Part 32 (1/2)

”Parker Jones,” I replied with a smile. Force of habit on the last name-it was a reporter thing. Like Pavlov's dog, I was conditioned to spout off my full name whenever someone called on me. I was lucky I didn't throw in ”from The Spill” while I was at it. I didn't want Kellan to know I was a journalist. Not just yet. ”Thanks for the drink.”

”Thanks for letting me cop a feel,” Kellan said, raising his bottle. I grinned and raised mine back, and we both drank. ”You look familiar. Maybe I've seen you around?”

I shrugged. ”Maybe. Don't think I've seen you, though.” Where the h.e.l.l have you been hiding? I gestured to his hidden dog tags with my bottle. ”Just get back from a tour of duty?”

Kellan touched his free hand to his dog tags beneath his s.h.i.+rt. ”Good eye,” he murmured. ”But no. I've been back for a while now. Just moved here a few months ago, though.”

”Army? Navy?” I asked.

A glow of pride overtook his face. ”Marines.”

I nodded slowly. Soldiers always wanted to talk-or brag-about their experiences in the military. Even the ones who came back a little scarred or not quite whole had a few tall tales to tell. All they ever needed was a little encouragement, and they were only too happy to tell you about the time they caught a terrorist that was this big, I swear. This was especially true for Marines. They had a reputation to uphold.

”That must've been somethin',” I said, leading him toward the inevitable conclusion. ”Iraq or Afghanistan?”

Kellan shrugged. ”Afghanistan, mostly. But I don't like to talk about it.”

Huh. Now that was something. Most guys who said that were full of s.h.i.+t, and I could tell. But Kellan said it like he actually meant it. Okay. So no heroic war stories here. I took another swig of beer while I thought.

”Well, must be nice to be back,” I said at length. ”Stateside, I mean.” He nodded. ”You move here for a job?”

”Sorta. Kinda made a bad rap for myself back home. Here's as clean a start as I'm gonna get, I think.” He eyed me. ”What about you? What do you do for a living?”

”I'm a writer,” I said without missing a beat. It wasn't a lie. I did write; it was just the nature of my writing that complicated things. ”I was in here looking for... inspiration for a story, and I found you.”

Kellan lifted his beer to his lips and stared at me over the rim. ”Glad I can be inspiring.”

Although he hadn't said anything untoward, anything at all, there was this... tone he took that made it seem so dirty. Kellan hadn't ogled me too hard, even with my third b.u.t.ton undone, or even made an overt pa.s.s at me. So why did I feel so hot and bothered? Why did just looking into his eyes get me so fl.u.s.tered?

I dropped my gaze when the heat in my face got to be too much, and that was when I saw it: Kellan's knuckles were all raw and bruised. He'd sc.r.a.ped the skin off more than a couple of them and his fingers all looked a little swollen, too. Those were the kinds of injuries a man got from fighting. I sank my teeth into my bottom lip. ”You... work with your hands, I guess?”

Kellan regarded his knuckles coolly. ”Yeah, I've gotten pretty good with them, too.”

”Really?” I snorted. ”Wouldn't know it, just by looking at them. What kind of job gives you cuts like that on a good day?”

He winked at me again. ”The kind that ain't exactly legal, I'd wager, which is exactly the kind of work a guy like me can actually get.”

Something other than l.u.s.t finally bloomed in my chest. My story-sense was tingling, and Kellan was the reason why. It had all the potential makings of an insanely good human interest piece. Here he was, a vet with a past, but who had defended our country bravely nonetheless. He'd come home from the war unable to find any kind of job except one that utilized his fists, and the training he'd received in the Corps. s.h.i.+t, it practically wrote itself.

And it would look fantastic interwoven with my Senator MacFarlane piece. I could hardly believe my luck. I'd come to this bar looking for a compelling piece on a veterans' job bill, and now I was going to walk out with an expose on just how f.u.c.ked up our nation was when it came to taking care of those who'd taken care of us.

s.e.xy ex-Marine that is forced to now break the law using his fists to earn a living. And better yet, he's a lead I probably wouldn't have to stalk. What more could a girl have asked for?

Probably some subtlety, because when I leaned over and purred, ”Tell me more,” Kellan's eyes darkened and his little grin turned into a very definitive snarl.

s.h.i.+t. I'd overplayed my hand. And judging by the growl that rumbled in Kellan's throat, my good luck had just run out.

~ Three ~

Kellan

”I'm sorry,” Parker said, immediately adjusting her posture. Gone was the girl with stars in her eyes and her t.i.ts hanging out of her blouse. Now she was scared, putting distance between us. I always scared them, even when I wasn't trying. ”I didn't mean...”

Bulls.h.i.+t. I knew what she'd meant. She was just a little too interested me, in my story-especially when I'd brought up that maybe it wasn't exactly on the up-and-up. That was stupid of me, but I'd expected her to drop it, not get all intrigued. Who the h.e.l.l did this girl think she was, anyway? She couldn't handle the truth she was searching for; the reality.

I sized her up again. Slim, average height, with delicate features and slender fingers that definitely made her look like the writer type. And those gla.s.ses. Okay, so they were hot-I liked the whole ”hot librarian” thing-but still, they were a dead giveaway for what she was.

