by Cat Mason
I’m a misfit, born into a family I was never meant to fit into.
Dragging my bags down the steps, I jump when the doorbell chimes. “The fuck?” I ask myself, knowing that the only people who can get to the front door without me knowing have to have the access code to the gate. Since they all have keys, none of those people would need to use the doorbell.
Pushing up on my toes, I look out the peephole and see nothing but white. A horn beeps, relentlessly, over and over in some sort of brain bleeding Morse code. “Who in the hell?” I ask, shaking my head. Grabbing an umbrella from the stand beside where our coats hang on the wall, I fling open the door, prepared to rip whoever managed to get in when my mother left a new ass.
Instead, I run face first into a chest. A very large, very hard, chest.
“Whoa there.” Gripping my shoulders, big hands and strong arms stop me in my tracks. The umbrella falls to my feet, my hands flattening against the white t-shirt covered torso. “After watching YouTube videos of what emotional women, armed with umbrellas, are capable of doing to a vehicle, I cannot let you take another step. I love her too much. Take me instead.”
Looking up at Dominick, I roll my eyes. “Just fucking great,” I mutter, unable to move. “How the hell did you get in here?”
“It seems your parents haven’t changed the gate code in a very long time,” he replies, releasing his grip on me. “Years, actually,” he adds, waggling his brows.
“I’ll be sure to put it on the board once I load my car,” I snap, quickly dropping my hands to my sides.
“Hi, Ireland! I played you a song on the horn.”
Mack steps aside, giving me a perfect view of Jasmine, hanging out of the sunroof of his car, waving her arms. She has on bright pink sunglasses, and a matching baseball cap, flipped around backwards so the brim isn’t in her face.
“I heard,” I laugh, mostly relieved it’s them and that I didn’t open the damn door and come face to face with some ninja breed of paparazzi.
“Why don’t you play on my phone, Squirt?” Dominick says, turning his head to look at her. “I need to talk to Ireland for a minute.”
“Can I play the driving game?” she asks, rubbing her hands together and grinning wickedly. “I wanna shoot up them hoochie mamas.”
He points at her, shaking his head. “They’re not hoochie mamas. They’re pimply employed women, meant to enhance the downtown cruising experience for the right price.”
“Listen, Linda,” she shouts, throwing up her hands. “I’m done arguing with you!”
Wrapping my arms around my middle, I bend at the waist and laugh. The uncontrollable fit of giggles feels good compared how I felt just minutes ago. Crossing his arms over his chest, Dominick stares down at me. I don’t even have to look up to know he is, I can feel the heat of his gaze as his eyes rake over my body.
“I gotta stop watching YouTube videos and Vines around that damn kid,” he mutters. “She is killin’ me.”
“What do you want, Dominick?” I ask, straightening. Taking a step back, I pick up the umbrella, and shove it back into the stand. “I know you’re not here to plead your case for underappreciated, fictional street walkers.”
“Fictional characters are people too, you know,” he replies, arching a brow. When I don’t say anything back, he holds up his hands in surrender. “Okay, okay,” he starts. “Since Jared quit, and Henry is looking for someone to replace him before the next tour date, I’m gonna be keepin’ an eye on you.”
“You being my shadow is a horrible idea, Nicky. I don’t think so.” Turning around, I step inside the house and grab my shoes. Brushing by him, I take a seat on the porch steps to put them on. “Thanks, but, no thanks.”
“It’s cute how you think you have a choice,” he chuckles. “Hate to break it to ya, Brat,” he says, the moment the word brat leaves his lips, I push to my feet. My hands clench into fists. That word, those four fucking letters, have me seething. “We can do this the easy way, or the hard way,” he finishes.
Rearing back my fist, I ram it into his stomach. “Call me that one more goddamn time, Bradford, and I’ll shove my fist so far up your ass, you’ll be able to taste my nail polish!”
“Damn, woman,” he says, the breath rushing out of him. “What the hell was that for?”
Pain shoots up my arm, my entire body shakes, and my teeth feel like they are going to rattle loose as if I were in some crazy, Saturday morning cartoon. “Ow, Asshole,” I hiss, shaking my aching arm and flexing my fingers. “This is my strumming hand.”
