Now, every time I looked at the guy, I had a hard time not filling in the blanks, seeing those perfect abs, the muscular chest, the intricate tattoos that would send any sane girl running.
Normally, I was sane and then some, but there was something about the guy that was making me a little crazy. It wasn't his wealth, and it wasn't his celebrity status. It wasn't even his body, as mouth-watering as it was.
It was the way he'd looked on that very first day – the way he stood, the look in his eyes, and the unbridled energy that fell off of him in waves. One night, I actually dreamed about him. The dream should've been a nightmare, except it wasn't. I woke in a fevered confusion, burning for him in a way that made me blush in the pale morning light.
It made no sense. He wasn't my type.
I'm not a star-fucker, literally or otherwise. I didn't own a TV and rarely went to the movies. I find celebrity worship too stupid for words, especially with celebrities like Lawton Rastor, some pretty boy with a death wish.
But with him, I couldn't help myself. I devoured that first magazine article word-by-word, and then dozens more on the Internet. What I learned horrified me. But I couldn't stop. What is it about train wrecks that you just can't look away?
Hell if I know. But Lawton Rastor was a train wreck for sure.
He was a bad boy heartbreaker with more baggage than any airline. His fights were brutal and so were his breakups. He'd once left some starlet half-naked in the bathroom of a posh Beverly Hills restaurant, then beat the crap out of the bouncers who tried to stop him from leaving.
There were also some pictures, along with a sex tape – all supposedly taken without his knowledge.
Yeah, right.
Why people put up with him, I had no idea. Well, actually I did. He was rich. He was famous. And he oozed raw power, the primitive kind that made girls go weak in the knees, until they grew up and realized that raw power didn't pay the bills. Except in Lawton's case, it did.
That didn't matter. I already knew how Lawton's story would end. He'd be broke in five years, maybe less. In ten years, he'd return to reality television, but this time he wouldn't be the hot newcomer. He'd be the washed-up has-been, trying to kick some coke or cupcake addiction while the world watched in morbid fascination.
Ten years after that, he'd be six feet under or working as a security guard at some low-rent shopping mall. And even that gig wouldn't last. He'd be canned, either for snorting coke in the bathroom or beating the ass of some clueless customer who just wanted to take his picture.
It was settled. The guy was doomed.
I was telling all this to Erika, my best friend since high school, when she stopped me in mid-sentence.
"But he doesn't have a drug problem," she said.
"Not that you know of."
"And you can't go through that much money," she said. "It's not even possible."
"Oh yeah?" I said. "Tell that to Mike Tyson."
We were walking Chucky down the tree-lined streets, catching up on girl talk while we strolled. Erika was on her last semester at Michigan State, two hours away by car. I hadn't seen her in a few weeks, but it felt like months. I didn't have a ton of friends, probably because I didn't have a ton of time for fun.
Erika was in town for the weekend and wouldn't be coming back for weeks. If I had my way, she'd be staying with me at the Parkers', but overnight houseguests were strictly prohibited.
I'd agreed to those terms and intended to honor them. I wasn't a liar, and I wasn't a deal breaker. And even if I were, there was no way I'd get myself fired just because some nosy neighbor reported an unauthorized sleepover. Still, it was nice to have Erika around, even if only for a few hours.
I lowered my voice. "It's up here on the left," I told her.
Looking at Lawton's estate, Erika gave a low whistle. "Wow, that's seriously huge." She laughed. "Like the rest of him, huh?"
I hadn't actually seen the sex tape, but I'd read enough about it to know exactly what she meant. I made no comment. Not on that. It would only encourage her, and when it came to sex, Erika didn't need a whole lot of encouragement. It was probably one of the reasons we were friends. We balanced each other.
Picky. That's what she called me. But I had my reasons.
"What I can't figure out," I said, "is why he's living in Rochester Hills of all places."
"Well, he is from Detroit," Erika said.
"Yeah, but shouldn't he be living in Hollywood or New York by now?"
Erika made a scoffing sound. "Want to know what a million bucks buys in New York? A coat closet."
Knowing the guy's reputation, I saw the problem. "No room for orgies?"
