by Nicole Snow
The relief is far from instant, even on the road, putting comfortable mileage between the circus my parents call home.
A sunburst flush on my cheeks smolders in my half-heated car. Cold weather makes it easier to feel than ever, and I wonder if there's any merit to my mom's insane words.
Every mile closer to Marshal's cabin, new questions charge through my brain, taunting and unpleasant.
The images in my head are even worse. They're Marshal in all his tall, steely-eyed muscle shirt glory. They're tattoos like beds of thorns, sharp words, and stubble that will burn like thistle on my skin.
They're everything I imagine he's doing when my back is turned – the lewd glances I sometimes feel sauntering up my legs, stopping at my ass.
They're fire and ice, January and July, a loving single father with a stoic heart and a hidden beast who will demolish me if our lips ever meet.
Okay.
So what if I can't deny this sick attraction? This weird, messy spark between us?
The rude questions rattling around in my brain are another matter.
Them, I'll defy until my dying breath. I'll toss the grains of truth hidden in my mother's crazy psychobabble on feral ground. A place where they'll never, ever take root.
Because if they do, if I start acting on heart stopping what ifs, we'll both have a lot more to worry about than who's spending evenings with Mia.
“Five...four...three...two...one! There it is, Happy New Year!” The screaming grin on TV disappears into the thick of Times Square, Auld Lang Syne strumming its bittersweet notes in the background.
It's now past midnight. Another year lost to time's ashes, and a new one in the making.
It's fitting that I spend the first few minutes alone. That's all I've wanted since I came home, saying a few words to Mia. I parked myself in front of the TV as soon as I knew she was in daddy's hands.
I haven't seen Marshal since he took her upstairs. The poor thing didn't last past nine o'clock, passed out on the sofa, a half-eaten candy cane still tucked in her hands. He sent a questioning glance my way before carrying her up, as if to say, everything all right?
I just nodded. Whispered something about an upset stomach, and told him to holler if he needed anything. He didn't hang around to check in with me again. After he came down from tending Mia, he walked straight past the living room, into the kitchen, and then I heard the door click shut.
He's been out there ever since.
I see the soft orange glow of the light illuminating the chill space between the house and his sanctum in the work shed.
It feels wrong that we're both spending the New Year's zenith alone.
But I can't shake the unease I've had ever since I returned.
My stomach growls. Far from upset, I'm starving. I shuffle into the kitchen, searching for any snacks he might have left out. Too bad he's so meticulous everything is in the fridge, the cheese ball he rolled with his huge hands covered in foil.
I grab a box of crackers off the counter and scrape a few bites. It's nutty and flavorful. Surprisingly delicious.
Same with the dips. His homemade salsa nearly bowls me over with how good it is.
One more mark in his sexy column. A man who can make food earns default brownie points, but damn it, I don't need him wracking them up on a scoreboard that shouldn't exist.
I haven't bothered to flick the lights on in the kitchen. The window above the sink catches the light outside. It oozes in from his workshop, another reminder he's out there.
Alone.
Sighing, I put the snacks away and dig through the fridge. There's a six pack of beer in the corner so frosted over it probably hasn't been touched for weeks. I yank off two cans and stuff them into my coat pockets before throwing it on.
I'm not sure what I'm getting into, knocking on his workshop this late. I almost don't expect an answer. But Marshal cracks the door with the same fierce stare I'm slowly getting used to. “Yeah?”
“Happy New Year. It's past midnight. Here's a present.” I reach into my pockets with both hands, holding up the beers. “How about a quick toast? Assuming I'm not interrupting anything, of course.”
A low growl shakes his throat. I wonder if I've barged in on another secret ritual, another part of his life that's meant for his eyes only. He answers my question, stepping aside so I can enter, snatching one of the beers out of my hand.
“Grab a seat, Red. Happy to see your bellyache is better.” He drags a chair out of the corner and props it in front of his bench, where he plops down next to me. He waits to sip his drink until I'm facing him, a glint in his eye that says he knows the upset stomach thing is BS. “Why are you really out here?”
