Reckless Heat: A Hostile Operations Team Prequel (2 page)

I
’m holding
Evie’s hand, and I need to let go before I do something I’ll regret. I disentangle myself from her and stare out the window at the bayou.

My life is so fucked up I sometimes can’t believe it. How did it get this way? How did I get to this place where I mostly feel numb inside?

I shouldn’t be numb. I should be on top of the fucking world.

It looks like I have a perfect life. My father is Beau Girard, state senator, oilman. He’s got buckets of money. Mountains of money. We live in a house that was built in the 1850s by one of our ancestors. It’s a grand old plantation home with huge columns along the front and antiques in every room. It’s about sixteen thousand square feet—and it feels empty to me, in spite of the rooms packed with rich furnishings.

It hasn’t felt like a home since my mother died. That was five years ago. The old man married again—twice—but neither of them worked out.

That’s the polite way of putting it. I feel a pang whenever I think of Candy, stepmama number two. Jesus, but she did a mind fuck on me. What sixteen-year-old wouldn’t bang a hot twenty-two-year-old stripper if given the chance? She wasn’t my first, but she damn sure was the best.

Candy played on my senses, on my naiveté. Of course I was naive. I hate admitting that, but it’s true. I thought we were some sort of star-crossed lovers.

I was dumb enough to think I loved her. And she was spiteful enough to let me believe she loved me in return. It was all a game to her. When the old man gave her a large divorce settlement, she laughed in my face when I asked her about us. Told me to grow up and get over it.

Jesus, I hate that woman. And, yeah, I’m embarrassed on some level that I was so stupid. It happened over a year ago now, but I don’t think the old man knows. He never said anything about it, and I’ve stopped caring if he does. Our problems are far bigger than Candy.

Evie doesn’t say anything, but I can feel her looking at me. Sweet little Evie. I don’t dare look at her right now. I know she’s upset with me and trying her best not to cry. Hell, I know she has a crush on me. I’ve never wanted that, not from her, but it happened anyway.

I’m not going to encourage it. I’m not an asshole—well, not a total asshole—and I’m not taking advantage of her feelings. Not Evie.

“Are you dating Jeanine again?” she asks, and a current of relief rolls through me that she’s moved on from the serious side of this conversation.

I feel safe enough to look at her again. A jolt hits me right between the eyes when I do. It’s almost as if I’ve never looked at her before when in fact I’ve looked at her a thousand—a million—times. I’ve watched her grow up, for fuck’s sake. There’s nothing new here.

And yet she’s got the prettiest eyes I’ve ever seen. They’re so blue they’re almost purple, and she’s wearing a purple T-shirt that clings to her curves and dips down not quite far enough for me to see cleavage but enough to jump-start my imagination.

Her black hair is straight, thick, and shiny. She’s shoved it behind her ears, and I have an urge to fan my hands into it and spread it over her shoulders just to see how long and full it really is.

She’s looking at me quizzically, and I realize I’ve been silent for too long.

“Not really,” I say. And it’s true. I’m not dating Jeanine—I’m not dating anyone—but I won’t turn down pussy when it’s offered. I have sense enough to know it’ll probably be a lot more difficult to get some action at West Point since my time will be so tightly controlled to start with.

“She doesn’t like me.”

I can’t help but snort a laugh. “You dumped tea on her. Of course she doesn’t like you.”

“She’s probably planning her revenge right now for my stealing you away this afternoon.”

I didn’t think of that but, yeah, probably right. Jeanine has always been vindictive. “I’ll fix it,” I tell her.

She’s looking at me with a frown creasing her pretty face. “How are you going to…?”

I don’t want to tell her that it’ll involve Jeanine naked and spread beneath me, so I don’t.

“I just will. I’ll make her forget all about it, promise.”

She stares at me another moment, and then she starts to turn red. Evie’s not dumb, that’s for sure.

“Don’t do me any favors, Matt. In fact, save it, because your dick might fall off if you stick it in that skank’s coochie.”

Oh my God, I want to fucking laugh my ass off. I don’t because I sense it’ll only piss her off. Not to mention that I’m oddly turned on by hearing Evie say the word dick. I want her to say it again.

No you don’t, asshole.

On second thought, maybe I don’t.

“I’ll wear a condom,” I say and then wonder why in the hell I’m going down this road. Talking sex with Evie is not a good idea.

Evie lowers her gaze and bites her lip. Fucking hell.

“You’re embarrassed,” I say. “I’m sorry.”

She lifts her head then, her eyes flashing. “I’m not embarrassed—I just think you could do much better than Jeanine.”

“I’m not marrying her, Evie.”

