First to Fight Box Set: Books 1-5

by Nicole Blanchard

  They don’t pay me any mind, even though I must look like a psychopath all shirtless and swaying from side to side with bloodshot eyes and blood running down my face.

  “You shouldn’t be here,” she says. One hand is pressed over nondescript breasts and the other gripping the railing. “Leave now, or I’m calling the cops.”

  “I just need five minutes of your time,” suit says. He leans forward as if he wants to get closer, but pussies out and straightens back up. “I can make it worth your while.”

  Blondie doesn’t notice. The hand on her breast moves to her cocked hip. “Clock’s ticking. I asked you to leave.”

  “You can’t keep running from this.”

  Her eyes flash, and if my head weren’t throbbing so much I may have grinned. “Don’t tell me what to do, Phil.”

  “I’m not.”

  “Why can’t you leave well enough alone? You’ve followed me all over the state. Probably all over the country. You won’t wring one more thing out of me. Let it rest, for God’s sake, and stop harassing me.”

  The sour taste in my mouth multiplies. I shake my head before I remember the headache.

  There’s maybe a twenty-foot spread of weed-choked grass between our bungalows, but even with the distance, I catch the pleading look on pretty boy’s face.

  “Pi—” A swift, fierce look has his Adam’s apple bobbing. “Sienna, let’s talk about this.”

  I wince for him. Begging never works for a man. A woman doesn’t want to be begged. I can tell I’m right when her full, pink lips pull into a frown. Loser never had a chance.

  “I don’t want to talk. I’ve done enough talking. Don’t ever bother me again. Next time you do, I’ll put the concealed carry to good use. Understand?”

  Pretty boy deflates under her fierce stare. He tugs at his limo tie and runs a hand through his hair. “I’ll call you,” he says.

  “I won’t answer.”

  She watches until his sporty little car kicks up dust down the dirt road to the highway, then she turns and catches me staring at her.

  “Your head is bleeding,” she says and then she goes into her house and shuts the door behind her. I hear the unmistakable sound of the lock slamming home.

  It takes me a good five minutes of staring after her before I clear my head enough to navigate on shaky feet back to my spot on the swing. I pop open the cooler by my side and flick open the tab on an ice cold beer.

  It’s never too early for a drink as the old man would say.

  After stewing away most of the morning, I shower, shave, and make my way down the winding driveway to my grandma’s. She and my grandpa started the little bed and breakfast on Lake McCormick just after they got married. Unlike my parents, whose favorite past time was getting into yelling matches with each other, Grandma Rose and Grandpa Deacon loved each other to distraction.

  For thirty years, they operated the Nassau Bed and Breakfast together, and their patrons always came back because the love they had for each other showed in the way they ran their business.

  After Grandpa Deacon died from cancer, which no one saw coming, I made it a habit to stop by and check on her. Once she started getting sick and moved Aunt Diane in, I gave up my shabby one-room apartment and, after my transfer was approved, moved into one of their available bungalows to keep a closer eye on the both of them. They practically raised me, so I considered it my duty to help them around the property when I’m able. Today that duty extends to finding out more about the woman Diane is letting rent the cabin.

  The long walk clears my head somewhat, even though it’s still throbbing from the earlier abuse. The scent of crisp bacon wafts through the open screen door, and I let myself in, following my stomach to the kitchen where Grandma Rose sits at the table with the newspaper. Behind her, Aunt Diane is flipping bacon in a frying pan.

  I pass Grandma Rose who tilts her head up for a kiss. Obediently, I place one on her forehead, and she squeezes my hand. There’s a plate of bacon next to the stove, so I nip a piece and take a bite before Aunt Diane has the chance to slap my hand away.

  “Boy, if you don’t keep your hands out of my food,” she warns, spatula raised like a threat.

  “You could never hit me.” I grin at her, but she shakes the spatula.

  “Just try me.”

  Hedging my luck, I turn and fill a cup with coffee from the waiting pot on the counter. “Even when I came home at sixteen thinkin’ I got Jenny Anderson pregnant, you didn’t raise a hand to me.”