“Stop that right now!” Jazz shouts, slamming her tiny fist on the hood like a judge’s gavel. “I will take away snack time and put you both in the Get Along Shirt.”
“The what?” I ask, attempting to rub the soreness out of my hand.
She rolls her eyes, blowing out an exasperated breath. “It’s this big shirt Rae puts on Bran and me when we aren’t nice to each other.”
“Sounds stupid,” I mutter.
“You have no idea,” Mack chuckles quietly. “They look ridiculous.”
“I’m sure you have video, too, don’t you?” I ask him, arching a brow.
“Yep,” he grins. “It’s never too early to instill the fear of blackmail material.”
“I’m hungry!” Jazzie announces, yanking off her sunglasses and glaring at us.
“Hey, hungry, I’m Mack.”
Her eyes narrow, her now bright red covered lips pursing up. “It’s lunch o’clock, Kitty Pie. Feed me or I’ll eat your face off.”
“What’s that on your lips?” he asks, stepping down off the porch toward the car.
“Duh!” she huffs, cupping her face and smacking her lips together. “It’s lipstick, ya big buncha crazy.”
“I know it’s lipstick, ya big buncha crazy,” he fires back, mocking her. “Lipstick that you didn’t walk out of the house wearing, or even have on five minutes ago.”
“Ballbuster,” she grumbles, disappearing down into the car.
“You weren’t kidding about loading your car, were you?” he asks me, ignoring Jazzie’s comment and gesturing at my stuff stacked beside the door. “Few days early to pack up, isn’t it?”
“Actually, I thought I’d take a little trip down to Tijuana,” I answer, shrugging my shoulders. “Funny thing, I woke up in the mood to wear a poncho while eating tacos and drinking whiskey in a beach hut.”
“Whadaya know?” he chuckles, nodding his head. “The kid and I hit the pubs in Dublin last night. Those fuckers from Riverdance haven’t called us back yet. I’ve got hope though.”
“I’m going to a hotel,” I say, honestly, giving him another shrug. “I need some alone time. You can follow me there if you don’t believe me.”
Dominick nods thoughtfully, mulling over what I just said. Looking over at my car, he shakes his head. “It really is cute how you think you have a choice. Get your shit, let’s go.”
“Now wait a damn minute,” I start.
In one swift movement, he grabs me, tossing my body over his shoulder like I weigh nothing. “I told you,” he says, heading for his car. “Until your car is fixed, it goes nowhere. Now, we can do this the easy way, or the hard way. I don’t mind getting rough,” he chuckles. “Sometimes, I prefer it.”
“Shut up, pervert.”
“Who said something perverted? Where is he?” he asks, stopping mid-step. Spinning around in circles, he scans the yard, while making me dizzy. “Want me to say somethin’? I will. I’ll kick his ass.”
“Oh my God. Stop it!” I shout, slapping at his back with both hands. “Just put me down!”
Walking around the passenger side, he opens the door and drops me down in the seat. “Is that all of it?” he asks, bracing his arm on the open door. His nostrils flare, his chest rising and falling, stretching that white t-shirt to max capacity with every breath. I can’t help staring, waiting to see if it combusts under the extreme pressure.
If he were wearing a button up shirt right now, I have no
doubt he would take my eye out and every window on this side of the house.
“Maybe on the way to a hotel we can stop and buy you tighter shirt,” I mutter sarcastically, my eyes roaming over every inch of his body that the white cotton hugs like a second skin. “I don’t think that one quite cuts off the circulation.”
He looks down at his chest, his brow furrowing. “Yeah, yeah,” Meeting my eyes again, he crosses his arms over his chest and studies me. The sleeves stretch around his biceps, hugging each and every curve of muscle. “Answer the question, hater.”
“Yeah,” I huff, sagging back into the seat. “My keys are on the hook beside the door. My purse is on the foyer table.”
“That’s better.”
Slamming the door closed, he makes his way inside. “Are we havin’ a sleep over?” Jazzie asks, poking her head up between the front seats.
“No. Mack,” I say, remembering that no one really calls him by his actual name around here, “he’s going to take me to a hotel since my car is still broken.”
“Is your house broken too?” she asks, scrunching up her nose as she stares out the windshield, curiously.
