Kellan (3 page)

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 exposé on just how fucked up our nation
was when it came to taking care of those who’d taken care of us.

Sexy 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.

Shit. 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 tits
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…”

Bullshit. 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 hell 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 glasses. 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.
Shit.
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 glasses slipped down a little. Damn, 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 glass 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 unbutton your shirt 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 hell 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 breasts 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 hell, 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 damn 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 goddamn
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.

Hell, maybe I
didn’t need to shake her. Maybe I needed to
fuck
some sense into her,
instead. But I was accustomed to fucking a girl’s brains out, not in, and
despite the wicked flash of intrigue that passed over her face too quickly for
most people to see, I knew it was a bad fucking 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 bloody knuckles and know
how fucking
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 naïve she was.

Goddamn
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 shit they taught me, or the kind of shit 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 damn good one, too. In fact,
you might say it’s the only damn thing I’m good at, or good
for,
at all.

“Now, if you want
me to fuck you so you can feel like some kind of bad bitch, I’ll happily
oblige. I don’t mind getting my dick wet, especially not in a pussy 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.”

I thought for sure
she’d slap me. The look on her face told me she wanted to. Her lip was curled
back so far I could see her teeth and the glint of disgust in her eyes was like
the edge of a blade gleaming in the sun. But Parker only pulled free of me and
set her jaw, smoldering with defiance.

“You’re acting
like a dick,” she said. “Is that how you treat people when they start getting
too close?”

I shook my head.
“Sweetheart, I’m like this all the time.”

“No, you’re not,”
Parker insisted. “You weren’t just a minute ago. A minute ago, you were
charming and sincere. I was interested.”

I threw up my
hands. “Yeah, well, maybe this is the real me. Shit, don’t you know anything
about men? We’re all pigs at heart.”

Parker watched me
as I fished my wallet out of my jeans. “I don’t believe that.”

“Doesn’t matter
what you believe,” I said, leaving enough cash for our drinks on the bar. “The
reality is you and me wouldn’t work anywhere but between the sheets. So go back
to your old men in fancy suits and leave me the fuck alone before you get hurt.
Because that’s who I am: the guy who hurts people.”

I stood up and
left her behind, never once risking looking back. I knew that if I did, I’d
stop and apologize for acting like such an ass. I couldn’t do that. Not when it
was for her own good.

The chill in the
air hit me like a slap as I stepped out onto the sidewalk. Finally, I felt like
I could breathe, like the world wasn’t closing in on me from all sides. Sitting
there with Parker made me feel like there wasn’t enough oxygen for the two of
us. She took my breath away. No woman had done that since… well, ever.

The
hell is wrong with me?
I wondered as I hailed a
cab.
I can’t put a girl like her in the middle of all this. She wouldn’t
last two seconds. I can’t be responsible for ruining her. I’d never forgive
myself.

I didn’t deserve
her.

A cab pulled up to
the curb, splashing my boots with gutter water. I paused to shake them off
before getting in, and that’s when Parker’s fingers closed around my wrist.

“Kellan, wait…”

I whirled on her.
Before I could read her the riot act again, she said, “I know we don’t know
each other. Not very well, anyway. But I’ve known a lot of soldiers, and I know
what it’s like to come home and feel like you don’t have a place here anymore.
So if you ever want to talk…”

I pulled away
hard, making her almost lose her balance in those cute little heels. “You don’t
know a goddamn thing,” I snapped as I flung open the door to the cab and got
in, slamming it shut to block out the sound of Parker’s repeated protests.

Doesn’t
she get it?
I thought as we pulled away.
Fuck,
doesn’t she see how messed up I am?

“Rose Street,” I
told the driver, but my thoughts were still on Parker, on those big, puppy dog
eyes of hers and the softness in her voice.
Why the hell is she trying so
hard, anyway? Why does she care so much?

I ran my fingers
through my hair. It didn’t matter. Everything I touched turned to shit, and if
she got too close, she was at risk of getting hurt. Seemed like it was in my
nature: first I’d hurt my sister and our parents by turning into a drug addict.
Then I’d hurt people for a living in the Marines. And now I was here, hurting
people all over again. All I knew how to do, all I was actually good for, was
causing people pain.

