by Katie May
Greta had texted me earlier to say, Climb that tree and swing on those branches, bitch.
I’m not sure if we’re at that stage of our relationship yet. Taking another deep breath, I step out of my room, prepared to meet Ren in the front of the house.
I can’t help but think about Keller’s painting, but I shove those thoughts away before they can take root and fester.
Nothing bad will happen. It was just a painting.
I could tell that the guys were slightly unnerved, but not one of them commented on it as we climbed into our separate vehicles and departed for the mansion. Hopefully, Grant will be able to explain away Keller’s ominous prediction while I’m on my solo date with Ren. I don’t even want to think about what Kyler and the rest of the crew think.
Movement in my peripheral captures my attention. My hands turn clammy as my eyes catch sight of the gorgeous male specimen currently a few doors down, using the bar over top of the door to do pull-ups. He’s shirtless, his bronze chest glistening with sweat, and each move he makes causes his muscles to ripple and flex. Once more, my eyes are automatically drawn to the depiction of graves on one arm and the thorny roses on the other.
“Usually, I’m the one doing the stalking,” Brandon says, performing another perfect pull-up.
I honestly don’t mean to stare, but...abs. They fry my brain.
He jumps to his feet and saunters towards me, a wry grin twisting up his lips.
The monkey shifter is a fucking work of art. Never would’ve expected that. If Greta was here, she would say something like, “Choke on his banana.” Real original.
“You have...nice shoulders,” I blurt like the dumbass I apparently am. His smile widens exponentially.
“Why, thank you. I got them done last week. You’re the first one to notice.” He puffs them out, and I can’t help but giggle.
I kind of want to say thank you for saving me from an embarrassing as fuck comment.
“Did Tiffany do your shoulders? She does mine, and she’s an absolute gem,” I play along, lowering my voice to mimic a rich, haughty heiress.
Brandon makes a face at me. “You still use Tiffany?” he questions in a snotty voice. “She’s so last year.” He leans closer like he’s about to tell me a secret. “Only poor people use her for their shoulders.”
Before I can respond, Norman the garden gnome races down the hall, a pair of pliers over one shoulder and a shovel in his free hand.
“Coming through!” he shouts, shoving at a curious Jerome who leaves his room to see what the fuss is about. “There’s a weed emergency.”
“A...what now?” I question.
Norman halts in front of me, his breathing erratic, as he nods towards the back yard. “Weeds. Everywhere.” And then, he smiles sheepishly and grabs a rose from his shirt pocket. “You look beautiful,” he says sincerely, handing me the rose. I take it with a soft smile and place it behind my ear.
“Thank you, Norm.” The nickname falls out instinctively, and from the flush on Norman’s cheeks, I can tell he’s pleased by it.
“You’re welcome.” Abruptly, his dopey smile fades replaced by intense determination. “Now, I have weeds to eradicate. If you’ll excuse me…” With a nod at first me and then Brandon, he hurries away, his strides determined and purposeful.
“That man…” Brandon shakes his head in confusion. “I have no words.”
“He’s sweet,” I counter immediately, and Jereome, the cat shifter who peed on my legs, scoffs.
“So, the guy who has a garden dedicated to you is sweet, but when I pee on your leg, it’s gross.” He makes a silly face at me, his tongue lolling out of his mouth.
My scowl deepens. “It is gross. Cat pee is gross.”
He almost seems offended, as if I had personally insulted his mother or some shit. Those cat-like eyes of his narrow slightly.
“It’s a way for us to assert our dominance,” he states before releasing a weary sigh. “I know it’s weird—and I actually am sorry for doing it in the first place—but sometimes, my animal gets the best of me. He gets all cray-cray and starts pissing everywhere. At least I didn’t lick you.” He almost sounds forlorn by that prospect. “My tongue has been compared to sandpaper, especially down…” He nods lower, and I feel my cheeks heat at the dirty innuendo.
“I...um...should get going to...um...the penis...I meant date. The date,” I stammer, pointing behind me. Brandon smirks, and Jerome throws his head back in giddy laughter.
