by Elaria Ride
I arch an eyebrow but give no other sign I care. Russ isn’t the only one holding the purse strings. If it came down to it, Earl would be the one to fire me — and right now, I’ve done nothing to deserve more than a simple reprimand. Irritatingly, though, that my cheeks are burning with embarrassment. Russ didn’t have to point out my wandering eye — but I should also control myself enough to prevent bodily reactions. Like blushing.
But apparently this isn’t enough, because Russ takes things a step further. He sends me an exaggerated wink, his hands in his pockets. “After all, we wouldn’t want Miss Matthews to find out why you earned that dismissal from your previous engagement. I imagine sharing that revelation would cost you some… how do the kids put it? Street cred?”
He laughs, waving his hand dismissively. There’s a murmur of alarm from the assembled cops, but Russ plows on. “Don’t worry, though,” he adds with a wink. “I’m sure we all have abject failures in our pasts. And as such, there’s no need for Mariah to find out about yours. Right?”
What?!
I glare at him, enraged. How the hell is Kashfar any of his business? How dare he threaten to convey top-secret, confidential information that he shouldn’t know in the first place? This crosses so many lines of professionalism it makes my head spin. It’s obvious he’s trying to get back at me, both for my comments at dinner last night and for my ogling a few minutes ago.
“I can’t see how a prior mission — especially a prior mission in which Mr. Carter was fully absolved of all wrongdoing — could possibly apply to this conversation, Mr. Sanders,” interjects Schmidt, who sounds equally disturbed. “Or why that information would interest you. Or why you’d allude to sharing it.”
“That’s the funny thing about the internet!” Russ declares jovially, bouncing on the balls of his feet. “Everything’s there — if you know where to look! But like I said, none of that needs to be made public.” He turns and winks at me again. “Does it?”
I set my jaw again, willing myself to remain silent. For whatever reason, Russ is trying to harass me. He wants a reaction. I refuse to give him one.
Instead, I just give him two blinks.
No… no one needs to know what happened there.
8
Mariah
It’s Wednesday after rehearsal. And Carter’s finally moving in.
I shake my head in dismay as he brings his second and final cardboard box into the guest room. For the past two days, I’ve had 24/7 surveillance from various recruits stationed outside my bedroom door while Carter “worked out the kinks” of his permanent placement.
This hasn’t been ideal, because A) I’m the world’s lightest sleeper, B) the recruits talked to each other all night long, and C) I don’t feel like they’re particularly trained in how to handle stalkers.
Unlike Carter.
Because as much as I hate to admit it, the man’s lengthy training means he knows what he’s doing here. For the past two days he’s arrived at 7 a.m. sharp to begin his daytime surveillance. Between his insistence on remaining a caveman all day long and the recruits’ insistence on waking me up multiple times a night, I’m not in the best mood.
Carter shuts the guest room door before striding to his familiar perch on a barstool in the corner. Maybe it’s the materialistic side of me, but I’m a little alarmed at how fast he moved in. All his worldly possessions, in two cardboard boxes and a duffel bag…
Granted, I know little about military life — and I know even less about why Carter is suddenly stateside. But I have a feeling it’s not normal for a man in his thirties to move into an apartment faster than a college freshman. I squirm uncomfortably in my seat. Thinking about Carter’s life only intensifies the feelings of sadness I’ve felt in my chest since seeing him around my family this weekend.
I’ll be honest when I say I haven’t thought much about him much in the past twenty years. Even when I first saw Hottie Guard splashed across supermarket magazines a few months back, all I could see was the rude little boy who once pulled my pigtails on the playground. Somehow, I completely forgot about why Carter was always playing with other kids. About why he was at our house so often. About why he’d always, always been on the playground when we were.
Until this weekend, I’d just assumed that Carter is the type of dude who hates fun and loves being in control. But the look on his face when Mark told him he was part of the family spoke volumes. Carter’s eyes filled with mirth and happiness, his jaw relaxed, his shoulders got less tense. All weekend long, he’d almost been a different person… a person unburdened by the crap that life handed him.