I slumped in my
seat and shoved my hands into my jacket pockets. The cabbie wasn’t a fan of
turning on the heat, apparently. My fingers unexpectedly touched paper and I
pulled it out, unfurling the napkin that I definitely hadn’t put in there
myself.

It was Parker’s
name and phone number. She must have scribbled it down when I walked out and
snuck it into my jacket when she grabbed me. There were a few beer stains on
it. Was this one of the ones she’d used to wipe up the drink I’d spilled all
down the front of her blouse?

I lifted the
napkin to my nose and inhaled deeply, allowing myself one brief moment to
remember what could have been. Then I rolled down my window and tossed Parker’s
scent and memory into the cold wind whipping past the taxi.

~
FOUR ~

Parker

“Ms. Jones, may I speak with you in
my office?”

Fuck. Fuck, fuck,
fuck.
That was Melanie Cartwright, Editor-in-Chief of
The Spill.
She was my
personal Miranda Priestly—you know, from
The Devil Wears Prada?
—and if
she wanted to see me, it meant nothing good.

I glanced over at
Thom, sitting a few feet away at his desk. He was our sports columnist and very
popular. He rarely had to deal with any bad news from Melanie Cartwright, and
when I’d first started working here, I’d hoped cozying up to him would grant me
some kind of immunity, too.

No dice. I did
come away from it with a pretty great friend, though. Right now, he was giving
me a look of both sympathy and intrigue. We were reporters, after all.
Schadenfreude was in our blood.

“You’d better go,”
he said. “It’s only going to be worse if you keep her waiting.”

I sighed and stood
up, smoothing down my skirt. I was lucky she’d called me in today and not two
days before when my blouse would’ve been covered in beer stains. I didn’t need
to look any more incompetent than she already thought I was.

My mind drifted to
Kellan as I walked down the long hall toward Melanie’s office. He hadn’t
called. With the way he’d stormed off, that was hardly a surprise, but I’d
hoped he’d see reason and drop the tough guy act. I mean, it wasn’t
all
an act. Kellan really was strong and obviously could hold his own in a fight,
and what he’d said about being dangerous didn’t feel like a lie to me. But that
was just the physical stuff. Kellan was like the rest of us, emotionally
speaking, and maybe even a little more damaged than that. The way he pushed me
away, how I bet he refuses to let anyone get close—it betrayed a deep-seated
fear in him, one that wouldn’t be easy to cast aside.

I wasn’t just
disappointed for personal reasons, though. I was disappointed because without
Kellan, I’d entirely lost track of my story. I hadn’t been able to get Senator MacFarlane
alone since then, and my deadline was looming in the not-so-distant future. I
might’ve been able to keep Melanie at bay if I had Kellan’s human interest
story in my back pocket, but since I didn’t, I was bringing her nothing. And
Melanie didn’t like her reporters strutting into her office empty-handed.

Ever.

I paused at her
door for a deep breath before knocking. It was open, but I knew better than to
enter unannounced, even when she’d summoned me.

“You rang?” I said
with a tentative smile.

Melanie flicked
her gaze up over the wire rims of her glasses. She was one of those women who
only got sexier and more intimidating with age. Her full-bodied, wavy brown
hair had a single streak that had gone gray, making her stormy eyes all the
fiercer. She looked like she’d been poured into her devil-red dress, and when
she gestured for me to take a seat, her body moved with all the elegance of a
swan.

Being in Melanie’s
presence was petrifying and awe-inspiring all at the same time. I admired her
almost as much as I feared her. She was probably the only person in all the
world whose bidding I did without a second thought.

I sat down in
front of her and watched as she stood, arms crossed, heaving a sigh. “I don’t suppose
you’ve made any headway with the senator, Ms. Jones?”

Slowly, I shook my
head, then cringed at the disappointment in her eyes. “But my deadline’s not
until the end of the month. I’m sure I’ll have other opportunities…”

“You’d better
make
yourself some opportunities,” Melanie said, gingerly closing her door. “I
didn’t want to have to pull this card with you, Parker. I really didn’t. But
you should know that your readership has been dropping like a stone, and what’s
more, I’m running out of bones to throw your way. You’ve
got
to take
some initiative if you plan on continuing your career here at
The Spill.
”

I swallowed hard.
I knew she was telling the truth, at least about my readership. My online
articles were pulling in abysmal numbers and getting worse with each new
article I wrote. I knew the problem was their content. I hadn’t had anything
interesting to say in a while, which was largely because nothing much ever
happened here, and nobody wanted to read my drivel when they could spend their
time on one of Thom’s articles or vlogs instead. Sports never went out of
style.
Lucky him,
I thought bitterly.

