by Alex Lidell
I shake my head. “You’re a horrible human being, you know that?” I say, getting to my feet in hopes of finding a better place to read. “You’re rude, quick to make faulty assumptions, and you enjoy treating people like shit.”
Cullen leans back in his chair, the sneer spreading over his face somehow managing to make his chiseled jaw only more unjustly beautiful. He’s like one of those carnivorous flowers that look nice outside just so it can digest you more efficiently.
“Well, princess, the thing about glass houses is that you have to be careful about stone casting. From where I sit, anyone working for Denton Uncovered lacks either integrity or brains.” Cullen stands, taking a single step toward me as his voice drops. “Which is it?”
Seriously? My heart pounds, my jaw clenching so hard, my teeth hurt as Cullen takes up all the air and space in the room. We’re standing there inches apart, the world at the edge of my vision flickering with red anger. The most terrible part of his ridiculous accusation is how true the last half of his statement is. Or was. Because back in New York, I was a stupid, naïve girl, thinking I knew the man I thought I loved. Thinking the US Navy gave one lick about the truth.
Cullen snorts, shaking his head as he looms over me, his mossy-green gaze cold. Degrading. “As I recall, I made your probationary period a month. You won’t last that long, Reynolds. Christ, I don’t think you’ll last the week.”
“You shouldn’t think so much, Cullen. You’ll sprain something.” I clamp my jaw shut, my lungs filling with Cullen’s scent with every inhalation. Standing so close to him, I can make out each detail of his too-perfect face, from his closely shaved skin, to the small scar that cuts the underside of his square jaw, to the full lips that are near enough to me that my head spins.
“Don’t bait what you can’t handle.” Heat radiates off Cullen’s body in waves, each rushing down my skin.
My thighs clench together, my treacherous body waking to his presence.
“Tell you what, little girl.” Cullen takes a step toward me, a predator claiming his territory, demanding I get the hell out of his way. When he speaks again, his baritone drips with command and challenge. “Prove me wrong. Get through a month here, and I’ll give you the equivalent of a month’s salary as a bonus.”
I straighten my spine and hold my ground, even as my chest brushes against his, my breasts too large and achy for my bra. “Fine.” The word spills from my lips, my gaze locked on the green eyes that stare down at me as if nothing else in the world exists. It’s probably the kind of stare a bug gets before being squashed, but it rivets me to the floor.
Without thinking, I lift my index finger to trace along his scar, longing to feel its irregular texture.
Cullen freezes, his heart beating so hard, I can see his pulse in the soft hollow of his neck. His pupils dilate, the shifting material along his groin bulging against the zipper. My fingertip is a hair’s breadth away when he moves too hastily for me to see, grabbing my wrist in midair.
“Don’t,” he says.
I gasp, taking a step back so quickly that I lose balance when Cullen lets go and crash into the table. Radios fall from their charging cradles to the floor, a stack of papers following suit.
Holy hell. What the hell are we doing? What the hell am I doing?
Shaking my head to clear it, I crouch to pick up the mess on the floor and feel rather than see Cullen marching away. By the time I look up, the man’s gone.
7
Cullen
Cullen wasn’t being a coward by avoiding Trident Rescue for a week, he assured himself as another Friday night found him inside his office. He was being a prudent CEO of a large corporation. There were calls to make. Reports to review. A board of directors to babysit. There were a lot of things Cullen needed to be doing, and one thing exactly that he needed to keep his nose—and all other body parts—away from.
Skylar Reynolds.
It was like the woman knew exactly what to do and say and wear to get his goat, so she then insisted on doing, saying, and wearing exactly that. Cullen prided himself on his laser focus, his ability to rise above distraction. Hell, he could rattle off any comms frequency in the middle of a firefight. But this woman tested every single one of his limits.
The biggest of those limits being Reynolds herself. As in, she was way off them. Not even for a one-night stand, as Eli recommended out of the blue, claiming it was the best way of getting a woman’s scent out of one’s system. Enticing as the notion was, Cullen did not bed subordinates on principle. There was too much risk of coercion, no matter what it felt like in the moment. Period. Full stop.