“I didn't want you to be alone. Nobody should ring in the New Year without some company.” My voice is so quiet, popping my beer open sounds like a bullet ricocheting. So do our cheers.
We clink cans and then take long sips. Another growl slips out of him, but this time it's a satisfied one.
“How thoughtful,” he rumbles, clasping his can between his legs. “Too bad I don't need your sympathy, Red. Don't tell me you feel guilty for wanting a night by yourself? Everybody needs a break sometimes.”
I look down, eyes to the floor so they don't get lost deeper in his storm blue eyes. “It isn't that. It's just...what's the matter, Marshal? Really? You spend so much time out here by yourself. I know you're not working.”
His eyes darken a shade, bright skies becoming stormy seas. Guilty.
“I'm not trying to upset you,” I tell him. He's in no rush to answer my awkward questions. “If it isn't any of my business...if this is your private retreat, or something, just say so and I'll –“
“It's bullshit, is what it is.” His words are as deafening as an avalanche. “I spend half my time with Mia. Another forty percent with memories of men who died in combat years ago. The last ten goes to clients who don't give a shit beyond getting their machines fixed, and jackoffs in town who'd love to see the Sheriff fish my carcass out of the river one fine day.”
“Jesus.” I think I already regret this. “They're haters, Marshal, but I'm not sure anybody wants you dead.”
“No? That'd be a big fucking relief for them, I'm sure. Easy. Maybe the Castoff schtick will take me down like Frankenstein or Dracula someday. Everybody treats this place like it's fucking haunted.” He guzzles half his beer, wiping his mouth. Then he lifts his hand and points to the army picture on the wall. “Don't worry yourself, darling, I'm not planning on doing nothing I shouldn't. On the contrary, I'm still alive and kicking. Plus I'd never leave my little girl. Some other boys aren't so lucky.”
“No? What happened?” It oozes out in a whisper. It's hard to keep my eyes on his when they're so incredibly fierce.
At least he doesn't look offended. Thank God. “Botched mission. A real sloppy prick who made some big promises about catching a Taliban lieutenant got good men killed. The raid was supposed to be a cakewalk. I knew in my guts it wouldn't be, and the intel was wrong, but fuck...our commanding officer wouldn't hear it. Our source's reputation was iron-clad, you see. He insisted, ignoring obvious dangers.”
My eyes study his, diving into the pain. It's hard.
I can't tear myself away. Lifting my beer, I gently sip, ready for the gentle buzz to sooth the restless itch in my veins.
“I still hear their screams in my nightmares, Red. Adam, Erik, Zane...they didn't deserve to die like that. Gunned down with their fucking faces melted into vapor by the airstrike that came, without even checking to see if my boys were clear.” He sighs, pushing a rough hand through his hair to bring him back. “I limped away untouched. That's war, though. Sorry for the gruesome image.” He drains his beer and then collapses the can with a vicious squeeze.
“It's fine. I've heard stories from my brother, too. He had it just as bad...came home with a nasty burn. He spent weeks in the hospital getting therapy, skin grafts...” I close my eyes, hating the ordeal Jackson went through, shortly before his
honorable discharge.
Marshal doesn't say anything. He gets up, walks across the room, and reaches under the table on the other side of the shop. There's a fresh six pack, chilled from the crisp air in here when the stove isn't going.
He cracks two new beers and hands me one, reclaiming his place. “Fuck bad memories. It's the New Year, isn't it?”
His voice lights me up. The sudden optimism in his voice is a pleasant surprise, however faint. “Right. There's plenty to look forward to. If all goes well, I'll be one step closer to a real career. I hope you make mad money on that big job coming up, too. And Mia, well, she'll be a doll at preschool. I just know it.”
Marshal stares into his beer, taking a long sip. When he looks up, his features have darkened just as mysteriously as they warmed a minute ago. “Let's not get ahead of ourselves. I like to focus on the present, one minute at a time. Think I'd be a whole hell of a lot crazier if I didn't.”
