Total pages in book: 150
Estimated words: 148434 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 742(@200wpm)___ 594(@250wpm)___ 495(@300wpm)
Estimated words: 148434 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 742(@200wpm)___ 594(@250wpm)___ 495(@300wpm)
“I can’t. He came to me in confidence. As her bodyguard, I have to respect a request from her boyfriend.” Tension ekes on the line. “She really likes him—and I’m not sabotaging this. He’s her first kiss.”
From what Akara told me, their first kiss was a good moment. Good experiences are hard to come by. My first kiss was shit on wheels. We wouldn’t want to morph the good thing into something bad.
I tuck hair behind my ear. “You think she’ll be that mad at him if she hears his request?”
“She’ll break up with him.” He’s that assured.
I don’t tell him to go and do it.
Selfishly, we’d both love for them to break up, but our opinions on the guy don’t hold weight to hers, and that’s how it should be. We’re not the ones making out with him.
Akara sighs out his frustration. “I can’t fucking believe he told me to stop being her friend.”
That wasn’t exactly the request.
I smile into a swig of beer. “He told you to stop flirting.” I can feel Akara’s glare all the way from Scotland.
“Sul and I have never flirted.”
They’ve flirted.
Hell, I’ve flirted with the girl. She’s funny, competitive, a fucking smokeshow, and also very, very virginal but I wouldn’t call her naïve. I’m just not sure she understands when men are hitting on her versus when they’re just being friendly.
Akara’s denial has probably confused the shit out of her.
“You’re really gonna keep telling me you’re not attracted to Sulli?”
He curses me out. “She’s like my…sister.”
“Your dick gets hard for your sister?”
He laughs lightly, the line cracking. “Always with the one-liners.”
“You’re the one freezing your nuts off for sister-fucking jokes.”
“Yeah, my bad.” Akara sounds less stressed. “Hey, at least she’s not fucking the Rooster.” He pauses. “If that’s who she loses her virginity to…”
“I’d lose my shit.”
“Not before me.”
“Amen.” I finish off my eighth beer, and then stretch my legs back out. “Are you—” I cut myself off at the sound of shattering glass.
Distant.
Coming from the famous one’s townhouse.
“What was that?” Akara asks.
He could hear it over the fucking phone. “I don’t know.” The noise alerts my dulled senses. No security alarm is triggered, but I stay deathly still and pick up the squeak of floorboards.
I whisper, “An intruder.” I grip my cell, shoot to my feet, and smack my toe into the coffee table. I catch a falling beer bottle before it crashes to the ground and causes more commotion.
Jesus fucking—I swear under my breath. What I hate, more than anything, is that I’ve been drinking. If my brother were here, he’d be dead sober.
For this reason.
To catch this fucking intruder.
God-fucking-damn. With that final curse, I leave my frustration behind. Already moving into action.
I skulk more soundlessly into the kitchen and grab my gun from a drawer. I pull the slide back to load a round in the chamber.
“Someone’s in their townhouse,” I whisper more clearly to Akara.
“Mute the phone, put it in your pocket.”
I do as told, cell in my back pocket, and I attach my radio as fast and quietly as I can. Adrenaline sobers me more, my blood super-charged.
The thought of some piece of shit in their house. In their space. It makes me want to pop a bullet between eyes.
Jane’s cats.
4 out of 6 cats are at the Cobalt Estate. Audrey is watching them, thank the fucking Lord. But there are still two left in the other townhouse.
The squirrelly little ones that dart every place—they were too hyper to corral in a cat carrier, so I told Audrey I’d take care of them while I’m here.
She wanted me to spit on her hand to promise. What the hell—I did it.
I switch comms frequencies. I can’t let anything happen to those cats. “Thatcher to Price,” I whisper to the Alpha lead. “I have movement and noise in the townhouse. Is anyone supposed to be there?”
“Not that I’m aware. Check it out and report back.”
“Roger copy,” I mutter in the mic, then gently—ever so gently—I push into the townhouse through the adjoining door.
I step on a cat toy, and the foil crinkles beneath the weight of my foot.
My pulse pounds.
Eyes narrowed.
I grip my gun with two hands, and I assess the first floor, the pink loveseat empty. Rocking chair is completely still. Pictures are upright on the mantel, and what little visual I have into the kitchen—it looks and sounds empty.
I peek into the kitchen archway. Glass litters the sink, window busted out. Enough space for a man to crawl through. How the hell did they cut the security alarm?
I shelve that.
First floor clear. I move forward to the staircase.
The ceiling creaks.
These stairs are the only entrance and exit, and so I run. Bolting up the second floor, skipping steps with my lengthy stride, and I’m fast.
Quick.
I’m on the landing, and I swing open Jane’s door first.