Plus, Cullen didn’t like the woman, who was the most infuriating combination of utter competence and just as utter ignorance. If he’d given in to the mind-numbing temptation to kiss her that night, she’d certainly have read the wrong thing into it. And if he’d taken her to bed as his cock was urging him to do with blue-ball intensity? She’d almost certainly think it was something it wasn’t. Something Cullen Hunt simply wasn’t capable of being.
So yes, Cullen had walked away from Reynolds with all the dignity he could muster—and then run for the first freezing shower he could find. And he had been busy this week, busy enough that he didn’t need to add a battle with his own cock to the daily agenda. The plain reality was that Cullen’s body roused to Reynold’s soft scent and taut curves on sheer instinct. It was physiology and nothing more. So unless Cullen intended to gouge his eyes out with a spoon, he needed to accept it and move on.
Cullen’s phone vibrated, the familiar number making him frown. Denton PD. “Hunt,” he barked into the receiver.
“Yes. Um. Mr. Hunt. This is Lacy, from dispatch at Denton PD?” The young woman on the other end of the line sounded like a petrified kitten, her sentence ending with a rising, question-like inflection. “I was told we could use this number. I didn’t realize—”
“Yeah.” Cullen didn’t care how young this Lacy was, if she couldn’t form a sentence, she needed a different job. “Put the desk sergeant on.”
“I’m so sorry to have bothered—”
“Hunt.” A man came on the line, and Lacy disconnected with a sigh of audible relief. “What my rookie was trying to say before she forgot that the Trident gods put their pants on one leg at a time is that I’ve got a call I need help on. Local EMS is tied up, and frankly—”
“Roger.” Cullen was already halfway to the door. Trident Rescue usually handled wilderness rescue unless the main EMS needed some help on the truly bad emergencies, but Cullen had given the PD his number directly as well. Apparently, young Lacy had expected an emergency number would be answered by a damn secretary. Somehow, Cullen didn’t think Reynolds would ever make the same mistake. Hell, Reynolds would sound cock-ball certain no matter what. “Location? Disregard, I see the text.”
“I know it’s not your usual operating area—”
No, Hannigan’s Pub on Third certainly wasn’t. “I’ve yet to meet broken bones that cared much for maps. En route.” Skipping the elevator, Cullen jogged down the stairs. The problem wasn’t so much where Hannigan’s was, but where Trident Rescue wasn’t. Kyan—who was on call tonight—was even farther away. Fortunately, Sky was going to come in anyway to make a dent in the admin. Pushing open the exit door, Cullen stepped into the cool Colorado evening wind just as he tapped another number on the speed dial.
“Tri—”
“Reynolds.” Cullen cut her off. “I need you to bring the medical Suburban to Hannigan’s. Sending you the address now. Meet you on location.”
His thumb was almost on End Call when she squeezed into the line. “Wait. You want me to drive that thing?”
“No, I want you to beam it over.” He hovered over End Call again, the short nervous draw of air on the other end having him raise the phone back up at the last moment. “It’s safer to drive than your Corolla, Reynolds.”
“If you say so.”
His jaw tightened. He was giving her an order, not a goddamn
suggestion. “Reynolds.”
“What?”
Fuck. That was fear, not defiance. Cullen sighed. “I love that truck. If I thought you could damage it, I wouldn’t let you near the wheel. Hunt out.” He did hang up that time.
Twenty minutes later—Hannigan’s was way the hell out there, even when speeding—Cullen pulled his truck into the dirt parking lot, getting out just in time to watch Reynolds miscalculate her turn and scrape his Suburban on a corner of the retaining wall. Hiding a wince, Cullen pulled open her door.
Reynolds gripped the wheel with bone-white fingers. “I didn’t run over anyone.”
He stared. She didn’t even know she’d just cut up his truck, did she? Well, he wasn’t about to tell her.
Reaching behind her, Cullen grabbed the go bag and started for the pub. The lights of a police cruiser were only now appearing along the roadway, and the lack of noise as he opened the entrance door sent an uneasy feeling through him.
