Disrupt

by Ella Fox

  My eyes widen with surprise. Thinking about it I realize I shouldn’t be surprised—it’s not like he’s a laugh a minute or anything, but I can’t believe he just straight up said he doesn’t do fun.

  I know I should let it go, but that’s not really my style, so… “What have you got against fun?” I ask.

  His mouth is a firm line when he turns his head and looks at me. I shiver because it’s like going back to that first day all over again. The tundra in his eyes is so extreme I half expect to get frostbite. The thing that chills me the most—more than his expression or the way he’s shut down—is the pain behind the anger. For the first time it hits me like a two by four to the face. Something happened to make him this way and whatever it was, it’s unimaginably bad.

  “I don’t have anything against other people having fun. I just don’t have any desire to take part.”

  Two things happen at the same moment. First, I realize he’s just answered me when I wasn’t expecting him to. The second is that the light has changed. This I know because the driver behind me just tooted their horn. Turning my attention back to the road, I press the gas and continue on toward the dealership. The silence in the car is unbearable. After about two minutes I decide I can’t take another second of it. This man needs to be brought out of his shell, one way or the other.

  “What’s your favorite takeout place around here?”

  From the corner of my eye I see him raise his right hand and smooth it along his trimmed beard. “I don’t order out a lot,” he answers. “When I do, I tend to grab a calzone from Joe’s Pizza.”

  “Perfect, because the price of this ride is dinner, hot and delicious, after my shift is over at six. I’d like a chicken parm calzone but if they don’t make one I’ll do ham and cheese. Whichever one they have, ask them to go heavy on the marinara.”

  Donovan barks out an incredulous laugh. “Dinner?”

  “Yes, Stretch. It’s a meal people eat at the conclusion of the day. I’m surprised you’ve never heard of it. Silly me, I thought everyone knew about dinner.”

  “Goddamn you’re sarcastic,” he snickers. “I know what dinner is, Shortstack. I just don’t remember agreeing to bring it to you.”

  I shrug as I take the turn into the dealership and head for the service area. “I like food,” I answer. “Plus, it’s a thing possible friends do.”

  “Yeah?”

  “Yep,” I say, popping the p. “I’ve got milk, soda, water, orange juice, and tea in my fridge so if you want anything different to drink you’ll have to bring it with you.”

  “I’m eating with you?” he asks as I pull the car into a space outside the service department and put the car in park.

  Turning, I give him a wry look. “You’re not a delivery guy, Donovan, you’re a possible friend. Obviously we’re breaking bread together.”

  He considers it for long enough that I realize he’s going to say no. “Alright. Six o’clock it is, then. Do you want anything besides the calzone? They’ve got really good fries.”

  Holy. Crap. He’s actually going to eat with me.

  “Um, yeah. Fries are good. Great, even.”

  He nods as he undoes his seatbelt and opens the door. Turning, he nods once. “All right. I’ll see you then. Thanks for the ride,” he says as he gets out.

  I know I’m smiling like a complete moron, but I don’t even care. As I do a little shimmy of victory in my seat, something occurs to me. “Hey!” I call as he closes the door.

  Opening it, he sets his hand on the roof, bends down and leans in. “What’s up?”

  “You never said—what was wrong with your truck?”

  When he shakes his head and looks away, I swear there’s a hint of a blush on his cheeks. “It started making a horrible grinding noise, so I brought it in. Turns out I had almost no oil and what was in there was full of debris. I should’ve listened when you said I needed a change,” he admits.

  I try to bite my lip and hold it in, but lose the fight within seconds. “That’s a, um, shame,” I choke out past a laugh. “Sorry to hear that.”

  “Yeah, yeah,” he says as he rolls his eyes and stands up straight. “You look real broken up about it, Shortstack.”

  I’m still laughing as he closes the door, taps his hand on the roof and then turns to go into the service department.