I know now that Carter has the sort of loneliness you can’t hide forever. Granted, he tries to hide it — by being uber-controlling and insisting on protocol. In reality, though, he’s been without a mother even longer than I have — and I’ve had a supportive family in the meantime. I still don’t know all the details about what happened overseas, but after seeing his wistful stares at my family, I don’t blame him for the infamous tabloid photos of his arms (and lips) wrapped around the tiny bikini models. Maybe he sought companionship to make his nights a little less lonely.
I glimpse over at him with a weak smile — a nonverbal attempt at a thank you — but Carter just greets me with an arched brow and a cold stare. He’s still devastatingly handsome, but now there’s a hard edge to his chiseled features. I set my mug down with a sigh, but I’m not really surprised. He’s wearing the same mask of indifference and professionalism he’s had since Sunday afternoon’s debriefing on Matthews Mountain.
Luke didn't exactly relax over the weekend… but it was close. We actually had some fun banter on the drive up — quite a concept! I guess I was a fool to think that would continue while we were in public. Where people could see us. Though he spent the trip watching my every move, his eyes were less rimmed with agitation, his posture less tense.
Then he went to the police huddle, and everything fell to shit. Since Sunday he’s been even more of a Neanderthal than usual. Which means that I’m more determined than ever to make him crack.
“So,” I start, picking my mug back up. “How’s the place look, roomie?
Carter’s face remains impassive. As I expected.
I give him a stoic sigh. “Yeah, I totally agree — you definitely need some tribal wall scribbles to make this place feel more, ya know, homey. Don’t worry, though!” I add, taking a sip of my tea. “We can run by Pier One. I’m sure they have a few saber-toothed tiger skins in stock.”
To my delight, Carter gives me the tiniest, most fleeting reaction: the corner of his lip twitches up for a half-second… right before it goes back to neutral.
I slump my shoulders in mock disappointment. “I’ll have you know, Luke Carter, that it isn’t usually this hard to get boys to pay attention to me. I’ve never cared for the game of hot and cold, darling.” I bat my eyelashes, a little pout on my lips — and to my delight, Carter actually rolls his eyes at me.
Score. Another human interaction! I pump a triumphant fist in the air. “That’s the best eye roll I’ve ever received!”
Then I lean in a little closer. Even though he’s on the other side of the room, I can’t help the thrill racing through me that his eyes haven’t left mine yet. “Tell me, Mr. Hottie Guard,” I all but purr, leaning forward on my elbows. “Do you ever regret being so quiet all the time?”
Carter quirks an eyebrow and responds with two slow blinks. No.
And as I throw my hands in the air in frustration, I can almost make out a chuckle from the corner of the room.
9
Mariah
Carter and I settle into a surprisingly easy rhythm as we co-habitate… though I don’t like that word. It’s sad to admit, but this is the closest I’ve gotten to living with a non-family member. I’m surprised the tabloids haven’t run wild with speculation, but they probably see someone like Luke next to someone like me and figure there’s nothing there.
For the first week of our litt
le arrangement, I filled the silences at home by prattling on about my life — both because I was bored and because I wanted him to crack. Luke’s gotten a lot better at keeping his face impassive, no matter what I say — but I still enjoy the subtle way he smirks and grins at some of my comments, even if he only does so when we’re hidden away in my apartment, tucked away from everything else.
Thankfully, I haven’t received another stalker threat, which means he hasn’t moved into my actual bedroom. PMS has insisted that he remain on a cot directly outside, though. Before I go to bed, he gives me two knocks through the wall. I guess this is his caveman way of letting me know he’s there. I loudly groan each time he does it, but knowing he’s there gives me the best sleep I’ve had in months.