That's when a low, deep masculine voice sounded behind us. "Yeah. That's it."
In unison, Erika and I whipped around to see him, Lawton Rastor, looking a lot like he did on that very first day. He was standing just a couple feet away on the sidewalk, his hands thrust into the pockets of his jeans. He was wearing a gray T-shirt and no jacket in spite of the cool weather. His glossy black hair was slightly damp, like he just got out of the shower.
Looking at us, his gaze held more challenge than interest. "So, uh, you volunteering?"
I couldn't help it. I swallowed as I craned my neck to look up at him. Then, as if my eyes had a mind of their own, my gaze travelled slowly downward, pausing too long to be decent at the half-way point, and ending at his feet. He wore old-fashioned red tennis shoes, no laces.
I looked up to meet his gaze. His mouth was tight, and I had the distinct impression that my comment hadn't been appreciated. Something about his expression made me look down, studying the sidewalk while I tried to think of a snappy comeback.
"Yeah," he said. "I own shoes. Surprised?"
By habit, I went immediately into upscale, polite mode. "No. Of course not," I said. It wasn't exactly true, but it did seem like the sort of thing someone who actually lived in this neighborhood might say.
I glanced at Erika. She was looking from Lawton to me. Finally, she gave Lawton a tentative wave. "Hi. I'm Erika, and you are – ?"
Oh. My. God. She wasn't seriously doing the whole, I-have-no-idea-who-you-are routine.
He paused a beat, glancing at Erika and then at me. "Just the neighbor guy."
Before she could respond, he stepped around us and kept on walking. That's when Chucky chose to start yapping his fool head off, straining at the leash as he lunged toward Lawton's receding back.
I bent down to ruffle his fur, whispering, "Why couldn’t have you done that five minutes ago?"
Chucky gave a single bark.
I gave him a stern look. "Remember," I told him, "you're supposed to bark before someone sneaks up on us. Got it?"
I glanced up at Erika. She burst out laughing.
"It's not funny," I said.
"Yes," she laughed. "Actually it is."
I felt my own lips tug up at the corners. "Fine," I said. "Maybe just a little."
Chapter 5
"Chucky! You come back here!"
For a little dog, he sure moved fast. He was smart, too, a lot smarter than I'd given him credit for. The instant I cracked open the back door to take out the garbage, he shot past my legs like a furry land-rocket.
As I watched, he dodged a lounge chair, sides-wiped a potted plant, and leapt off the raised brick patio, running full speed ahead toward the shrubbery-lined iron fence that ran along the back property line.
It was a cold, drizzly night, and the entire backyard was cast in shadows. I groaned in frustration. "Chucky!" I dropped the trash bag and plunged after him. "You come back here this instant!"
For a moment, I thought he might actually obey, because he appeared suddenly out of the shadows, skidding to a stop just a few feet from my legs. But the instant I reached for him, he gave a playful yip and swerved away, continuing full-speed ahead on his original path.
"That's not funny!" I yelled, chasing after him in my unlaced tennis shoes. I hadn't planned on going for a run and certainly
hadn't planned on playing tag with some furry prankster. I so wasn't prepared for this.
For one thing, I wasn't dressed for it. Aside from the tennis shoes, I was wearing my favorite ratty T-shirt and black sleeping shorts, no coat, no socks. The drizzle seeped into my thin T-shirt and made the already cold night seem absolutely freezing.
By the time I reached the fence, Chucky was nowhere in sight.
And that's when I noticed it. The smell of someone grilling. It smelled like burgers, or maybe steak. No wonder Chucky had taken off so fast. Even to me, it smelled mouth-watering, and it wasn't like red meat was my favorite.
I leaned my forehead between two fence spires and peered into the shadows. The foliage was thick on the other side, so I couldn't see much, only the barest glimmer of light somewhere up in the distance.
And then, from somewhere near the glimmer, I heard it, that same playful yip, followed by the muted sounds of deep male laughter.
In high school, I hated geometry. It wasn't that I hated math in general. I loved algebra, and actually ended up majoring in accounting. Still, geometry remained my major source of irritation. For one thing, the story problems drove me nuts. I didn't see the point to them, just a bunch of made up stuff that would never apply in the real world.