“I
am
taking initiative,” I assured Melanie, a low flame of frustration flaring in my
gut. “This story is going to be big.
Huge.
I can feel it. It’s got
everything our audience wants.” I thought again of Kellan, of the angle I’d
lost by offending him at the bar. “Heck, it might even run deeper than I
originally thought.”

Melanie narrowed
her eyes, her winged liner nearly touching the tail ends of her perfectly
coiffed brows. “So you
do
have something.”

“Nothing
concrete,” I replied, wringing my hands. Was it really wise to be telling her
this? But if my job was on the line…

Melanie seemed to
sense my unease. She made her way toward the edge of her desk and sat against
it, looking at me down her nose. “Parker. You know I like you, right?”

I blinked up at
her. “No.”

A little smile
touched the edges of her lips. “It’s true. It’s why I hired you. You remind me
of a younger me, a woman on the verge of greatness, who only needs a little
push to come into her own in this business. Ruthlessness is a learned trait,
for our sex, isn’t it? Women are constantly expected to cater to others,
especially men. That instinct has to be wrung out of us like old dish water from
a towel. It isn’t an easy feat. Impossible, for some.”

I nodded as if I
understood, but I didn’t. I was still stuck on the part where Melanie
Cartwright
liked
me.

“What I’m saying,
Parker,” she continued, “is that not every woman can put herself first. Not all
of them have that potential, that lust for something more than domestic bliss.
I think I see the spark of an inferno in you.
Passion.
Real passion. I
think you could be great, with the right tutelage. But there is only so much
that even someone like me can do.”

I understood now.
She must have seen the conflict on my face, must have smelled the story on me,
must have known that there was something I wasn’t saying. This was her way of
trying to get it out of me. How much of what she was saying was even true?

I knew Melanie’s
motto when it came to this business, probably better than anyone else. She
prided herself on separating the personal from the professional, and she wasn’t
afraid to be brutal. She expected the same from everyone else.

It didn’t matter
if your great nana’s reputation would be ruined by whatever story you’d gotten
your hands on. You were a reporter. You were expected to tell that story
anyway, nana be damned. And if Melanie felt that way about family, she sure as
hell didn’t care about sources who weren’t blood ties. She wouldn’t understand
my caution, my desire to ensure Kellan didn’t come out looking the worse for
wear in all this. I wasn’t sure I even understood that compulsion myself.

After all, Kellan
hadn’t exactly been my knight in shining armor the other day. In fact, he’d
been kind of a dick. What the hell was I considering his feelings for?

“I met this guy,”
I said, measuring my words carefully, “a few days ago at a bar. Senator MacFarlane
was there, but I couldn’t get him cornered to ask the questions I wanted to
ask. But this guy I ran into—he’s a vet. So I was thinking that I could run a
story on him, too. Something that would look good alongside speculation on why
the senator hasn’t put his support behind this new ‘jobs for vets’ bill.”

“Intriguing,”
Melanie said, though by her tone, I wasn’t sure she meant it. “But hardly
newsworthy if you can’t get commentary from the senator to back it up. Unless
there’s something you’re still not telling me.”

“It’s not a
for-sure thing yet. I don’t want to say anything until I’m sure. But…” I chewed
my lip, then stopped before I stained my teeth the color of my lipstick. “The
guy said something about having a hard time finding legitimate work when he got
back from his tour in Afghanistan. And his knuckles were all bloody and
bruised. I think maybe he’s got a job roughing people up. Something that pays
him under the table.”