Dominick steps out, settling everything on the porch before pulling the door closed and locking it. I take in the huge home, and I nod. “Yeah, Munchkin,” I reply, blowing out a breath. “It is.”
Chapter Nine
Bloody Chicken Fingers
Mack
I knew the moment she opened the door, all set to go overly-violent and desperate popstar on me with the umbrella, that something was up with Ireland. Her shit packed by the door and the talk about heading to some hotel for ‘alone time’ was bullshit and I knew it.
There is nothing she hates more than being alone.
Well, other than me…
This morning, Henry nearly blew a gasket when reports started coming in about some dinner she attended with her parents at a high profile, five-star hotspot. Though the photos are far from flattering for her, as soon as we watched the video, it was easy to see what happened. Both Henry and I would have seen that ambush coming from the parking lot, had we been there. One look at the set-up, Ireland never would have set foot in the door.
In my opinion, the blame for that is as much ours as it is hers.
Though, I’ll be damned if I tell her any of that.
With the ladies, you learn to pick your battles. But, when a woman packs a right hook, like Ireland Tyler, you are either going to master that skill quickly, or learn to take a punch. My odds are about half and half and I can live with that.
Besides, if she ever leaves the band, she’d make a hell of a cage fighter.
Ireland hasn’t said a word since I loaded her bags into the trunk and climbed into the car. Though she hasn’t had to. Jazzie’s jaw has been flapping non-stop. “What’s your favorite movie?” she asks from the backseat, rambling. “Does it have a princess? Princesses are my favorite. Mack is a princess. That’s why his hair is so long.” Grabbing the seat, she leans up, stopping just shy of Ireland’s ear. “He says it holds all his power.”
“I know that the six-year-old in the backseat would never unbuckle herself so she could shove her ass into the front seat,” I say, making her jump.
Sitting back in her seat, she straps herself back in. Meeting my eyes in the rearview mirror, she rubs her belly. “Feed me,” she growls, “You won’t like me when I’m hangry.”
Running through a fast food drive-thru, I grab lunch for the kid, hoping it will shut her up for a few minutes so her brain and lips don’t overheat from talking so much. Though, once I order, I spend ten minutes assuring the kid that the dude in the drive-thru isn’t actually chopping off chicken’s fingers and feeding them to her. To which she laughs and squirts ketchup all over one as soon as I hand her the box. Pointing it at me, she laughs. “My chicken fingers are bleeeeeeeding!”
“If you get ketchup all over my backseat, I’m putting you in the trunk and keeping your toy,” I warn, only making her laugh harder.
“Wait,” Ireland pipes up, sitting up in the seat and looking out the window. “Why are you heading out of the city? Hotel is back that way, Doofus.”
Shaking my head, I take the ramp and merge onto the highway. “You’re just so cute when you think you have a choice,” I chuckle, reaching over and pinching her cheek. “Isn’t she so cute, Jazz?”
“You’re weird,” Jazzie says, burping. “I wonder if chicken eat their own fingers off. I would. They’re yummy.”
Slapping my hand away, Ireland gags, her hands flying up to cover her mouth. “Ireland, are you about to heave in my car?” I ask, ready to pull over and shove her out onto the shoulder. Rule one of riding in Mack’s badass car: no expelling of bodily fluids. Unless it’s mine, because I’m getting road head.
Mile marker hummers sure as fuck don’t happen often enough around here…
“No puke allowed!” Jazz says, propping her feet up on the console between the front seats and crossing her ankles.
Ireland swallows hard. Taking deep breaths through her nose, she drops her hands back into her lap. “I’m not going to puke,” she exhales. Shifting in her seat, she glares sharply at me. “Where are we going?” she asks, but the tone in her voice tells me she already knows.
“Your hotel.”
Exiting the highway, I smile to myself. Turning up the radio, I whistle along with Taylor Swift’s newest hit about her latest breakup, while Jazzie makes up all her own words to the song. I glance at Ireland out of the corner of my eye. Blowing out a breath, she shifts her entire body away from me. Crossing her arms over her chest, she stares out the window, no doubt rolling her eyes as she plots my death.
There’s no pouting or plotting my death in my car…
This is rule two, people.