Until now. Because considering this real-life story problem in my head, it didn't take me long to grasp the implications of that yip and laugh. When it comes to destinations, a long stroll by sidewalk equals a short run by dog, at least when you ignore little things like iron fences.
Just great.
Fifteen minutes later, I was standing outside the gate where I'd seen Lawton Rastor that very first time. Moving at a frantic pace, I'd barely taken the time to throw on a gray hoodie, pulling the hood over my already damp hair as I ran along the sidewalk, sloshing in puddles with every step.
The drizzle had turned to rain, a steady downpour that left me feeling like a drowned rat. But given the circumstances, I hardly cared. Was Chucky still there? I sure hoped so, because if anything happened to that dog, I'd sorely regret it, and not just because of the Parkers. He might've been a prankster, but he was growing on me.
By the time I reached Lawton's gate, I was soaked, breathless, and beyond irritated. Growing on me or not, Chucky was a very bad dog.
But now that I was here, I didn't quite know what to do. The gate was shut. And I had no idea how to gain access to the grounds. There was a covered keypad off to the right, but I didn't see a call button on it, and I couldn’t tell if it had an intercom. So I did the only thing I could. I cupped my hands around my mouth and yelled out toward the house, "Hey! Excuse me! Anyone home?"
Nothing.
With a deep breath, I ratcheted up the volume. "Hey! Anyone home?"
No answer.
"I'm looking for my dog!"
Even to my own ears, I sounded like an idiot. Patio grilling aside, it was way past the dinner hour. It was dark, I was wet, and the dog in question wasn't really even my own. Still, I wasn't about to give a long explanation while standing outside in the pouring rain.
Still no answer.
"Hey!!!" I called as loud as I could. "Chucky! Where are you? Anyone there!"
A moment later, I heard the sound of static, followed by a male voice. "Yeah?"
I looked at the keypad. Was the voice coming from there? I couldn’t tell. In the end, I decided it didn't matter. I simply called out in the general direction of the house. "I'm looking for my dog! Is he here?"
"Come on up," the voice said. A moment later, the gate slid slowly open.
"I'll take that as a yes," I muttered, pulling the soaked hoodie further down over my face as I walked through the now-open gate. When it shut behind me, I turned to look. If I needed to get out of here, could I? The iron fencing was tall, with minimal space between the spires, and I still had no idea what controlled the gate.
I wasn't some naïve girly-girl. I'd probably seen way more of life than anyone else here in this neighborhood. Okay, except for Lawton Rastor.
Yeah, it might've been stupid to walk blindly into the gated estate of someone I didn't know. And sure, the guy had a terrible reputation. But hey, I told myself, he was technically a neighbor. And besides, what were my other choices? Call the police? Contact animal control? No way I'd be doing either of those things. I wasn't even two weeks into this job, and getting fired for stupidity wasn't part of my plan.
It wasn't just that I needed the money. I didn't have anywhere else to go. Not really.
By the time I dashed up the brick driveway to the massive covered front entrance, I was soaked down to my skin. I reached a dripping hand toward the doorbell, but never got the chance to actually ring it. Because before I could, the wide door swung open, revealing a massive entryway, a huge crystal chandelier, and Lawton Rastor in the flesh, literally.
Chapter 6
Dripping water onto his front porch, I stared up at him. He stood in the entryway, bare-chested, with faded jeans and no shoes. His left hand rested on the elaborate silver doorknob. In his right hand, dangled a metal spatula.
I swallowed. It reminded me of the first time I'd seen him. Only this was much worse, because I couldn't exactly ignore him and walk away.
For Pete's sake, didn't the guy own a shirt? Or shoes? Oh, that's right. He did. He told me so, and besides, I'd seen them the last time I'd run into him.
Still, why couldn't I stop staring? His wavy dark hair was slightly damp, and a smattering of what I guessed were raindrops still glistened on his bare shoulders and trickled down toward his flat, muscular abs.
I pulled my gaze up to his face and choked out, "I'm looking for my dog. Uh, Chucky. A little terrier?"
"Chucky?" He gave me a slow, deliberate smile. "Like the possessed doll?"