Now Melanie looked
less bored. She even smiled. “I’ve heard things,” she murmured, but didn’t
elaborate. She only pushed away from her desk to walk back around the other
side of it. “Go out there and talk to Thom. Tell him what you know. He’ll want
in on this, too, but from a different angle. You two should be able to work it
out. He’s capable of putting on his big boy pants and collaborating—
usually.
”

“Thom?” Was I
being assigned a chaperone? I didn’t need any help with this. “But it’s
my
story…”

“No,” Melanie said
sharply, “it’s
The Spill’s
story. One that could make or break your
career. If you run with this, Parker, you could end up with everything you’ve
ever wanted. But if you screw up, you’re out. I don’t do charity, and I can’t
abide journalists who refuse to put their work first. It’s nothing personal,”
she added, eyes on her laptop screen. “This is just a cutthroat business. But
if you truly feel like you don’t need the help, I won’t force your hand. You’d
be taking quite the risk turning it down, though.”

I did my best not
to show her how my stomach had fallen through to the floor. Part of me had
expected this. I was always on edge, always wondering when the axe would fall.
But as much as I’d worried about being fired, it had never seemed like a real
threat—at least not one that was close to coming to fruition. I’d always
considered it a distant possibility, one that I still had time to reverse
course on.

But now I knew the
truth. If I didn’t deliver Melanie Cartwright the most ambitious story of my
career, I was done. Out. I probably wouldn’t even get a reference, and I’d end
up as a mail clerk somewhere, watching everyone else achieve the dream I’d
wanted for myself.

I couldn’t let
that happen. Even if it meant letting someone else take half the credit. Even
if it meant re-pissing off the guy who’d been only too eager to tell me how
dangerous he was before. Of course, that meant finding him again, first.

“We’re done here,
I think,” Melanie said, rousing me from my thoughts. “Aren’t we?”

“Yes,” I replied, standing
up and smiling despite the shaking of my hands. “I’ll get to work.”

And then I left
the dragon’s lair, feeling like the next time I entered it, I ran a very real
risk of getting burned.

Thom was waiting
for me back on the other side, brow furrowed as he laid eyes on my pensive
face. “Well, I see you don’t have a box to clean out your desk with, so I guess
that’s something,” he said.

I nodded and
pulled up a chair to sit beside him. He turned to me, looking more skeptical
than ever. “What happened? What’s up?”

“I need a favor,”
I said. “A professional one.”

Thom pursed his
lips. I liked it when he did that. It really brought out his cheekbones. Thom
was a very attractive man, with piercing green eyes and chestnut hair cut short
on the sides but longer on the top—
very
fashionable. He was the epitome
of a hipster, but had no equal when it came to sports reporting. At least, not
here at
The Spill.
I’d even considered dating him until I found out he
was gay. Seemed like all the hot ones were.

Except Kellan. I
was pretty sure he wasn’t gay, and he was the hottest guy I’d ever seen. Thom
studied me as I reflected on how Kellan and I had run into each other at The
Sly Fox, and for a moment, I worried that he could see right through me to all
the naughty thoughts swirling around my brain, and I blushed.

Finally, Thom
said, “Okay. Why?”

“I have this
story,” I began. “Or at least, the makings of a story.”

“The senator
thing?” Thom wrinkled his nose. “Not exactly my area of expertise, Parker.”

“It’s not that,” I
said. “At least, not this part of it.”  I quickly recounted most of the detail
of my meeting with Kellan. Minus some of the more embarrassing, less relevant
parts.  

Thom turned his
chair all the way toward me. “Hmm, could be some sort of bareknuckle boxer?
That’s the kind of shit you hear about in those underground fighting rings.”

“Underground
meaning ‘illegal,’ right?” I asked. It made sense. Kellan had alluded to as
much when I’d pressed him about it at the bar. That would totally fit his
story.

Thom rolled his
eyes. “Yeah, Parker. Underground as in ‘illegal,’ rather than literally under
the earth. Though sometimes if you’ve got a basement big enough…” He shrugged.
“Anyway, how does this guy tie in with your story? Sounds more like my
territory.”

“It might be
both,” I told him. “This guy was a veteran, having trouble finding work ever
since he got back from overseas. That’s my angle with the senator, and this
could tie it all together.  Assuming it’s what we think it is, but it all fits,
right?  His knuckles were all banged up and he kept going on about how he was
dangerous and the only job for him was one that wasn’t exactly legal. He looked
like the MMA-type, too. Grizzled, lots of muscles.”