  Aunt Diane snorts. “Maybe I should have. If I’d been an advocate for corporeal punishment, maybe you wouldn’t already be divorced.”

  I take a sip of coffee, opting to burn my tongue instead of having to answer. My marriage to, and divorce from, my ex-wife is a spot of contention for both of us. We’d gotten married when we were both too young and too stupid to know better. Aunt Diane has always refrained from saying the actual words “I told you so,” but I don’t need to be a cop to detect the meaning behind her attitude.

  The tense moment passes, and I take another casual draw from my coffee cup. “Saw you rented out the cabin next to mine.”

  “Yes,” she says succinctly. I wait for her to elaborate, but she doesn’t. Woman wouldn’t even crack under the most experienced interrogator.

  “Were you going to tell me?”

  She snorts as she plates the rest of the bacon. Then she crosses to the other counter to drain most of the grease into the little canister she keeps hidden behind the toaster, keeping only enough in the pan for eggs. “And let you scare the poor girl away? I don’t think so.”

  “I wouldn’t scare her away.” She levels a look at me. “Fine, but you can’t take in every stray.”

  “I wish I would have taken that advice when I took you in all those years ago. Would have saved me a hell of a lot of trouble.”

  “I’m serious, Aunt Diane.” My firm tone doesn’t even cause her to turn from the task of cracking eggs into the pan.

  She merely turns to me and pats my cheek. “You worry too much.”

  “And you don’t worry enough.”

  As the eggs sizzle, she pulls out silverware from a drawer to her right, and I take out plates from the cabinet and set them on the counter. Grandma Rose winks at me as she settles in to work on the crossword puzzle. She’s heard these arguments a million times over and likes to watch us go at each other’s throats. She told me once it replaced her soaps for entertainment.

  I take my seat next to her on a wooden stool, and Diane sets a plate of eggs and bacon down in front me. I spent most of my life at her counter. She doled out punishments, advice, and food in equal measure and is more a mom to me than my own.

  “Maybe I should run her background just in case. Did you at least check her references? Have her fill out an application?”

  Aunt Diane points her spatula at me, grease dripping onto her pristine floor. “You’ll do no such thing Logan Elias Blackwell.”

  I polish off a piece of bacon and then reach for another, but Grandma Rose steals it from my plate with a cackle. “There’s something off about her. Did you know she carries a gun?”

  Diane just laughs. “You’d say the same thing about Mother Teresa if she moved next door. Besides, I suspect whatever is ‘off’ about her has more to do with what’s in your pants than whatever is in her past. Besides, what young, single girl doesn’t carry a gun in the South?”

  Wincing, I push away my empty plate. “Low blow.”

  She takes my empty dish to soak in soapy water in the sink. “Always knew how to shut that mouth of yours.”

  I stand and round the counter just as she reaches for a sponge to wash the dishes. She barely reaches my chin, but she’s just tall enough for me to rest it on her head. The mop of curly dark hair tickles my chin.

  When I speak next, it’s soft. “I just want to protect the most important women in my life. Can’t you let me do that?”

  She sets down the soapy dish, and grabs a kitchen towel to wipe
her hands, and turns to me with a patient smile, which makes me scowl down at her. Hands dry, she reaches up to cup my cheek. “Sweet boy, you have nothing to worry about. For now, if you go pestering that girl, it’ll be a different story.”

  Resisting the urge to growl, I block her path as she tries to move around me to gather Grandma Rose’s cleared plate. “I won’t promise to leave her alone because I plan on keeping a close eye on her.”

  “I’m sure you do.”

  I ignore her twinkling eyes and knowing smile. “The first time I see something suspicious, she’s gone.”

  Aunt Diane’s smile fades, and I remember why the younger, more belligerent teenage version of me used to cower in her presence. “Don’t threaten me, Logan Elias. She’s a sweet girl looking to find her roots. You, of all people, know well enough about needing a place to feel safe. If you go interrogating her, you’ll scare her for no good reason other than to soothe your male ego. So you’re gonna leave her alone, you hear?”