“Not me. I'd be a goner without goals to work for.” I suck down more beer, its liquid courage adding a defiant note to my voice. “Different strokes, you know?”
He grins, setting his beer down next to him. “Yeah, Red. I do.”
The look in his eyes aimed down at me is new. It's hungry, ferocious, and understanding all in one. It's not the look of my boss or some drunken tough guy who's short on company. It's the way a man sees a woman, the kind of eyes I ignored through high school and college, always too afraid to let it take me away.
“Red?” Marshal's voice drops, and so does his hand.
Pure heat. He gently cups my chin, turning it to face him.
“What?” You already know, I tell myself, and it's amazing I'm not terrified.
“Come the fuck here,” he growls, lifting me up with his strong hands.
Then they're around my waist, joining me to his tight, hard, unrelenting muscle.
His lips are on mine, and those sparks resonating in his deep blue eyes are more numerous than stars.
They're everywhere. Crackling in my tongue, electrifying my flesh, turning that hot, slick urge at the ends of my nipples and between my legs into a beautiful discord.
His tongue presses against mine. I think I moan, and he definitely growls.
His savage hand sweeps down my low back, clasps my ass, and squeezes.
What. Is. Even. Happening?
I can't tell where he begins or I end. That goes double for this new reality, where I'm honest-to-God kissing the Castoff.
I'm kissing Marshal. Marshal freaking Howard.
A dangerous temptation that's now swallowed me like a pit, and I have no clue where it ends.
He breaks the kiss, more reluctant thunder hanging on his lips. “Happy fucking New Year. Had to make it count. Now I think we'd better both turn in.”
What now really means is, before I fuck your brains out.
I nod, too lost for words, pinching his massive arm one last time. It's like I'm trying to check that he's still real and this isn't a dream. “Agreed. I'll help you with dinner tomorrow. Goodnight, Marshal. Thanks for...a memorable start to the year.” That's so lame, but I don't know what else to say.
We share one more look before I remember how my legs work. Then I slip out in the cold. It's close to absolute zero when there's hellfire in my blood.
I was wrong about his stubble.
It isn't harsh or prickly or overwhelming at all. It's soft, but rugged. Tenderly harsh. Another contrast. Enigma, plus one.
Quintessentially Marshal.
And it's left me marked. I'm secretly craving its sweetness, but not on my cheek. I imagine its friction going new places guaranteed to bring me to my knees if I let this not-so-innocent New Year's kiss become more.
6
Repercussions (Marshal)
This year is going to be insane, and it's only the first day.
I'm in the kitchen at the ass crack of dawn, a throat scratching mug of pitch black coffee in my hand, asking why the fuck I lost it so hard last night.
Seriously.
It's bad enough that I'm using her. Pumping her for questions, insights, opportunities to find out how best to end her monster bother.
Even worse that I still taste her today on my lips. That soft, sticky, inviting warmth left me hard as granite all night, and Christ does it make me want more.
Very risky. Very stupid. Very, very dangerous.
I start prepping the ham long before anybody else is awake. It's the best distraction I can find, especially when Red walks in, decked in a plum dress and dark leggings I've never seen.
She says a few words about breakfast. I tell her I'll take care of it before she beats a shy retreat.
My inner beast is in full hunt, fighting for permission to push her against the nearest wall, toss up her skirt, and bury my tongue against hers until she's begging to be filled. I want to find her clit and frig it numb. I want her pussy coming on my fingers.
It's hell hearing her less than twenty steps away, separated by two walls, watching TV alone. I ache to be her company.
I've never been more grateful to see Mia. My little sleepyhead drags herself down late, probably exhausted from last night's excitement, crashing well before midnight. I kiss her on the cheek and put a bowl of oatmeal in front of her, apple-cinnamon today.
“How'd you sleep, honeybee?” I ask, sliding into the seat across from her.
“Okay. Funny dream, daddy...” She looks at me sheepishly, dipping her spoon into the food. I stop and stare, smiling. Just four years old, and she's already mastered suspense. “Dreamed Sadie got to live here all the time. Dreamed you and her were mommy and daddy.”