Inside the darkened pub room, the air hung thick with tension and spilled alcohol. The mirrored wall behind the bar reflected a rainbow assortment of liquor bottles, the cartoonish colors at odds with the anxiety pulsing through the place. The few patrons had cleared out or otherwise given a wide berth to the bar, where a bloodied bartender gripped the back of a stool to hold herself upright. A few feet away from her, a large man with a buzz cut and wild, unfocused eyes brandished a broken-off bottle, swinging his makeshift weapon at ghosts as he grunted.
“That’s Charlie McTierney. He’s one of our regulars.” The owner, Phil Hannigan, appeared by Cullen’s side. “Ileene can usually talk anyone down, but Charlie is having a bad day. He was—”
“In the army’s Delta Force,” Cullen finished the sentence as he caught sight of the tattoo on Charlie’s left arm. Red arrowhead shape with the fighting knife inside and the word “Airborne” along the top.
“Yeah,” said Phil. “You know him?”
Cullen nodded. He hadn’t actually met Charlie McTierney before, but that glazed look in his eyes—he knew that well. Knew how it felt to come home, only to have the nightmares follow you across the ocean, lying in ambush in your mind.
“Charlie.” The bartender, a pretty woman in her late twenties who must be Ileene, spoke calmly despite the blood trickling down her face. Cullen respected her already. “Charlie, look at me. Who am I?—Stay back.”
The last, Cullen realized, was said in his direction. Or, more accurately, in the direction of Skylar Reynolds and a pair of uniforms who were now rushing forward, their timing a tribute to Murphy’s Law.
Putting out his arm, Cullen caught Skylar around the waist and pushed her behind him.
Charlie shuddered. Dressed in jeans and a cut-off shirt exposing his biceps, the man was jacked—both by way of muscle and alcohol. And memories.
“That’s right, Charlie.” Ileene’s calm, steady voice settled like a damp blanket over the tension. The woman was good. “Look at me. Look only at me.”
“Get ready,” one of the two uniforms behind Cullen said softly to his partner. “We take the fucker on three.”
“No sudden movements,” Cullen ordered over his shoulder.
“When I need advice from an ambulance driver, I’ll let you know,” the uniform snapped. “Go. Now.”
8
Sky
I gasp as the two uniformed officers rush the drunk, the man going from muttering menace to enraged bear in the space of a heartbeat. Twisting to face the oncoming cops, Charlie gets into a defensive crouch, the weapon in his hand a murderous extension of the alcohol in his gaze. My chest tightens, the absolute certainty that people are about to get hurt filling my veins.
Before Charlie’s knuckles can connect with the heads of the uniformed cops rushing at him, Cullen moves in, sliding like a predator across the floor. Blading his body between Charlie and the cops, Cullen blocks the punch midswing, the muscles beneath his blue Under Armour shifting like water.
Charlie stops. Turns. Roars.
Around the bar, the patrons and even cops hold a collective breath as the full force of the madman’s fury zeroes in on the lone medic. On Cullen.
Cullen holds an open palm toward the man. “Take a breath, man. Nice and—”
Charlie kicks at Cullen’s knee, his boot intent on shattering the kneecap.
Cullen twists, taking the shot on his thigh. He grunts in pain, but doesn’t strike back.
My heart pounds, the many ways this could end racing through my mind in flashes of blood. Pulling myself together, I slip over to the injured bartender, Ileene, and help the woman into a chair.
“No!” Ileene shouts, suddenly looking at something over my shoulder. I twist around in time to see one of the officers unsnapping the retainer on his gun. My stomach clenches. Bile rises farther up my throat as Cullen jerks at the sound of a weapon leaving its holster and—instead of getting the hell out of the way—puts himself into the damn line of fire.
Charlie swings. Again. Again.
Dancing on the balls of his feet, Cullen parries the blows as recklessly as they come. His face is emotionless. Utterly unreadable. Right up until the moment that Charlie’s ham-sized fist flies directly at Cullen’s temple, and his jaw flexes with grim triumph.
