down and jab the fucker in his thigh, not too gently.

  Within seconds, his breathing becomes less labored. I take him by the hand and lead him back through the bedroom into the bathroom.

  “We need to wash off all the tea,” I tell him, turning on the sink and grabbing a washcloth. I rub it with a tiny bit of soap and begin to lightly scrub his skin. “I’ve never known someone this allergic to chamomile before. I’ve seen one peanut allergy this bad and a strawberry allergy where the girl’s lips swelled horribly when her date laid an uninvited kiss on her after he ate cheesecake with strawberry topping for dessert. It was kind of an asshole move on his… part…”

  I trail off, realizing… Holy shit. Dugger is standing in front of me half naked as I’m, um, washing him?

  He stares intensely at me. Despite his allergic reaction not four minutes ago, I can see something in his eyes, something hella sexy. I have to look away before I get humpy. The problem is that now, I look at his toned, tatted chest, tracing the design around his right pec with my eyes. It’s surprising to me how much un-inked skin is showing. It’s nice… What… Is that a… a nipple ring? Holy mother of Pearl, please help me not lick around it, or, you know, pull it into my mouth.

  “Damn, that feels nice,” he says, barely above a whisper.

  God, I thought holding his hand was bad? It’s got nothing on his clean scent surrounding me in this small space and him six inches away, whispering that phrase close to my ear, while I’m rubbing his bare skin with this flimsy, wet piece of fabric. Shut up, vagina. I will not set you loose to violate this poor, blotchy, post-anaphylactic man.

  “I think you can take over now,” I say, shoving the washcloth at his chest and scurrying out of the bathroom.

  In the small living area, I pace around for a minute before grabbing a plastic bag to collect his shirt, the napkins, and my tea bag. Tying off the bag and wrapping it in another one, I place it outside the door. I check the rest of the space for any residual tea wetness and find none.

  He emerges from the bedroom, a shirt thrown over his shoulder, and a white tube in his hand, which he hands to me.

  Please, God, one more favor: let me not look like the dumbfounded idiot I feel like.

  “Should I apply this?” he asks, his voice extra husky from the remnants of his allergic reaction, which makes him sound so much sexier.

  I take the tube from him, forcing my eyes to see that it’s a standard-issue prescription cortisone cream.

  “It won’t hurt, and we probably should hurry and get you to the ER.”

  He shakes his head. “No, I feel much better.”

  “Yeah, but the Epi-pen will wear off soon, and you might need –”

  “No.” His emphatic declaration leaves not much room for argument. “I have Benadryl in my bag, and it has always been enough to take care of it.” He steps closer and takes back the tube, giving me a little jolt straight to my core when he touches my fingers. “If I get bad again, we can go, but we spent all day there. I really don’t want to go back.”

  Locked in his gaze, I nod, because it’s all I can do at the moment.

  He breaks our stare-off, concentrating on uncapping his tube of cream. Therefore, I take a second to appreciate that he’s still gloriously half naked, those fabulously large pecs on display. And Lord Baby Jesus in a manger, his grey sweats really don’t hide the outline of his magnificently not slim Slim Jim, which since it’s not slim, I should probably just call it Jim, or James… or Sir James Dixon Coxley the Eighth… “eighth” for inches or for “wonder of the world,” it could go either way. Although really, the only word to properly describe it is cock, a word I’ve never used before in my life. His magnificently not slim cock is way longer than I’ve ever experienced, ya know, since I’ve only ever experienced one, one that in no way ever measured up to this one. It seems to be quite… shapely, defined, like it must work out… a lot. And maybe I’m wrong, but is it growing while I try not to stare? Eight might be a modest number; I might have to go up to nine.

  The audience laughter from the TV diverts my attention from ogling the beast. I jump to standing and scuttle toward the bedroom. “Where is your Benadryl? I’ll get it for you.”

  I’ll do anything to escape being in the same room with both the nipple ring and the cock that keep beckoning me, like some big, beautiful bug zapper fooling me into thinking I won’t get obliterated, until buzz, I’m vaporized.

  Fuck off, nipple ring and Cocky Jim. I ain’t no one’s bitch. I just need to be strong.

  “It’s also in my backpack,” he says, stopping me right before I enter the other room.

  “Water,” I blurt. “You need water, and I think I used the rest to make my apparently poison tea.”

  I turn in time to see his rippling, muscly back. Jesus. It’s the absolute best back, and that ass only looks better without the shirt covering those tight sweats. Kill. Me. Now.

  “I’ll just run downstairs and get you one –”

  “Blue,” he calls, kinda sternly, “I don’t need water.”

  He bends to look through his backpack and holds up two of those single servings of the liquid that we give to the kiddies. It’s probably a good thing, since the liquid is faster acting, but damn, it tastes like ass.

  “You’ll still need a chaser,” I warn, backing toward the door.

  “I’m aware.” He shows me his un-empty water bottle from dinner. Next, he puts on his shirt, and I’m not exactly sure I’m happy about that. I should be. I mean one more minute staring at those thick, corded muscles and the tattoos and the big cock and the shiny nipple ring promises to not end well for either of u
s. Well, most likely, it’ll end happily, possibly multiple times, but that would be bad.

  Wait… Why exactly would it be bad again?

  Oh yeah, he’s my bodyguard. His job prevents us from getting grindy.

  Fuck.

  “I need to go take a shower,” I blurt, still staring at his back, unable to get my feet to move.

  He turns around to face me, downing the antihistamine like it’s a shot, eyes locked on mine.

  “You don’t want to watch over me?” he asks, smirking, like he knows what he’s fucking doing to me. “Make sure I’m…” he gestures down his body, “…okay?”

  “Oh God, you’re fine.” He smiles, and I realize how breathy I sounded when I said it. Shit, I’m a doof. I shake my head quickly and add, “I mean, you’re probably right.” I wave my hand at him and walk into the bedroom. “The meds should ward off any further complications, or at least, buy us some time. And if I’m lucky, you’ll be asleep in no time.”

  Fuck, did I just say that?

  “I just mean that Benadryl usually makes people sleepy. So there’ll be no more tempt—I mean, cause for concern.”

  Holy hell, Ember. Just shut the door and get in the shower.

  I close the door and lean against it, working on convincing myself how bad it would be to strip naked and exit this room, trying to tempt him with my naked self the way he tempted me with his naked chest. None of my bits are pierced, but I think I got it goin’ on. After all, I did have the power to entice Walker for twelve years. Sure, I had to be the sexual aggressor in that relationship; if I wanted sex, I had to work really hard to get it, but if I could seduce a closeted gay man for twelve years… well, eleven, since we probably shouldn’t count the last one when there was no sex, I think I could easily take on Sir Coxley. Something tells me that right now, with him, it wouldn’t be a chore, like at all.

  Thoughts like that will not get this body bathed or this hair washed, but they might make me take a while longer than I usually take. Yeesh.

  Jesus, Ember. Just get in the fucking shower.

  ~ ~ ~