  The tone is a familiar one, and I know I’ve reached the point where she won’t bend an inch more. “I’ll leave her alone,” I say and pull her into a hug, knowing it will break down some of her resistance.

  She wraps her own arms around me for a second and then pushes me away. “I have guests to feed so you stop with all this nonsense and get.”

  I kiss her forehead, and her smile softens. Turning to Grandma Rose, I give her another kiss and her knowing eyes flash up at me. She grins, and I just shake my head. Why I thought it was a good plan to go up against them both, I’ll never know. Dealing with women, especially if there’s more than one of them, requires a great deal more intestinal fortitude than I possess.

  “You remember what I said, Logan. Don’t you cause her any trouble,” Aunt Diane calls out behind me.

  I lift a hand because we both know causing trouble is what I do best.

  Piper

  I don’t want to be that person. I’m not that person.

  This is a new start, a new me, and the new me isn’t confrontational and doesn’t believe in stirring up drama. Especially not with a brand new neighbor who I haven’t even met yet. That would be a hell of an impression. Since Diane is my boss and this is her place, I want the first impressions with my neighbors to be good ones.

  Besides, I am too damn tired to move let alone tromp across our yards to confront the man who thinks that the middle of the night is the perfect time to be revving his motorcycle.

  Great, now I sound like my mother.

  Really, it’s none of my business. Who needs sleep anyway? Certainly not me after deep cleaning the house all day and helping Diane at the B&B. She kept telling me to get settled in first, but I couldn’t stand the emptiness of the bungalow—no matter how cute and quaint it is—so I spent the afternoon and evening hours helping to check in new guests, planning outings, and cleaning up after check outs.

  It’s just a new house, that’s all. A new place. It always takes a while to get settled somewhere new and learn all the sounds and idiosyncrasies.

  Including new, inconsiderate neighbors who drive ridiculously loud motorcycles at two in the morning.

  Old me would have asked for a ride . . . I don’t want to speculate which type of ride that would have been, but suffice it to say, old me wouldn’t have hesitated either way.

  New me is all about the hesitation.

  Sometimes, I don’t like it at all, but what am I gonna do?

  The motorcycle revs for what seems the hundredth time right outside my window, and I choke back a scream of frustration. Then, the guy laughs, and I give up my plan to be the nice, understanding neighbor.

  Almost as an afterthought, I grab my robe and tie the belt loosely around my waist before swinging my bedroom door open. Shadows blanket the space between my bedroom door and the living room. For a moment, I hesitate, contemplating the length of the hall. My fingers grip the wood frame, and a shiver that has nothing to do with the temperature wracks my body. Then, the motorcycle revs again, breaking me from the moment and allowing me to shake off the fear as it’s replaced again by annoyance.

  I open the front door and squint against the bright light from the naked bulb above my head. When my eyes adjust, I’m able to discern a shadowy figure standing beside a massive chromed out beast of a machine.

  “Excuse me!” I yell, but my voice is drowned out as he punches the gas.

  Gritting my teeth, I start down the porch steps and cross the white-gravel drive. He doesn’t look up until I’m nearly standing right next to him, and when he does, my words of protest whither into nothing as our eyes meet.

  Without a change in his expression, the man unfolds himself from the seat of the motorcycle and comes to stand at his full height in front of me. I immediately take a preemptive step back just to look at him without straining my neck. I know I’m not ridiculously short, but I’ve never felt as physically small as I do standing in front of this massive man. He’s six foot and change with broad, formidable shoulders, slim hips and thick, muscular thighs. Even though every female part of me recognizes his raw masculinity, it’s his eyes that give me pause. I’ve never seen such a beautiful color, and I have spent many days staring at the ever-changing color of the ocean. They’re blue-green—almost jewel colored. They are framed by long, thick lashes that stand out against the caramel tone of his skin.

