Kellan

by Sienna Valentine

  “Now, if you want me to fuck you so you can feel like some kind of bad bitch, I’ll happily oblige. I don’t mind getting my dick wet, especially not in a pussy as pretty as yours. But if you’re looking to get close to me, to fix me, then sweetheart, we’re gonna have a problem.”

  I thought for sure she’d slap me. The look on her face told me she wanted to. Her lip was curled back so far I could see her teeth and the glint of disgust in her eyes was like the edge of a blade gleaming in the sun. But Parker only pulled free of me and set her jaw, smoldering with defiance.

  “You’re acting like a dick,” she said. “Is that how you treat people when they start getting too close?”

  I shook my head. “Sweetheart, I’m like this all the time.”

  “No, you’re not,” Parker insisted. “You weren’t just a minute ago. A minute ago, you were charming and sincere. I was interested.”

  I threw up my hands. “Yeah, well, maybe this is the real me. Shit, don’t you know anything about men? We’re all pigs at heart.”

  Parker watched me as I fished my wallet out of my jeans. “I don’t believe that.”

  “Doesn’t matter what you believe,” I said, leaving enough cash for our drinks on the bar. “The reality is you and me wouldn’t work anywhere but between the sheets. So go back to your old men in fancy suits and leave me the fuck alone before you get hurt. Because that’s who I am: the guy who hurts people.”

  I stood up and left her behind, never once risking looking back. I knew that if I did, I’d stop and apologize for acting like such an ass. I couldn’t do that. Not when it was for her own good.

  The chill in the air hit me like a slap as I stepped out onto the sidewalk. Finally, I felt like I could breathe, like the world wasn’t closing in on me from all sides. Sitting there with Parker made me feel like there wasn’t enough oxygen for the two of us. She took my breath away. No woman had done that since… well, ever.

  The hell is wrong with me? I wondered as I hailed a cab. I can’t put a girl like her in the middle of all this. She wouldn’t last two seconds. I can’t be responsible for ruining her. I’d never forgive myself.

  I didn’t deserve her.

  A cab pulled up to the curb, splashing my boots with gutter water. I paused to shake them off before getting in, and that’s when Parker’s fingers closed around my wrist.

  “Kellan, wait…”

  I whirled on her. Before I could read her the riot act again, she said, “I know we don’t know each other. Not very well, anyway. But I’ve known a lot of soldiers, and I know what it’s like to come home and feel like you don’t have a place here anymore. So if you ever want to talk…”

  I pulled away hard, making her almost lose her balance in those cute little heels. “You don’t know a goddamn thing,” I snapped as I flung open the door to the cab and got in, slamming it shut to block out the sound of Parker’s repeated protests.

  Doesn’t she get it? I thought as we pulled away. Fuck, doesn’t she see how messed up I am?

  “Rose Street,” I told the driver, but my thoughts were still on Parker, on those big, puppy dog eyes of hers and the softness in her voice. Why the hell is she trying so hard, anyway? Why does she care so much?

  I ran my fingers through my hair. It didn’t matter. Everything I touched turned to shit, and if she got too close, she was at risk of getting hurt. Seemed like it was in my nature: first I’d hurt my sister and our parents by turning into a drug addict. Then I’d hurt people for a living in the Marines. And now I was here, hurting people all over again. All I knew how to do, all I was actually good for, was causing people pain.

  I slumped in my seat and shoved my hands into my jacket pockets. The cabbie wasn’t a fan of turning on the heat, apparently. My fingers unexpectedly touched paper and I pulled it out, unfurling the napkin that I definitely hadn’t put in there myself.

  It was Parker’s name and phone number. She must have scribbled it down when I walked out and snuck it into my jacket when she grabbed me. There were a few beer stains on it. Was this one of the ones she’d used to wipe up the drink I’d spilled all down the front of her blouse?

  I lifted the napkin to my nose and inhaled deeply, allowing myself one brief moment to remember what could have been. Then I rolled down my window and tossed Parker’s scent and memory into the cold wind whipping past the taxi.