Pulling into the drive, I punch in the access code on the pad. The large, iron gates open wide, giving me and my brand new black Ford Mustang, I have rightly named Black Beauty, plenty of room to gallop. “Ready, kiddo?” I ask, stopping just inside the gates and revving the engine. The supercharged motor roars like a hungry lion, ready to charge. Gripping the wheel tightly with one hand, I stare ahead at the paved drive, lined on both sides with trees and bushes all carefully designed for privacy and peaceful seclusion.
“Ready… Freddie… Go!” Jazz screams, throwing up her tiny fist and waving a napkin in her other hand like a flag.
“Dear God, I’ve gotten in the car with the star of Fast and Furious: Dipshit with a Gearshift.” Ireland sits up in her seat. Grabbing the door with one hand, and the center console with the other, she winces, her eyes slamming shut. Revving the engine again, I release the brake and cruise up the driveway nice and slow.
Pulling in beside the ‘Burban, I look over at wide-eyed Ireland and laugh. “Your face!” I laugh, gripping the steering wheel. “You look like you got accidental anal from a charging rhinoceros. Priceless!”
“Right now, I’d gladly take the rhino,” she mutters, opening the door and nearly falling out of the car.
Shutting off the engine, I climb out and help Jazzie down out of the car. “My best friend is here!” she shouts, running toward the house. “Look it! Everybody! She’s here!”
“You okay?” I ask, closing the door and making my way around to the passenger side. Ireland has her back to me, her hip pressed into the side of the car. Her head is bowed, shoulders slumped as she breathes deeply, but doesn’t speak. “Ireland?” I ask, my hand coming up to rest on her shoulder. “I’m sorry if I scared you. I’d never hurt you.”
“Liar,” she breathes. Spinning to face me, she stares up at me, tears swimming in her eyes.
“Ireland,” I sigh, guilt twisting in my gut. Reaching out unsteadily, she grips my forearms, clutching on like they are the only things keeping her on her feet. I step closer, concerned as hell that she is going to faint. Fuck. “Talk to me, babe.”
Instantly, Ireland’s eyes darken like vicious storm clouds. Everything about her screams for me to run for my l
ife, but I can’t. I am frozen in place, a little scared for my life, and a lot turned on. The second my dick begins to stand at attention, her knee collides with my junk. Hard. My eyes roll into the back of my head and I collapse to the ground like a sack of potatoes. Defensively, I curl into a ball and shield my cock and balls with my knees and both hands.
For a second, I debate playing dead out of fear of a second wave of attack. Maybe she will think she killed me and walk away instead of using her booted foot to finish me off.
“In what world is it okay to do that?” I heave, feeling the vomit churn in my gut. I swear if you kick a dude in the nuts, you should get a fist in the vagina. Men don’t kick other men in the balls, we know that shit hurts like a bitch.
Bending down, she points a finger painted, as black as her heart, in my face. “This episode of lesson time with Ireland is brought to you by Bradford’s crushed nuts. If you call me that again,” she winks, an evil grin spreading across her face, “The things I’ll do to you will make accidental anal look like a trip to Disney World.”
“The dudes in costumes scare me more than you do,” I wheeze, trying not to puke. Seriously, though, those furry fuckers are terrifying. You don’t know who or what is behind the big eyes and sewn on smiles. I won’t even drive by that pizza place with the giant rat, no matter how much the kid begs.
My sanity is priceless people.
“Didn’t ask you to bring me here. Don’t need some moronic babysitter bossing me around. Touch me, try to use that whole sweet act on me that we both know is nothing but total bullshit, and I’ll—”
“I thought I heard you out here,” Henry calls from over by the garage, his voice causing Ireland to stop mid-sentence. Just as I see his feet step beside my front tire, he laughs, pushing his sunglasses to the top of his head. “I’m glad you two are getting along so well.”
“Yeah,” I groan, rolling to my stomach before pushing to my feet. “It’s just awesome, isn’t it?”
Ireland smiles, the blue dancing with her smug satisfaction. I swear if I wasn’t about to throw up everything I have eaten today, on top of the nagging concern my fuck stick will remain forever limp, I would be tossing out some backhanded comment to wipe that shit eating grin off her face.