Since the first threat, I’ve been hounded by the most disturbing nightmares — ones so horrific and bloody that I’ve only shared them with Sabrina. She’s the only person I trust not to tattle to my family. It’s a true testament to our friendship that she hasn’t even told her husband…and no, I still haven’t forgiven Mark the Narc for tattling. Sabrina’s a compound pharmacist, and she’s prepared a special nighttime tea blend to help me deal with the nightmares of a nameless, faceless stalker charging into my apartment and slitting my throat.
Recently, though, these nightmares have… changed. Right at the moment where I’m usually murdered, Carter charges into the room, subdues the attacker and tosses him out the window. And I wish I could say the dreams end with that… but in my dreams, Carter has no interest in a cordial handshake. Instead, he gathers me in his strong arms, presses his body to mine, and —
Ahem.
I clear my throat as the dressing room swims back into focus. Yeah. That’s a problem, too. My fantasies about Carter have gone from passing to constant. Biting my lip, I glimpse up at Carter in the mirror. Of course, his eyes are already locked on mine. He arches a brow in response to my questioning look, but I just I shake my head and go back to fixing my hair. Nothing to see here, boss. Move it along.
For some reason, though, his gaze feels more possessive and penetrating than ever. Fuck, those eyes of his… so bright and piercing. So unabashedly roaming my body. During times like this, when he stares at me with that vein ticking in his throat, it’s hard for me to remember that his interest is purely professional.
Am I crazy, then, to note the differences between Home Carter and Work Carter? Home Carter is more laid back and easygoing — but Home Carter never, ever speaks. Work Carter, on the other hand, is robotic in his security protocols, but he occasionally breaks the silence to give me directives. Work Carter always speaks in a low, rumbling voice that sends chills running up my spine, every single time.
Which makes no sense.
I’ve never been a gal who likes orders — especially in the bedroom. All of my loser ex-boyfriends were content to let me take the lead. At least until they got what they wanted, whether it be fame, money, or connections. I always got rid of them before things got too serious, though. Or as soon as I saw through their bullshit.
Still… I can’t deny there’s something about Carter’s looming presence makes me want to submit. We aren’t dating (believe me, I know) but there’s something about the way he stares at me that makes me feel different. When his deep voice rumbles through my body, I want to bend myself over his knee, to feel his palm spanking my ass, and —
No.
I clear my throat and rise from my seat. I’m a professional, dammit; I have a job to do… a job I’ve wanted to do my whole life. After a quick tug to reposition my clothes, I stride to the dressing room door and push my way through, not caring if Carter’s following behind me or not.
I’m an independent go-getter. I will not let this man — of all people! — steal my thunder.
If Carter notices my frostier attitude for the rest of the day, he doesn’t comment. We make our return journey exactly as we have since he started: we climb in the police SUV, and Rodriguez drives us home as I listen to Russ’s recording of the day’s session. Carter sits beside me, just like always, his looming form squashed into the middle seat.
When Rod finally arrives at the garage, I try to ignore the impatient pulse in my center as Carter leans over to unbuckle my seatbelt. Fuck, he always smells amazing… like sandalwood and something rich and smoky I can’t quite put my finger on. Why, God, did I have to receive surveillance from a man whose simple cologne turns me on?!
It’s a blessing when he climbs out to open my door.
“After you, Princess,” he rumbles, his voice gravelly and low.
Oh. This is a change from the typical silence of Home Carter… but I don’t dare mention that. Instead, I take a shaky step onto the pavement and wave goodbye to Rodriguez, unable to focus on much besides getting into a hot bubble bath.
Carter’s large, warm hand on the small of my back doesn’t help my concentration. Neither does the way he looms over me during our walk to the elevator, his eyes fierce and protective as he scans the parking lot. Neither does his muscular frame pressing against me from behind. Or his lingering touch as we ding to my floor.
When we reach the end of the hall, I let Carter jam in the new (and ridiculously complicated) padlock code to get inside my apartment. I guess he expects to brush past me and look around first, but after a week of being ludicrously turned on (and ordered around), I don’t have the patience. I shove past him and plop my purse down in the foyer. Carter releases a rumbling, angry growl that I feel all the way through my chest. Fuck. It’s pathetic, really, that even his grunt of displeasure turns me on…
“I need a bath,” I murmur, facing away. “Please… please don’t disturb me.”