She folds her arms over her middle, lifting her breasts up. I don’t think she knows that’s the effect, but I sure am enjoying it. More than I should.

“I certainly hope not.”

A thought occurs to me as I take in her discomfort. Because no matter what she says, she
is
uncomfortable. I’ve never really thought about it before, except in passing here and there, but now the truth hits me over the head like a hammer.

“Are you still a virgin, Evie?”

Her eyes widen and her cheeks redden, and I know I’ve hit the jackpot. I don’t know why, but it makes me happy. It shouldn’t matter one way or the other, but it does.

“Are you going to make fun of me if I say yes?”

“I wouldn’t do that, Evie-girl. I think you know that.”

She drops her gaze again. “It’s not that I haven’t had the opportunity—but no, I’ve never…”

Her voice trails off, and I know what she can’t say. “Had sex,” I finish for her.

She nods.

I can’t help what I do next. I put a finger beneath her chin and tip her head up until she’s looking at me. My God, I feel so many confusing things when my eyes meet this girl’s. She’s like a little sister to me—and she’s not like a sister at all. She’s someone I want to protect, and someone I want to taste and touch and hold.

I’ll only do one of those things though.

“There’s nothing to be ashamed of, Evie. Don’t let anyone rush you into it, okay? Do it when it feels right to you.”

I
want
to tell him it feels right, right
now
, but I can’t form the words. And he won’t take me up on it anyway. My heart hammers and my skin tingles where he touches me, but this is as much stimulation as I’m going to get from Matt Girard.

I wish I was brave enough to close the distance between us and press my lips to his, but I’m not. Instead, I hold my breath and stare into his eyes and pray—
pray
—he’ll make the first move.

He smiles at me, a soft curling of his lips, and my pulse quickens. He’s everything I ever wanted in a guy, but he doesn’t look at me that way at all. I can see it in his smile, feel it in the way his finger rests beneath my chin. There’s no reciprocation here.

He sometimes looks at me with a hard, faraway look, but it doesn’t last long. Faraway and friendly are his two settings for me. It is what it is, no matter that I wish it were more.

He leans away, dropping his finger, and my heart aches with disappointment.

“You ready to get home?” he asks, but he’s starting the car without waiting for my reply.

I nod, because an answer isn’t really needed. He turns around and heads back out to the road. Again he cranks up the music, Creed this time, and we fly toward town.

We go down Main Street, past the shop where Mama works—she’s going to buy it someday—past the old general store and the café, and then he turns and heads for the railroad tracks that divide Rochambeau in two. First we pass through the historic district, filled with old homes, huge trees, and pristine lawns, before driving over the tracks and into the poorer section of town.

My section. I shouldn’t be embarrassed. After all, Matt’s been here before. He’s seen the little home I live in, the dirt driveway, the ramshackle siding, the clothesline that hangs near the house, and he’s never said a negative word about any of it.

We pull up to the house, his shiny Corvette seeming out of place, and Julie walks outside. She’s got Sarah, my six-year-old sister, with her. Sarah waves like mad and Matt waves back. Sarah knows Matt, but not too well since he never comes over anymore. Still, she hasn’t forgotten.

“Thanks for the ride home,” I say, wrapping my hand around the door handle.

He swings his silvery gaze to me. He looks sad, but I don’t know why. “I won’t forget you, Evie-girl. We’ll always be friends.”

My throat is too tight to speak, so I just nod. I step out of the car and he backs out of the driveway. I stand there until the Corvette is gone.

I
jack
the car up to a hundred miles per hour. It’s dangerous for more than one reason. First, it’s a two-lane road with sharp bends and trees that obscure the view up ahead and make for short sight distances. Second, you can never tell when something might run out in front of you. It isn’t dark yet, which means the chances are less than if it had been, but it’s still a risk.

And then there’s the possibility of coming up too fast on a slower car around a bend. Someone could get hurt.

Reluctantly, I slow my speed. Three more weeks and I’m out of here. Three more weeks of enduring my life before it changes forever.

I can’t fucking wait. And I don’t need to screw it up before it happens. It wasn’t easy getting into West Point.

I did the entire application process with the school counselor. I left the old man out of it, though it would have been easier to get the recommendation of the state’s representative to Congress if I’d asked my father for help.

I didn’t want his help. I told Mr. Biggs that I wanted to do it on my own, wanted to surprise my old man with my initiative and ingenuity. If I didn’t get in, no big deal, I said—it wasn’t like I wouldn’t go to college if I didn’t. But if I did, then it was something I did without my father’s help.

And something I could do without his interference. Truthfully, it
was
a big deal to me—and now I’m in and I’m not fucking it up.