“It was nice talking to you again, Ridley!” he says, waving his hand.
“It was nice not getting peed on again,” I counter immediately. I wave at both men before taking off down the hall. I think I’ve finally made it—no more interruptions, no more sexy men and abs, no more peeing cats—when music drifts from a few doors down.
You know what they say… curiosity killed the cat. And the witch, apparently. Ohhhh. Too soon for a murder joke?
Unable to curve my inquisitive nature, I tiptoe down the hall and stop at the room at the very end.
Jace the gorgon—and a world famous rockstar, just throwing that out there—is sitting on the edge of his bed, his shirt off, as he strums his guitar. His blond hair is plastered to his forehead with sweat and his multicolored eyes, one a chocolate brown and the other a light gray, are focused intently on a sheet of music resting across his lap. As I watch, he growls in frustration, crumples up the music, and tosses it across the room where it joins over a dozen other similar pages.
I know I should leave. He hates me and has been nothing but a douche canoe since I met him—and not just a normal canoe, but a canoe riddled with holes and steadily sinking in sludgy, bug-riddled water.
Yet, I find that I can’t turn away.
“Now, is it the paper itself that is personally offending you, or something else all together?” I ask, leaning against the doorframe with my hip cocked to the side. Jace’s head whips up at my voice, pure and undiluted anger flaring in his entrancing eyes.
“Intruding much?” he scoffs, setting his guitar down as if it burned him.
Undeterred by his prickly exterior, I step forward until I’m firmly in his room. It’s by far the biggest suite in the entire mansion, even surpassing my own room. The king-sized bed against the far wall only takes up a quarter of the space. An assortment of slick white couches are organized in a semi-circle around a flatscreen television. Everything is colored in hues of white and gold—from the snow white carpeting to the white couches to the white bedspread with gold trim. It’s entirely different from what I expected of the resident rocker. Opposite his bed rests an en-suite bathroom like mine. Only, unlike mine, I can see that it has a jacuzzi easily capable of fitting ten people and a shower with more nozzles than I know what to do with.
“Nice place,” I continue dryly. “Only the best for the prince, isn’t that right, Jacey?” Yes, I’m purposefully taunting him. No, I don’t regret it. He needs to understand that during this show, this competition, he’s no longer the fucking king. His crown is made from prickly thrones, while mine is crafted from gold.
“Go bother one of the other desperate fools trying to win you over,” he hisses, waving me away. He shifts uncomfortably on the couch as he glares at his guitar once more before tossing it to the side.
No surprise, given the icicles rammed up his asshole. One touch will cause frostbite.
“I think thou protests too much,” I retort immediately, and then inwardly cringe. I swear my mouth doesn’t have a filter.
Jace’s hypnotic eyes hold my own as he quirks one brow.
“I protest that you’re still here.” He turns away from me, hands clenching and unclenching in his lap.
“What were you working on?” I can be relentless when I want to be. And something about Jace makes me want to chaff off his hard outer shell to see the man underneath. Call it a fool’s errand, but I can’t help but be curious about the boy with the dichromatic eyes who is also a dichotomy in personality—fire and ice. “It d
oesn’t sound like your stuff.”
Because, yeah, sue me. I’ve listened to his music before.
I’m not gonna lie—it has never been my favorite. The lyrics were redundant and promoted drugs and partying. His naturally skilful voice was layered with heavy auto-tune until he barely resembled the live covers he posted on the web, years before the record label picked him up.
“That shit?” Jace snorts, rolling his eyes upwards.
“You don’t like your own music?” I’m not an expert or anything, but that almost seems...taboo.
“It’s not that…” He rolls his eyes again, but this time, I have a feeling he’s doing it more towards himself than me. “Never mind. You don’t want to hear about my petty shit when you have a lumberjack waiting for you outside.”
I can tell when I’m being dismissed, but this time, the glare he levels at me lacks real vitriol. It’s almost as if he’s going through the motions of hating me—an oddity by itself.