  11

  Eden

  Dinner seemed like such a great idea this morning—but now, pacing the floor of the living area in my unit, I can’t help wondering if I’ve bitten off more than I can chew. I’ve set the table and I’m ready to go, but with nothing else to do but wait, I’m a mess. First, there’s the fact that I’m not confident about what version of Donovan I’ll be getting tonight. Statistically speaking he’s been more closed off and hostile than friendly-ish which raises the likelihood that he’ll be grumbly tonight. Second… well, let’s be real here. If he actually shows up and he stays, it’ll be just the two of us for however long he wants to stay. I have little to no filter around him and I’m not sure that’s a good thing.

  My entire body jolts when the doorbell rings. Taking a deep breath, I blow it out slowly as I cross the room to the door. When I open it and see Donovan, my heart slams against my chest. You’d think I’d be less affected by him as time goes by, but that isn’t the case. Instead, his punch is more powerful.

  “Hey.”

  Realizing that I’ve been staring at him in silence, I swing the door open wide so he can enter. Watching him step into my unit I’m reminded of a spooked horse. That’s when it hits me how big of a deal this is for him, too. Yes, I’m nervous—but Donovan’s edginess runs far deeper than nerves. I caution myself to stay calm and keep things on an easy footing as he walks to my table and sets the pizza boxes down before taking off his leather jacket and hanging it over the back of the chair.

  “Chicken parm or ham?” I ask.

  Setting the brown bag aside, he opens the top pizza box. “Chicken parm.”

  I fist pump. “Sweet—that’s what I was hoping for. I’ll go grab sodas. What would you like, and do you want a glass of ice with it?”

  “Yes to the ice. What kind of soda do you have?”

  I look back at him over my shoulder when I get to the fridge. “I’m a generic soda drinker all the way. My grandparents were fanatical about it and they passed that down to my mom who then passed it on to me. I have polka-cola, lemon lion, or Dr. Bob. They’re all exactly what they sound like.”

  “Dr. Bob.”

  I nod and open the door, reaching in and grabbing the bottle of soda. “Good choice. In my opinion, it’s better than the name brand.”

  He shakes his head like he can’t imagine that I can possibly be right, which makes me a little smug. Dr. Bob is bomb ass soda. Unlike its name brand counterpart, it doesn’t leave a soapy aftertaste in my mouth. Arriving at the table with two glasses full of ice and a two-liter bottle of Dr. Bob, I set it all down and then pour our drinks. After setting the soda bottle on the counter, I take the seat across from Donovan’s. Only when I do does it occur to me that he remained standing until I was seated. Another piece of his mysterious puzzle fits into place. Beneath the gruff exterior is a gentleman. Suddenly his saving me from falling flat on my ass the first day we met makes more sense.

  Taking his seat, he looks over at me with a curious expression. “Pillows, a tablecloth, and a throw blanket? You went all out with the decorating.”

  He’s right. I have. “Guilty,” I agree as I cut my chicken parm calzone in half and slide it onto my plate. Once I’ve done that Donovan closes the box and sets it up on the counter before opening his own box. I note that his calzone is full of pepperoni, cheese, and sauce as he cuts half and sets it on his plate. There are few things in life I love more than cheese—particularly when it’s melted. Grabbing my fork, I lean across the table and snag a stray piece of pepperoni enrobed in cheese and bring it to my mouth. Realizing that Donovan is looking at me with surprise, I pause when the fork is almost to my lips.<
br />
  “Shit,” I mutter as I extend the fork to put the pepperoni back on his plate.

  Holding up his hand, he stops me. “What’re you doing?”

  “Giving you your food back. I’m sorry for being a pepperoni stealing asshole.”

  “It’s fine,” he says as he looks down at his calzone and slices a piece for himself. “Eat it.”

  “Are you sure?”

  “Pretty sure I can spare a piece of pepperoni and some cheese, Shortstack.”

  Nodding, I bring the fork to my lips and take the bite. The tangy deliciousness of the pepperoni and the ooey gooey goodness of the cheese are perfection. Since I’m not about to start talking and chewing, I give him a thumbs up. He half smiles as he takes a bite himself. After chewing for a few seconds, he returns the thumbs up gesture. Several minutes pass in silence as we eat. Desperate for something to break the silence, I gesture to his glass. “Take a sip and let me know what you think.”