  ~ FOUR ~

  Parker

  “Ms. Jones, may I speak with you in my office?”

  Fuck. Fuck, fuck, fuck. That was Melanie Cartwright, Editor-in-Chief of The Spill. She was my personal Miranda Priestly—you know, from The Devil Wears Prada?—and if she wanted to see me, it meant nothing good.

  I glanced over at Thom, sitting a few feet away at his desk. He was our sports columnist and very popular. He rarely had to deal with any bad news from Melanie Cartwright, and when I’d first started working here, I’d hoped cozying up to him would grant me some kind of immunity, too.

  No dice. I did come away from it with a pretty great friend, though. Right now, he was giving me a look of both sympathy and intrigue. We were reporters, after all. Schadenfreude was in our blood.

  “You’d better go,” he said. “It’s only going to be worse if you keep her waiting.”

  I sighed and stood up, smoothing down my skirt. I was lucky she’d called me in today and not two days before when my blouse would’ve been covered in beer stains. I didn’t need to look any more incompetent than she already thought I was.

  My mind drifted to Kellan as I walked down the long hall toward Melanie’s office. He hadn’t called. With the way he’d stormed off, that was hardly a surprise, but I’d hoped he’d see reason and drop the tough guy act. I mean, it wasn’t all an act. Kellan really was strong and obviously could hold his own in a fight, and what he’d said about being dangerous didn’t feel like a lie to me. But that was just the physical stuff. Kellan was like the rest of us, emotionally speaking, and maybe even a little more damaged than that. The way he pushed me away, how I bet he refuses to let anyone get close—it betrayed a deep-seated fear in him, one that wouldn’t be easy to cast aside.

  I wasn’t just disappointed for personal reasons, though. I was disappointed because without Kellan, I’d entirely lost track of my story. I hadn’t been able to get Senator MacFarlane alone since then, and my deadline was looming in the not-so-distant future. I might’ve been able to keep Melanie at bay if I had Kellan’s human interest story in my back pocket, but since I didn’t, I was bringing her nothing. And Melanie didn’t like her reporters strutting into her office empty-handed.

  Ever.

  I paused at her door for a deep breath before knocking. It was open, but I knew better than to enter unannounced, even when she’d summoned me.

  “You rang?” I said with a tentative smile.

  Melanie flicked her gaze up over the wire rims of her glasses. She was one of those women who only got sexier and more intimidating with age. Her full-bodied, wavy brown hair had a single streak that had gone gray, making her stormy eyes all the fiercer. She looked like she’d been poured into her devil-red dress, and when she gestured for me to take a seat, her body moved with all the elegance of a swan.

  Being in Melanie’s presence was petrifying and awe-inspiring all at the same time. I admired her almost as much as I feared her. She was probably the only person in all the world whose bidding I did without a second thought.

  I sat down in front of her and watched as she stood, arms crossed, heaving a sigh. “I don’t suppose you’ve made any headway with the senator, Ms. Jones?”

  Slowly, I shook my head, then cringed at the disappointment in her eyes. “But my deadline’s not until the end of the month. I’m sure I’ll have other opportunities…”

  “You’d better make yourself some opportunities,” Melanie said, gingerly closing her door. “I didn’t want to have to pull this card with you, Parker. I really didn’t. But you should know that your readership has been dropping like a stone, and what’s more, I’m
running out of bones to throw your way. You’ve got to take some initiative if you plan on continuing your career here at The Spill.”

  I swallowed hard. I knew she was telling the truth, at least about my readership. My online articles were pulling in abysmal numbers and getting worse with each new article I wrote. I knew the problem was their content. I hadn’t had anything interesting to say in a while, which was largely because nothing much ever happened here, and nobody wanted to read my drivel when they could spend their time on one of Thom’s articles or vlogs instead. Sports never went out of style. Lucky him, I thought bitterly.

  “I am taking initiative,” I assured Melanie, a low flame of frustration flaring in my gut. “This story is going to be big. Huge. I can feel it. It’s got everything our audience wants.” I thought again of Kellan, of the angle I’d lost by offending him at the bar. “Heck, it might even run deeper than I originally thought.”