“Maybe later we can jam out together,” I blurt before I can stop myself.
Jam out? Really, Rid? What is this...the eighties?
And you suck at every instrument known to mankind. The only thing you can play is Hot Cross Buns on the recorder.
I set myself up for this shit fest. This is all on me.
A wry grin tugs at the corners of Jace’s mouth, but he refuses to let it show, obscuring it once more behind his customary scowl.
“Maybe we’ll ‘jam out’ together some time,” he says, and I have no doubt he’s mocking me. Though, in this case, I totally deserve it.
And then, because I can’t catch a fucking break, I give him two quick finger guns and hurry down the hallway before he can respond.
Mouth: two.
Ridley: still zero.
Eight Months Earlier
The hand wrapped around my hair abruptly releases me, sending me careening to the floor on my hands and knees. Quickly—before the asshole can try anything else—I kick out my leg and ram it behind me, smirking when bones crunch and he curses harshly.
Spinning, I stumble to my feet just in time to see an unfamiliar man leer at me. His hair is dirty and stringy, hanging in clumps around a haggard face, and his fangs pierce his lower lip. A vampire.
“Why da hell are ya asking ‘bout Candy?” he sneers, face twisting hideously. He has an accent, but I can’t pinpoint where exactly it’s from.
“Who are you?” I demand, hand lowering to where I should’ve had my gun.
Only to remember I left SUP headquarters without a weapon or backup like a fuck-twad.
“Her boyfriend, bitch!” At least, I’m assuming the insult is “bitch.” It almost sounded like “beach.” Creative nickname, as far as nicknames go. Beach. I like it.
“I wanted to ask her a few questions.” Keeping my movements slow and steady, I remove Miles’s picture from my back pocket. “Do you recognize this man?” I ask, watching his reaction carefully.
His shrewd eyes narrow in contemplation before widening slightly. The color drains from his face as he takes one step back and then another.
And then, before I can confront him, he turns on his heel and runs down the twisting labyrinth of hallways.
“Shit,” I murmur, instantly giving chase. I reach for my cell phone and, still running, dial our dispatcher.
Now, I don’t know any cool cop lingo, so instead of saying, “We have a 634 in a 278 for a 78292 tango,” I snap out, “Suspect.” Pant. “Running.” Pant. “852.” Pant. Die. Choke. “Woodside Road.” Die again.
I see the vampire fumbling with a set of keys in front of a rusty truck. Without thought, I lift my hands in the air, my magic pulsing through me. Heat warms my hands as I push it outwards, towards the man. I mean to subdue him, stop him from leaving.
Instead, the truck blows up, tiny pieces flying in all directions.
Chapter 8
I step outside to see Ren standing in the doorway, a fierce expression on his ruggedly handsome face. His orange beard has been trimmed close to his face, but it does very little to tame the unruly mane of hair on his head. His thick biceps flex as he stares off into the distance, a glower firmly in place.
When he catches sight of me, he holds out a miniature tree in a potted plant.
A…
A baby tree.
Oh. My. God.
I squeal so loud I’m pretty sure God himself heard me. Flinging my hands from side to side in a desperate attempt not to touch the tree, I stare accusingly at the lumberjack.
“No,” I say firmly. “No. No. No. No. Not today, Satan. Not today.”
“All hail Satan,” Chase—the satanic angel—says cheerfully as he bounces up the front steps. He waves first to me and then at Ren before letting himself in.
“I’m not ready to be a mother,” I manage to choke out, staring offendedly at the minuscule sapling.
Ren’s brows furrow, and when he speaks, his deep voice rumbles through me. “You never kept a plant before?”
“I… I…”
All I can do is point at the tree like I’m trying to jab the air around it. After the thirtieth jab, Ren crouches to place the plant on the ground.
“CAREFUL WITH MY BABY!” I yell, scooping it up and cradling it against my chest. Fuck, what am I going to do? I’m too young to be a mother. I don’t know the first thing about taking care of an infant.