  It would almost be unsettling if the rest of his features didn’t soften the stunning effect with rough edges. The dark slash of his brows and the distinct line of his jaw from a Roman nose and full, enticing lips, which are currently pulled into a frown.

  Remembering why I got out of bed at such a god-awful hour, I draw myself up and set my features into what I hope is a careful balance between friendly concern and firm admonishment. I would offer my hand, but I am afraid I might not get it back, so I just wrap both of them around my waist.

  “Need something?” he asks before I can say anything.

  “I . . . uh, yes, actually. I was wondering if you could keep it down.” I make a pained face. “It’s really late.”

  He glances over my shoulder at my house and then back at me, his eyes pinning me to the ground. Without saying anything, he reaches back and removes the keys from the ignition. The resulting quiet is nearly deafening.

  “Thanks,” I say. By sheer force of will, I manage to unglue my feet from the ground to turn and walk back to the house. Relief blankets me. Still feeling chilled, I rub at my arms and resolve to get back in bed and never leave.

  But his voice stops me before I can make a full retreat. “That’s it?” he asks.

  I really should ignore him and get back to the warm comfort of my bed. New me should, anyway, but apparently, there’s enough old me left somewhere deep inside, because I find myself swiveling around to face him. “What’s that?”

  He ambles closer, his eyes intent upon me. I’m going to have to start wearing full body armor when we’re in the same vicinity, which could be a lot considering we live less than twenty feet from one another. It’s either the armor, or living with the daily feeling of his eyes caressing my bare skin. He looks at me like a man who looks at a woman in preparation to devour her.

  I take an automatic step back. I’m too damn tired to be devoured. “Well?” I ask a bit more testily than I mean to, but dammit, it’s two a.m., and I’m exhausted. It’s his own fault.

  He follows after me automatically. “I said, is that it?”

  “What else would there be?” I ask as my feet make it to the bottom step on my porch.

  His lips twitch in what could be a smile. “Introductions,” he says. “Since you’re new to the area and all. I’m Logan. Logan Blackwell. You’re Sienna, right?”

  “I think your motorcycle was doing that well enough, Logan,” I say without thinking. I want to ask how he knows my name, but something tells me prolonging this conversation isn’t in my best interest.

  I switch my weight from my right leg to my left and run a hand through my hair. The action caus
es my robe to slip down the side of my arm, baring my shoulder. Before I can fix it myself, his hand lifts, catches the material, and drags it the long, slow journey back up my arm.

  Our eyes catch as he reaches the top, where his hand pauses on my shoulder. I take another step back and cross my arms over my chest, ignoring the tingling from his touch. “Good night,” I say, mostly out of habit, and then reach for the screen door.

  When it doesn’t budge, I look up to find his hand above me and frown. I blow out a breath and shoot him a look. “You mind?”

  “When someone introduces themselves, the polite thing to do is to give them your name in return.”

  “You already seem to know my name. Besides, I don’t think you have any room to talk about manners. After all, you were the one trying to wake the entire state at two in the morning.” I tug on the door, but it doesn’t budge since he’s still holding it shut.

  “I didn’t say I was polite.” I realize that with his arm up blocking the door he has me pinned against it and his big, towering form.

  “Apparently not,” I snap, trying desperately not to sink into the debilitating fear that is rolling just under the surface. This guy is not going to hurt me. “Look, it’s late and I haven’t had much sleep tonight. Can we not do this now?”

  “Do what?”

  I turn to face him and wave a finger between us. “This. Us. Whatever seduction routine you’ve got going on here. I’m not interested, and you’re just wasting both our time.”

  His hand finally drops, and I open the door just enough to slip through before closing it soundly behind me. Unfortunately, it doesn’t give me the sense of security I’m hoping for. I have a feeling it will take more than a door to stop this man from getting what he wants.

  For a minute, he just looks at me through the tightly woven black mesh, and I think he may actually press the issue. My heart doesn’t know if it’s excited or frightened at the prospect. Then he takes a step back, though his gaze doesn’t leave mine, and I release the breath I was holding.