  He does, his eyebrows raising in surprise before he takes another sip. “You’re right, this is good. I stand corrected.”

  I grin victoriously. “Told you.”

  And back to silence. I let it go for another few minutes before I decide something has to be done.

  “Any leads on my dad?”

  Well then. So much for small talk. It’s like my mouth and my brain aren’t connected when Donovan is around.

  He shakes his head. “There’s been nothing concrete yet, but that isn’t unusual at this stage. You shouldn’t worry.”

  “But it’s weird, right? That he took my money and disappeared?”

  Donovan’s expression goes from reasonably calm to thunderous between one breath and the next. “It’s not that it’s weird, Eden. It’s that it’s fucked up. No parent should ever fuck their kid over.”

  I nod because it’s not like I disagree with him. My dad has let me down and it hurts like a bitch. Thinking about my dad leads me to wondering about Donovan’s family.

  “Are you close to your parents?” I ask.

  “Yeah.”

  I wait for him to add more, but he doesn’t. Typical. “Are they close by?” I press.

  “Just about an hour away.”

  It’s like pulling teeth. “Are they still married?”

  “They are.”

  I feel like I’d have better luck getting to know a wall. This man is so closed off it’s damn near painful.

  “Do you get to see them much?”

  He raises a brow and gives me a sardonic look. “Is this a job interview or something?”

  I scrunch my nose and give him a dirty look. “It is, and for the record, you’re in danger of not being hired because you’re such a blabbermouth,” I deadpan. “Also, you didn’t answer the question.”

  He sighs as he cuts another piece of calzone. “I see them at least twice a month if my dad and I aren’t working on something, in which case I see him more. My mom calls me every other day like clockwork, my dad is more of a texter.”

  I smile softly, thinking about how much I miss my mom’s phone calls. “That’s nice,” I murmur. “Do you have any brothers or sisters?”

  “Nope. Just me.”

  This is not a surprise. He’s too quiet and too contained to have come from a large, boisterous family.

  “Did you always want to be a skip tracer?”

  He’s in the process of lifting his fork, but my question halts his movements. “No,” he answers in a rough voice.

  Hoping to smooth over the sudden tension in his frame, I decide to ask another question. “What did you originally want to be, then?”

  Bad, bad, bad. I can tell by his reaction that this question was worse than the skip tracer inquiry. “Never mind,” I say as I shake my head frantically. “Ignore me. I was being nosy. We can just… eat. No talking necessary.”

  A little of the tension in his frame goes away as he nods. He starts lifting the fork to his mouth again but then seems to think better of it. Dropping it onto his plate, he looks across the table at me. His eyes are full of something all-encompassing and dark, something that lets me know that this piece of his puzzle is a big one. “I always knew I wanted to be a police officer. I was a cop for a few years.”

  There’s a barrage of questions that demand to be asked, but I voice none of them. I sense that it cost him to give me that much. No, I need to steer the conversation in a safe direction.

  “Do you exercise?”

  I mean really. Why didn’t I just ask him about the weather? My conversation skills are ridiculously bad when he’s around.

  “Every day.”

  “What do you do?”

  He pauses and swallows some soda before answering. “I run.”

  It’s an ah-ha moment for me. Of course he runs—and I’m not just talking about the physical activity. Hmm.

  “Outside or at the gym on Main?” I ask.

  “When I’m here, outside. When I’m on the road stuck somewhere I’m not familiar with I use hotel treadmills.”

  This couldn’t be more perfect. If he was an indoor runner, I’d have no jump-off point, but now, I’ve got it. “I normally hike, but I’d run if I had someone to do it with. Can I run with you sometime?”

  He freezes like a burglar hearing a homeowner arriving back early.

  “Run… with me?” he parrots, like he’s not sure he heard me correctly.

  “Yeah.”

  “You, uh, run?”

  I nod. “I used to. Since I got here I’ve mostly been hiking, like I said. Don’t worry though—I’m not a slowpoke. I’m small but fast.”

  “Of course you are,” he mumbles. “I’ll think about it.”