She was one of them. The girls who'd get destroyed by a guy like me. Who were all curious and cute and eager to learn my secrets, but once they got up close and personal with the kind of life I led, it always spelled trouble. I couldn't tell Parker any more about who, or what, I was. She wouldn't be able to handle it.

But I'd opened the floodgates with my big, dumb mouth. s.h.i.+t. I had to get her off my scent-for her sake, if nothing else.

”Lookin' for a thrill, sweetheart?” I asked, taking a long swallow of beer to make the venom on my tongue more palatable. ”Is that why you're slummin' it down here instead of hangin' out at some bistro on your side of town?”

”My side?” Parker wrinkled her nose and her gla.s.ses slipped down a little. d.a.m.n, it was cute. ”I don't know who you think I am, but this is my side.”

”Just 'cause you come down here sometimes doesn't make it your side,” I hissed, setting my gla.s.s down hard. She jumped. ”You're pretty. You're a writer. You dress nice when you're not covered in beer and you've got French tips and salon hair. That purse looks like it cost more than I make in a month and I saw you looking at that suit at the end of the bar. I watched you unb.u.t.ton your s.h.i.+rt for him, Parker. So don't tell me you're not the kind of daddy's girl who's lookin' to climb a few ladders to stay in the lap of luxury, because I know your type, and in a place like this, baby, you stand out like a sore thumb.”

Parker was silent for a moment, her jaw sagging the way I'd known it would. I'd practically accused her of scanning the bar for a sugar daddy, which didn't make a whole lot of sense, now that I thought about it. If she'd been looking for some rich dude to keep her happy, there were better places in the city than this dive. Which raised the question of what the h.e.l.l those suits were doing here, anyway, and why had Parker been interested in them.

Not that I needed to know that right now. Especially not when I was getting so distracted by the heaving of Parker's b.r.e.a.s.t.s as she breathed hard through her nose.

”These nails?” she said, holding up her hand. Then, before I could stop her, she started ripping her fingernails off one by one. I thought I'd seen it all in Afghanistan, but holy h.e.l.l, my stomach rolled until I realized they were fake, right around the time she threw them at me. ”They're glorified press-ons. This bag?” She held up her purse and then slammed it down on the bar. ”A knock-off from the last time I went to visit my dad in New York. My clothes are nice because I'm a savvy thrifter and my hair is the one d.a.m.n thing I spend some actual money on that's for me, and you will not make me feel guilty about it, Mr. I Can Fight a War, But Can't Carry a Beer. I take it you weren't the one they sent out on stealth missions?”

Without thinking, I grabbed Parker's wrist and pulled her to me, her stool screeching noisily across the barroom floor. She inhaled sharply, lips parted just enough that I could smell the mix of pale ale and sweetness on her breath. She stared up at me, her big, baby blues losing some of their fire as I pressed my fingertips into her soft, pliant skin. I might've been leaving bruises, but if I was, Parker didn't even flinch. She just set her jaw and held my gaze, and for a second I couldn't tell which I wanted more: to kiss her, or to shake some G.o.dd.a.m.n sense into her.

This close to her, looking into her eyes, I could tell a few things about her. The first was that she wasn't the good girl I thought she was-or at least, she wasn't in bed. I could tell from the way she looked at me, from the fire in her eyes, that there was more to her than met the eye. I bet she was the kind of girl who'd scream and beg for it, once she saw how big it was. Part of me wanted to take the hand I was holding and put it down my pants, let her get a feel for what she was dealing with.

h.e.l.l, maybe I didn't need to shake her. Maybe I needed to f.u.c.k some sense into her, instead. But I was accustomed to f.u.c.king a girl's brains out, not in, and despite the wicked flash of intrigue that pa.s.sed over her face too quickly for most people to see, I knew it was a bad f.u.c.king idea to give her a taste of me, even if it was what we both wanted.

Like she actually knew what she wanted, anyway. Most women didn't. Not when it came to men like me. They always thought they could handle the bad boy, change him, make him see things their way. Parker would be no different. She'd walk into this thinking she was safe 'cause I had the muscles to protect her, but she wouldn't realize until it was too late that she needed protection from me.

Didn't she see who I was-what I was? Didn't she see my scarred and b.l.o.o.d.y knuckles and know how f.u.c.king dangerous I was? If she did, she didn't understand. She was just like the others, looking for a thrill without paying heed to the cost. I couldn't let her get close to me. Not a pretty little thing like her. I'd ruin her. Destroy her. She didn't deserve that, no matter how nave she was.

G.o.dd.a.m.n do-gooders. Always lookin' for a charity case.

”No,” I told her, my voice a low snarl, ”the Corps didn't send me on any stealth missions. That wasn't the kind of s.h.i.+t they taught me, or the kind of s.h.i.+t I wanted to learn. They taught me how to kill a man without blinking, how to survive and succeed by whatever means necessary. They taught me to be a hunter, a murderer, if need be. They made me into a weapon, and I'm a d.a.m.n good one, too. In fact, you might say it's the only d.a.m.n thing I'm good at, or good for, at all.

”Now, if you want me to f.u.c.k you so you can feel like some kind of bad b.i.t.c.h, I'll happily oblige. I don't mind getting my d.i.c.k wet, especially not in a p.u.s.s.y as pretty as yours. But if you're looking to get close to me, to fix me, then sweetheart, we're gonna have a problem.”