Ducking smoothly under the swing, Cullen uses Charlie’s own momentum to twist his arm behind his back. In the next breath, Cullen slams the man’s chest into the wall hard enough to crack ribs.
Holy fucking shit.
Pouring in around Cullen, the cops slam cuffs around Charlie’s wrists and lead the bastard away.
Relief washes over me so forcefully that my body sways, a pair of strong hands steadying me from behind. I know it’s Cullen from the musky scent filling my lungs, the heat of his body blazing like a furnace through my blouse. I turn to him, barely suppressing the urge to take a swing at the bastard myself. “Do you have a death wish, Cullen?” I demand. “What if—” I don’t bother finishing. There are too many what-ifs to list, and they all end with him getting hurt.
“You shouldn’t have called the police, Phil.” Ileene’s eyes are red rimmed as she stares after the still-swinging door through which the police just walked Charlie out. “Go tell the police I’m not pressing charges. It was an accident. I’ve known Charlie since first grade, and he would never hurt me on purpose.”
“It looks like he did hurt you today,” I tell Ileene gently, glancing at Cullen for support.
Instead of speaking, Cullen just takes the woman’s chin in his hand to examine the gash on her cheek, his face as expressive as stone.
“You don’t understand,” Ileene insists. “Charlie’s wife called—he’d run out of his meds. They’re getting more as soon as they can. It was—”
“Ileene.” I meet the bartender’s eyes, which are large and blue and miserable. My heart aches. I’ve been here before, making explanations. For my father. For Jaden. “There’s no excuse for hurting someone. None at all. If you let him get away with this, who is he going to take a swing at next? His wife? A chi— You shouldn’t have to make excuses for him. There are places you can—”
“Reynolds.” Cullen interrupts me midsentence, as if I were chatting about a cake recipe and not trying to make someone’s life a safer one to live. “Call the ER. Make sure they know Charlie and Ileene are on their way.”
I stare at him incredulously. Seriously? He wants me to go make calls on minor trauma now, when I’m building Ileene up to do the right thing?
Cullen’s eyes meet mine, the flash of command in them leaving no room for misinterpretation. Stepping away to make the call while still keeping an eye on Ileene, I dial the ER—who puts me on hold the moment they hear their incoming patient has a pulse and an airway.
“No hospital,” Ileene says. “I’m a single mom and don’t have any insurance. I’m not badly off, truly. And Charlie isn’t usually like this. Your assistant needn’t worry.”
“My assistant needs to keep her opinions to herself.” Cullen’s voice is meant t
o carry to me before it lowers a notch. “As for the hospital, I’ll make sure you won’t be charged. I’ll have someone help you apply for benefits as well. Trident Rescue has connections to get it done.”
“Trident Rescue? Isn’t that the outfit of the four Trident gods—” Ileene cuts off, her eyes widening as she blinks from the insignia on Cullen’s shirt to his face, something very much like gears clicking into place behind her intelligent gaze. “You’re Cullen Hunt, aren’t you?”
“Yes to the latter part, not so much on the divinity.” Cullen’s large hands deftly open packets of gauze to press against Ileene’s cheek. “But I am used to getting my way. You’ll let me take you to the ER, yes?”
Having bullied a reluctant but grateful Ileene into a trip to the hospital, Cullen insists on driving me to my car despite me offering to drive the mammoth Suburban back to the station myself. Neither of us speaks, the tense silence between us thickening the air. The scene from the pub keeps replaying in my head, hitting from different angles. Ileene, bloody and making excuses. Charlie, wild and assaulting the police. Cullen turning into a deadly predator, designed and honed for violence. For killing.
For the first time since coming to Denton Valley, I think I’ve made a terrible mistake in choosing this town. My hands tighten around the armrests, my knuckles white.
Cullen’s gaze slips from the road to my hands, then back to traffic. “You’re safe, Reynolds.”
“It’s not me I’m worried about,” I snap more harshly than I intend. I’m not good at lying. I swallow. “What will happen to the asshole who attacked Ileene and the cops?”
A muscle along Cullen’s jaw twitches. “The police took Charlie into custody.” His words are curt. Emotionless.