The smile, along with the sound of his voice, set my world spinning. I stared up at him. My lips parted, and my mind suddenly went vacant. "Huh?"
"It's a movie," he said. "A bunch of them, actually."
I shook off the stupidity. "I don’t watch a lot of movies."
He shrugged. "Probably not missing much."
"And besides," I said, "it's Chucky like –" I hesitated. Honestly, I had no idea. And then, I heard myself blurt out, "Like my uncle." My uncle? Where on Earth had that come from? I certainly didn't have an Uncle Chucky, and neither did the Parkers as far as I knew. "Um, so is he here?"
His mouth twitched. "Your uncle?"
I was cold, tired, and determined to skip the part of the script where I fell all over him, just because he was Lawton Rastor and, well, intoxicating. Luscious. Sexy beyond all reason. I gave myself a mental slap to the face. "No," I told him, very slowly, like speaking to an unruly toddler. "Chucky, my dog."
"Yeah. He's here." He stepped aside and flicked his head toward the interior of his house. "Come on in."
"Thank you," I muttered, following him inside.
My reaction to him was totally unlike me. But it didn't matter. Primitive attraction aside, the guy wasn't my type. Even if I were looking, which I wasn't, some gorgeous bad boy with a death wish wasn't on my life's shopping list.
I wasn't my Mom. I wasn't a one-night-stand type of girl. I was a relationship kind of girl. And when I settled down – if I ever did settle down – it would be with someone safe. And stable. Someone exactly the opposite of Lawton Rastor.
I hadn't experienced a lot of safety or stability as a kid, and I intended to make up for it in spades as an adult.
Inside, I pushed back the soaked hood from my equally soaked head. And that's when I saw them, two nearly identical blondes in tight black dresses, leaning against the open staircase. Their long hair was untouched by any rain, humidity, or, from what I could tell, any other force of man-or-nature.
They looked absolutely perfect. Perfect makeup, perfect clothing, perfect looks of contempt as they eyed me standing just inside the doorway, dripping water all over the marble floor.
Suddenly, I was very conscious of my wet hair and squishy te
nnis shoes. I looked down. My laces were still untied. Now they were muddy too.
"Your mutt ate our dinner," one of them said.
"And chewed up my purse," said the other one.
I resisted the urge to smile. Good boy.
Instead, I lifted my chin. "He's no mutt," I said with the pretended disdain of someone who might actually care about such things. "He's a purebred Yorkie. He has papers if you'd like to see them." I smiled. "Assuming you can read?"
I heard something like a chuckle. I glanced at Lawton Rastor. His mouth lifted at the corners as he eyed me with a curious look. Was he laughing with me? Or at me? Probably at me, I decided. I didn't need a mirror to see what he saw – a soggy girl with no fashion sense. He was probably wondering what rock I crawled out from under.
Maybe I should've taken more than thirty seconds to get ready, and brought an umbrella or a raincoat. I pointed vaguely toward the Parkers' house. "We share a fence."
"I know," he said.
He knew? How? I didn't even realize that fact myself until Chucky's great escape. Speaking of which, where was he? "You have my dog?" I said.
"I'm pretty sure your dog had me first," he said.
"Yeah," the first blonde broke in. "He chewed up Lawton's shirt."
I turned toward Lawton, making a conscious effort to not stare. But in working so hard to control my eyes, I lost control of my mouth. "So, you were actually wearing a shirt?"
He rubbed the back of his neck. "Hey, it happens."
I suddenly occurred to me how rude I was being. I'd shown up uninvited, and apparently my dog, or rather the Parkers' dog, had eaten his dinner, and possibly his clothing. If I were the blushing type, I'd be blushing big-time right about now.
I shook my head. "Sorry. Rain makes me crabby." It wasn't true. I loved the rain. I just didn't like being out in it. "So," I cleared my throat. "I apologize." I blew out a breath. "For Chucky. And the shirt. And um, for my big mouth."
At this, his gaze briefly dipped to my lips. His own lips parted, like he was about to say something. But he never did. Instead, he studied me with a look that made my knees go weak and my mouth start running like it had a mind of its own.
Unbelonging Page 2