  Since that’s the most I can hope for, I move on. I’ll let him marinate in my suggestion and see if I can slowly get him to agree. “What else besides running? Because your arms are bigger than they’d be if your only exercise was aerobic.”

  “I have a barbell set in my room and I do fifty pull-ups a day.”

  My gaze lowers from his face to his chest and arms. I’m in no way surprised to hear that he works that body hard on the daily. His physique makes Michelangelo’s David look like a scrawny slacker. Biting my lip, I try to corral my thoughts as they slide off into an area I shouldn’t be thinking of with him around. Naturally my brain doesn’t listen, the thought that I would pay good money to see Donovan Beckett naked rolling through my mind. God, even thinking about what he’d look like without a shirt on makes me feel like I’m burning up from the inside out. I would do terrible, terrible things to be given the chance to have free access to touch him wherever I wanted to. Since I want to touch him everywhere, it would be money well spent. He’s so damn big I can’t help wondering if he’s big all over. My sex clenches as I imagine him slowly peeling off his clothes, his boxers going down, down, down. I startle back to reality when he makes a growly noise and stands up.

  “Dinner was good, but I’ve got work to do back in my room,” he says as he tosses the small remainder of his calzone back into his box and then closes the lid.

  I’m not stupid, so I know he’s pulling the eject lever because I was staring at him like he was a display of baked goods. Now I’m turned on and completely embarrassed. Knowing my face is as red as Rudolph’s nose, I swallow down my guilt. “We didn’t even get to try the fries,” I mumble.

  “They’re all yours,” he answers as he all but sprints for the door.

  “Donovan.”

  He stops at the door but doesn’t turn around.

  “I really wish you’d stay.”

  I watch his shoulders rise and fall with his breath as I wait for him to respond. “I literally can’t,” he answers in a tight voice. “I need to go.”

  Without another word, he opens the door and leaves.

  Dammit, what is wrong with me?

  12

  Donovan

  I’m basically running from her room like a goddamn bitch and I know it, but Jesus fuck me Christ, my dick is so hard I’m actually afraid it’s go
ing to break the zipper in my jeans. This whole friends thing is a rocky fucking road and there’s one big fucking reason for that. The problem is that I want— scratch that, I desperately need—not to lust after Eden Avery, and that isn’t working out because my cock and my brain aren’t on the same page at all. That beautiful, tiny, tornado of a woman somehow puts me on my goddamn ass every fucking time I see her. I’m bigger, taller, stronger, faster (and let’s not forget fuckin’ older) than she is, yet I’m the dumb motherfucker who is constantly coming from the defense position.

  Unlocking my door, I swing it open and then slam it shut behind me. Crossing the room, I toss the box with my calzone onto the counter before I continue to my bedroom. I’m so over-amped that my fucking fingers barely cooperate as I tear my clothes off, leaving them in a pile on the floor. In the bathroom I turn the shower on and jump in, gritting my teeth as the ice cold water pelts my skin.

  Eden shocked the hell out of me when she announced that she wants me to run with her. Fucking run with her, instead of running from her like I need to. And let’s be real here—she should be doing whatever needs to be done to avoid my dumb ass. I know I’m a standoffish asshole—it’s purposeful so it’s not as if I could be oblivious to it—but she lets it roll off her like it’s nothing more than a personality quirk.

  Being in her room and sitting across that tiny table from her had me on edge, but I was keeping myself in check until the moment she looked at me like she was thinking something filthy. My already half-hard cock started to fully rise—and then she bit her puffy, perfect bottom lip. I damn near went over the table to taste that sweet, sexy mouth. I have no fuckin’ idea what is wrong with me or why it’s so goddamn hard to resist her but goddamn, it really fucking is.

  For nearly eight fucking years I’ve been a dead man walking. Every day I get up and do the bare minimum to imitate life. I can count on one hand the number of people who I care about and I have absolutely no intention of adding another person. Hell, the people I do care about only get the bare minimum from me because I have absolutely fucking nothing to give. Keeping other people at arm’s length—fuck, well past that—is easy for me. So easy that it’s more than just my default—it’s become second nature. Except when it comes to Eden Avery.