“Ridley,” Ren says slowly, cautiously, approaching me like I’m a wounded animal, “it’s a tree. It’ll remain small enough for you to keep it in the pot if you place it by a window. Water it daily.”
“Only daily?” I huff, my temper flaring. “Is this how you want to raise our kid?”
Fuck, I’m possessive of the little bugger. Oh, Bugger! Love that name.
Confusion clouds Ren’s eyes before understanding dawns. He throws back his head and guffaws raspily. “It’s. A. Tree. Nothing more.”
A tree? Of course, because Ren—
Oh.
Oh.
Fuck. Me. In. The. Esophagus.
I begin to laugh nervously as I slowly lower the tree to the rail, knowing someone from the crew will pick it up later. There are at least ten cameras out here alone; there’s no way they’re not going to see the tree there.
“Just a tree.” I awkward-laugh so hard I accidentally awkward-snort. “Totally knew that. Besides, we haven’t even had sex yet. Or at all!”
And now I’m thinking about sex with the sexy lumberjack. His rough hands beneath my thighs. His scruffy beard scraping the inside of my—
Focus!
Ren’s next words definitely don’t help the whole “libido out of control” issue.
He leans forward, forest green eyes glinting, and whispers, “Trust me, little one, you’ll know if my seed is in you.”
What a normal person does: giggle flirtatiously.
What I do: snort obnoxiously loud, attempt to cover my face and sidestep Ren, and then promptly trip over the front step and nearly face-plant on the cement.
Ren lunges for me at the same time my magic kicks in, propelling me backwards. Of course, I overestimate the distance and end up flailing, Ren’s sturdy body behind me the only thing keeping me from falling on my ass.
The hard chiseled planes of his chest feel like granite against me. Would it be weird if I rubbed myself all over him like a possessive cat?
Dammit.
Now I understand Jerome a little better.
Blushing, I step away from his embrace and nod towards the waiting limo.
“Shall we get going?”
I have no idea where we’re going—the producers chose the location—but I do know I’m excited. Maybe it’s because I’m with Ren or maybe it’s because this is my first solo date of the season. Either way, I’m thrumming with anxious energy I desperately wish to dispel.
Before I can enter the limo, Ren places a hand beneath my arm and guides me towards a town car. At my furrowed brows, he states, “Bulletproof windows.”
“Oh,” I
say in understanding...before that understanding immediately turns into confusion.
Ren couldn’t possibly know about Ali’s murder, right? So why is he insisting we take a car with bulletproof windows?
“Is this the studio’s car?” I question, slipping into the passenger seat. I spot a magical camera floating near the edge of the windshield, the lens trained on me.
“Mine,” he grunts, backing the car out of the driveway. His eyes flicker to the camera, and his face scrunches in distaste. He doesn’t like being on camera any more than I do.
The car ride is silent for the first ten minutes as Ren expertly maneuvers us onto a highway. It’s not uncomfortable—if anything, the silence is calming.
“So,” I say, focusing intently on the large man, “why are you here?”
Only his eyes shift to stare at me before he focuses once more on the road. “You chose me for a solo date,” he states slowly, but I see his lips twitch slightly.
“I know that, asshole,” I jest, swatting at his arm. “I meant the show in general. What do you hope to get out of all...this?”
Another minute of silence passes, and I almost think he’s not going to respond. Finally, he releases a heavy breath.
“I was engaged once,” he says, voice soft.
Out of all the things I thought he was going to say, that wasn’t one.
“What happened?” I query.
“She never loved me.” His response is simple, matter-of-fact. For some reason, it breaks my heart. “She made me think I was undeserving of love.”
“Ren…”
“She was one of the few female trees left,” he continues, hands tightening on the steering wheel. “Our engagement had been planned since birth. We were best friends growing up, and that made me blind to who she truly was.”
“And who was she?” I whisper. Something in his tone is shredding my heart. I can feel his pain as acutely as if it was my own.
“She was cruel and conniving. Nasty to people she deemed beneath her. I thought she loved me...until I realized she could never truly love anyone.” He grunts once, almost as if he’s trying to get himself to stop talking.