Carter makes another half-hearted noise of concern as I head to my room, but I ignore this, too. No. He doesn’t get to stare at me all day with those eyes. He doesn’t get to order me around even more.
But I wish like hell that he would.
An hour later, I stare at myself in the foggy bathroom mirror. Even as I apply a cooling night cream, my cheeks and chest remain flushed bright red.
I put down the night cream with a sigh. A fat load of good that did! I wonder if Luke will even notice my unusually rosy complexion. Maybe I can pass it off as heat from the bath instead of getting myself off in the tub.
I’m no blushing novice when it comes to sex… but I won’t deny I have hang-ups, too. Regardless of what the tabloids claim, I’ve never slept with anyone I wasn’t dating. In part, this is because I’m afraid of one-night stands with someone who might ruin my reputation — but to be honest, the whole casual sex thing just hasn’t appealed to me.
Until now.
I shudder, glimpsing into the mirror again. For the first time in my life, I want him so badly that it doesn’t matter. I don’t care about defining the relationship first. Or meeting his family. Or investigating what he wants out of this before we start. There’s never been anyone like this before… a man who consumes my every thought. A man who reduces me to a puddle with a tiny wink. A man whose body arouses me as much as his stoic silence. As much as his random acts of kindness and generosity.
Shit. When did I give Carter permission to control not only my actual life — but my fantasy life, too? The memory of his rumbling voice has pushed me over the edge more times than I care to admit. I scarcely even needed my fingers to finish the job, not when I could still feel his warm hand on the small of my back. I’m not sure how I’ll be able to accept this gesture in the future… not when I’ve imagined his fingers slipping beneath my waistband, caressing the tender skin of my ass while growling, “Come for me, Princess” into the shell of my ear.
I release a tired moan, running a hand down my face. Lord. What is wrong with me?
A familiar male voice from the kitchen interrupts my pity party. I roll my eyes at my reflection. Of course. It only figures Mark the Narc would be here to see how his Hottie Guard is settling in.
Hope they don’t mind an extra guest at their little bro party. I could use a glass o
f wine right about now. I turn into my bedroom to change for bed, planning my outfit as I go. Normally, I’d throw on sweats and a T-shirt, but I’d better make an effort if Mark’s here. I trust my brother, but he could’ve brought friends — like random members of PMS. Even after an exhausting week, I need to worry about my appearance. That’s Hollywood, baby.
I find my favorite lace chemise and tug it over my head. It’s knee length, sea-foam green, and bunches at the waist to give me an hourglass figure. The matching bathrobe is a perfect, buttery silk, the type you see in high-end department stores.
My once-over in the mirror reveals a girl more presentable than I’d thought. My chest and face have lost that telltale rosy glow, my hair has been tamed into a tight bun, and I look natural. Maybe not Nashville perfect, but normal for a Friday night in. I push down the annoying voice in my head telling me that I look decently fuckable, too. If you’re into big girls.
Which Luke’s clearly not… right? I shake my head as I stride into the kitchen. I’ve seen his body type preference in tabloids, even if his eyes convey something else.
Seconds later, I emerge from my bedroom and take a peek at the gathered crowd. As predicted, Carter and Mark are here. The only unexpected guest is Rod. The three of them are leaning on my countertop, having a laugh about something or other. They’re having such a great time, actually, that they don’t notice me until I step onto the tile and reach for a glass in the cabinet.
“Evening, gentlemen,” I say primly, turning around to face my guests. The men pause at the sound of my voice. “To what do I owe the pleasure of y’all’s company?”
“Just seeing how our buddy’s holding up,” says Mark, shrugging. “Wanted to make sure you’d… made him comfortable.” He waggles his eyebrows, and Rod snickers.