I turn down the lane leading to Reynier’s Retreat. The trees lining the drive are old, dripping with moss, and obscure the view of the house. When it appears at the end of the lane, it’s impressive. A monument to history and privilege.

I love it and hate it in equal measure. I stop the car and look at the house. General John Hamilton Girard grew up in this house before going off to fight in the Civil War. He’d been my age, seventeen, when he joined. He had a triumphant career and then returned a hero.

A figure comes out to stand on the massive veranda. It’s my father, staring down the drive as if he’s been waiting for me. I step on the gas and drive the rest of the way to the house. I put the car in the garage and go inside.

My father’s in the kitchen as I walk in, tumbler of whiskey in one hand, eyes bloodshot. I’m used to the disappointment on his face, but it doesn’t mean I’m unaffected.

“West Point.” He’s slurring. “You’re too soft for fucking West Point, boy.”

“Yes, sir.” This is my stock answer because it’s no use arguing with him. He hasn’t let up on this refrain since I got the news a couple of weeks ago.

“Are you sassing me?”

“No, sir.” I stand with my backpack slung over one shoulder, clenching a fist at my side. I’m taller than he is, but the senator is bigger. More muscular.

He takes a slug of the whiskey. “Damned disappointment from the day you were born, you know that? Sissy boy always running to his fucking mother. Crying when anyone said boo. Fucking pussy.”

The blood rises up hot and hard in my veins. My cheeks flush. I can feel it, feel the sweat and the anger as it singes my pores. Goddamn but I want to throat-punch the bastard.

Or tell him I fucked his wife. Candy didn’t think I was a pussy when she was screaming my name and begging me to fuck her harder.

Telling him that wouldn’t do a damned bit of good though. He’d probably find a way to stop me from leaving after graduation, and there’s no way in hell I’m letting that happen.

I just have to keep my cool for three more weeks. The old man is home and drunk today, but he’ll just as likely be gone tomorrow. Off to a strip club or to Girard Oil. He runs the company when he’s sober, leaves it to his board when he’s on a bender.

This is a bender week apparently.

“I’m sorry, sir.” I’ll say whatever it takes to shut him the fuck up. To get him to leave me alone and lose himself in that glass.

He leans against the kitchen island, and I know he’s really been drinking today. He needs the island for support.

“Sorry,” he slurs. “Always sorry. For fucking what? Being born a pussy?”

I stiffen, but no way in hell am I letting him get to me. “Yes, sir. I’m sorry I’m a pussy.”

That’s too much, and I know it the second I say it. But it’s too late now. The old man draws himself up, his red eyes gleaming hot. He slams the glass on the counter and closes the distance between us.

I know what’s coming. It isn’t the first time. It doesn’t happen often, but it happens enough.

He rears back and slaps me across the face. He’s never punched me. Never. But the old man is king of the gentlemanly slap. As if he’s challenging me to a duel.

It fucking hurts, of course. Snaps my head to the side and stings my cheek. I feel a hot bite of something more, and I lift my hand to my face. It comes away red.

His college ring caught me on my cheekbone and sliced the skin.

My father is standing there with that wild-ass look on his face, glaring at me. Time seems suspended. And then he does what he always does when he’s slapped me.

He collapses against me, hugging me hard, crying the very tears he accused me of being a pussy for. “I’m sorry, son. I didn’t mean it… I didn’t mean it.”

He’ll go on like this for a while if I let him. I wrap my arms around him and swallow the massive knot in my throat. I hate him. And I don’t. It’s a fucking sorry place to be most of the time.

“You need to lie down, sir,” I say. “Sleep it off.”

I’m not afraid he’ll explode now. Once he has his meltdown, he’s done until the next time. He continues sobbing on my shoulder while I maneuver him over to the couch in the family room. I settle him on it, take off his shoes and lift his feet to the sofa, then straighten and look down at him.

His eyes are red rimmed, the lids swollen. He gazes up at me bleary-eyed. “Look like your mother,” he whispers, and my heart pinches tight. “I miss her so much sometimes. Hurts looking at you.”

“Yes, sir.” I have no sympathy for him, not really. It’s always about him, always about how he feels. Did he show an ounce of concern for me or Christina when our mother died?

Fuck no. He sobbed and carried on, got drunk, disappeared for days at a time. I later learned he went to clubs. That’s where he met Bambi, stepmama number one. Next was Candy. Who knows what’s coming next?

He waves a hand at me as he turns into the back of the couch, clutching a pillow to his middle and heaving softly.

I despise him. And yet I still stand there for a long moment before I force myself to walk away.

I can’t wait until I get to walk away forever.