Fuck. I'm almost choked up, but a slug of coffee saves me at the last second.
“That's...pretty wild, baby girl. Let's blame the snacks. Too much salami, I think – those cured meats will put all kinds of odd ideas in your brain.”
My eyes drift up. I almost sputter a second time when I see Red leaning in the doorway, next to the stove, a rumpled smile between two apple blossom cheeks. How the hell much has she heard?
“No, not meats, daddy. You and her made cake and we were happy. One big happy family.”
“No Whiskey?” I'm desperate to change the subject before the minx in the corner gets any ideas to give my little girl a run for her crazy.
“Oh, he was there. But he ate the magic cake too and it made us all giants. Made him big like a tiger!” Mia laughs, covering her mouth, giggling like it's too absurd for her.
I look past her, eyeballing Red, trying not to let my raging hard-on reignite. “Think I'll start listening to the vet as part of my New Year's resolution. I'll tell you what the dream means: that damn cat needs a diet.”
Right on time, the ginger beast appears, rubbing Red's ankles. She never takes her eyes off me as she reaches down, stroking his head. He lets out a sharp squeak that sets honeybee off laughing all over again.
Winter has no mercy. It's windy as fucking sin later, blowing several tarps off the old beaters and a tractor parked next to my storage shed. They're abandoned projects I repo'ed after their owners failed to pick them up or show me the money, but I don't want them rusting before I can flip them for spare cash next year.
So, I'm outside tying rope and using loose bricks to weigh their cover down, freezing my balls off. Except they're hot as coals the instant I see Red walk out, stepping past her car, coming straight for me.
“I checked the ham. It's looking good, but I hope you won't be out here too much longer, daddy.”
I give her a look like hot death. Don't even.
Then, a second later, I'm laughing like a fucking idiot.
“That's why you're out here, Red? To tell jokes and rub some nonsense dream Mia had in my face?” I lean forward, ignoring the wind hitting me in the face. Think I need it to cool down every second my eyes spend glued to Sadie, deciphering her hourglass shape under that jacket.
“Actually, I wanted to have a conversation before you started choking up.” I fix my eyes impa
tiently, waiting for the rest. Go on. “You're not...worried? Not afraid this new arrangement is confusing her?”
“You've been at this gig long enough to realize kids say the craziest shit.” I stoop down, laying another brick on the tarp, testing it with a quick jerk to make sure it's secure.
“Well, if you're not worried...” Neither am I, she should say, but it lingers on the tip of her tongue, never coming out.
I stand, grasping her shoulders, pulling her closer. Time to put this crap to bed before it complicates everything more. “Not worried in the slightest, Red. Mia's always had an active imagination. Don't think she's about to up and start calling you mommy, but if she does and it bothers you, I'll have a talk.”
“No. Nothing like that. It's just...” She drifts off, searching for words. I can't tell if her cheeks are so flushed because we're risking frostbite every second spent out here, or if it's what's weighing on her mind. “What happened to 'mommy,' Marshal? It's none of my business, I know. You said never mention her, but this isn't the first time we've gone there. She asked me the same question not so long ago.”
Shock growls through my heart. Even the cold can't stop the lava surging in my blood. “Told you before, we don't talk about her around here, Sadie. She's nobody.”
“Is she really...dead?” The last word comes out of her mouth like a squeak.
I don't know what the fuck comes over me next.
I'm just growling, seizing her wrist, pulling her away from the machines. We quickly take the narrow path behind the fence, leading to my shop.
Inside, I switch on the light and kick the door shut. She throws her hood down, and I see her breathing heavy, uncertain what's coming next. I wish to hell I knew.
Revisiting fucking Jenna is the last way I want to start this year.
“Next time we kiss, warn me it makes you nosy instead of horny.” My eyes stab her. The frustration welling up inside me doesn't stop the wicked flick of delight I get seeing Red turn redder. “It was a different time in my life, since you're dying to know. A fucked up time.”