  Melanie narrowed her eyes, her winged liner nearly touching the tail ends of her perfectly coiffed brows. “So you do have something.”

  “Nothing concrete,” I replied, wringing my hands. Was it really wise to be telling her this? But if my job was on the line…

  Melanie seemed to sense my unease. She made her way toward the edge of her desk and sat against it, looking at me down her nose. “Parker. You know I like you, right?”

  I blinked up at her. “No.”

  A little smile touched the edges of her lips. “It’s true. It’s why I hired you. You remind me of a younger me, a woman on the verge of greatness, who only needs a little push to come into her own in this business. Ruthlessness is a learned trait, for our sex, isn’t it? Women are constantly expected to cater to others, especially men. That instinct has to be wrung out of us like old dish water from a towel. It isn’t an easy feat. Impossible, for some.”

  I nodded as if I understood, but I didn’t. I was still stuck on the part where Melanie Cartwright liked me.

  “What I’m saying, Parker,” she continued, “is that not every woman can put herself first. Not all of them have that potential, that lust for something more than domestic bliss. I think I see the spark of an inferno in you. Passion. Real passion. I think you could be great, with the right tutelage. But there is only so much that even someone like me can do.”

  I understood now. She must have seen the conflict on my face, must have smelled the story on me, must have known that there was something I wasn’t saying. This was her way of trying to get it out of me. How much of what she was saying was even true?

  I knew Melanie’s motto when it came to this business, probably better than anyone else. She prided herself on separating the personal from the professional, and she wasn’t afraid to be brutal. She expected the same from everyone else.

  It didn’t matter if your great nana’s reputation would be ruined by whatever story you’d gotten your hands on. You were a reporter. You were expected to tell that story anyway, nana be damned. And if Melanie felt that way about family, she sure as hell didn’t care about sources who weren’t blood ties. She wouldn’t understand my caution, my desire to ensure Kellan didn’t come out looking the worse for wear in all this. I wasn’t sure I even understood that compulsion myself.

  After all, Kellan hadn’t exactly been my knight in shining armor the other day. In fact, he’d been kind of a dick. What the hell was I considering his feelings for?

  “I met this guy,” I said, measuring my words carefully, “a few days ago at a bar. Senator MacFarlane was there, but I couldn’t get him cornered to ask the questions I wanted to ask. But this guy I ran into—he’s a vet. So I was thinking that I could run a story on him, too. Something that would look good alongside speculation on why the senator hasn’t put his support behind this new ‘jobs for vets’ bill.”

  “Intriguing,” Melanie said, though by her tone, I wasn’t sure she meant it. “But hardly newsworthy if you can’t get commentary from the senator to back it up. Unless there’s something you’re still not telling me.”

  “It’s not a for-sure thing yet. I don’t want to say anything until I’m sure. But…” I chewed my lip, then stopped before I stained my teeth the color of my lipstick. “The guy said something about having a hard time finding legitimate work when he got back from his tour in Afghanistan. And his knuckles were all bloody and bruised. I think maybe he’s got a job roughing people up. Something that pays him under the table.”

  Now Melanie looked less bored. She even smiled. “I’ve heard things,” she murmured, but didn’t elaborate. She only pushed away from her desk to walk back around the other side of it. “Go out there and talk to Thom. Tell him what you know. He’ll want in on this, too, but from a different angle. You two should be able to work it out. He’s capable of putting on his big boy pants and collaborating—usually.”

  “Thom?” Was I being assigned a chaperone? I didn’t need any help with this. “But it’s my story…”

  “No,” Melanie said sharply, “it’s The Spill’s story. One that could make or break your career. If you run with this, Parker, you could end up with everything you’ve ever wanted. But if you screw up, you’re out. I don’t do charity, and I can’t abide journalists who refuse to put their work first. It’s nothing personal,” she added, eyes on her laptop screen. “This is just a cutthroat business. But if you truly feel like you don’t need the help, I won’t force your hand. You’d be taking quite the risk turning it down, though.”

  I did my best not to show her how my stomach had fallen through to the floor. Part of me had expected this. I was always on edge, always wondering when the axe would fall. But as much as I’d worried about being fired, it had never seemed like a real threat—at least not one that was close to coming to fruition. I’d always considered it a distant possibility, one that I still had time to reverse course on.

  But now I knew the truth. If I didn’t deliver Melanie Cartwright the most ambitious story of my career, I was done. Out. I probably wouldn’t even get a reference, and I’d end up as a mail clerk somewhere, watching everyone else achieve the dream I’d wanted for myself.

  I couldn’t let that happen. Even if it meant letting someone else take half the credit. Even if it meant re-pissing off the guy who’d been only too eager to tell me how dangerous he was before. Of course, that meant finding him again, first.

  “We’re done here, I think,” Melanie said, rousing me from my thoughts. “Aren’t we?”

  “Yes,” I replied, standing up and smiling despite the shaking of my hands. “I’ll get to work.”

  And then I left the dragon’s lair, feeling like the next time I entered it, I ran a very real risk of getting burned.

  Thom was waiting for me back on the other side, brow furrowed as he laid eyes on my pensive face. “Well, I see you don’t have a box to clean out your desk with, so I guess that’s something,” he said.

  I nodded and pulled up a chair to sit beside him. He turned to me, looking more skeptical than ever. “What happened? What’s up?”

  “I need a favor,” I said. “A professional one.”

  Thom pursed his lips. I liked it when he did that. It really brought out his cheekbones. Thom was a very attractive man, with piercing green eyes and chestnut hair cut short on the sides but longer on the top—very fashionable. He was the epitome of a hipster, but had no equal when it came to sports reporting. At least, not here at The Spill. I’d even considered dating him until I found out he was gay. Seemed like all the hot ones were.

  Except Kellan. I was pretty sure he wasn’t gay, and he was the hottest guy I’d ever seen. Thom studied me as I reflected on how Kellan and I had run into each other at The Sly Fox, and for a moment, I worried that he could see right through me to all the naughty thoughts swirling around my brain, and I blushed.

  Finally, Thom said, “Okay. Why?”

  “I have this story,” I began. “Or at least, the makings of a story.”

  “The senator thing?” Thom wrinkled his nose. “Not exactly my area of expertise, P
arker.”

  “It’s not that,” I said. “At least, not this part of it.” I quickly recounted most of the detail of my meeting with Kellan. Minus some of the more embarrassing, less relevant parts.

  Thom turned his chair all the way toward me. “Hmm, could be some sort of bareknuckle boxer? That’s the kind of shit you hear about in those underground fighting rings.”

  “Underground meaning ‘illegal,’ right?” I asked. It made sense. Kellan had alluded to as much when I’d pressed him about it at the bar. That would totally fit his story.

  Thom rolled his eyes. “Yeah, Parker. Underground as in ‘illegal,’ rather than literally under the earth. Though sometimes if you’ve got a basement big enough…” He shrugged. “Anyway, how does this guy tie in with your story? Sounds more like my territory.”

  “It might be both,” I told him. “This guy was a veteran, having trouble finding work ever since he got back from overseas. That’s my angle with the senator, and this could tie it all together. Assuming it’s what we think it is, but it all fits, right? His knuckles were all banged up and he kept going on about how he was dangerous and the only job for him was one that wasn’t exactly legal. He looked like the MMA-type, too. Grizzled, lots of muscles.”

  Thom sat forward, a brow raised. “Lots of muscles, huh?”

  It was my turn to roll my eyes. “Give it up, Thom. He’s straight. Besides, aren’t you engaged?” I nodded to the simple band on his finger.

  “That doesn’t stop me from looking,” Thom replied with a grin. “But yeah, could be your guy is part of some glorified Fight Club, especially if he’s looking to make a buck. Those pay out pretty good. Or they do, if you have the right manager. A lot of the guys in charge skim a hefty fee off the top, whether their fighters know it or not. It’s a corrupt business—happens, when you don’t have any regulations to worry about.”