by Ivy Layne
"And you liked it?" I asked.
I was surprised he was telling me so much, and I wanted to hear more. I wanted every crumb of Lucas Jackson I could get. He fascinated me.
Gorgeous, amazing body, fantastic in bed. But beyond that he was a mystery, one I wanted to solve. It occurred to me that I wasn't supposed to want to know the life story of a fuck buddy. Asking personal questions kind of defeated the purpose of keeping things casual.
"I fucking loved it," he answered. "Shocked the hell out of me, but the Army and I were a perfect fit. I went to college while I was in, got an IT degree, and got to do some really cool shit with it. I ended up in Spec-Ops for a few years before I got out and started freelancing."
"Is Spec-Ops what I think it is?" I wasn't exactly sure, but I was imagining something like the Rangers or the Seals. Or one of those teams you hear about that doesn't exactly have a name.
Semi-confirming my suspicions, Lucas said, "Probably. And if it's not, I can't tell you what it is."
After years of knowing the Sinclairs, and with my cousin Gage doing something equally secretive in the Army himself, I knew better than to press further. When they said they couldn't tell me, it meant they really couldn't tell me.
"So how did you go from freelancing to the Raptors?"
"My brother," Lucas said.
The words had weight, dragging the smile from his face. I knew grief. I'd lived with grief for years. I didn't need Lucas to tell me that Gunner was dead.
I kept my mouth shut and waited. We moved a little further down the baseboard, stuck in a corner for a few minutes where the paint in the cracks wouldn't heat up enough for me to scrape it off. Finally, Lucas started speaking again.
"The Raptors had a president with ambition. He wanted to expand the club, which ended up in a turf war. Gunner took his back and got promoted to lieutenant, then VP. Around that time, Dale got himself killed and I came home for the funeral. Mostly to see Gunner. I didn't give a shit about Dale, but I needed to make sure Gunner was all right.
"He was like a different guy. Serious. Had his shit together. We hadn't been close for a while, but after that, we stayed in touch. I didn't like what he was into. Not that my hands were always clean, but I fought for our country. And even freelancing—let's just say I have a well-defined line I won't cross."
"The Raptors were on the other side of that line?" I asked.
"Yeah. Way on the other side. But he was my brother. The only family I had left. We got a lot closer those last few years. I was traveling all over, almost never stateside, but when I was, we'd hang out. Then the president of the Raptors decided to get in bed with Big John. You know who Big John is, right?"
I did. Vaguely. I knew he was dead and that before he'd died, he'd run his own criminal enterprise, based mostly outside of Atlanta, and Abigail's first husband had been his son.
After the son died—according to the story, Big John had him assassinated—Big John had tried to kidnap Abigail. I also knew Lucas had killed Big John in Jacob's penthouse.
I didn't think Lucas needed a recap, so I just said, "Pretty much, yeah, I know who he is. Or was."
"The Raptors hooked up with Big John, and a month later, the president died in an accident—that I doubt was an accident—and Gunner took his spot. I was overseas under a blackout, so I didn't know any of this until it was way too late. A few months after Gunner became Prez, Big John had two people killed the same day . . . his son and my brother."
"That's why you shot him," I whispered, mostly to myself.
"It was a long time coming. He was an evil bastard. As soon as I got the message that Gunner was dead, I finished my job and came back. I made a deal with the Raptors. I took Gunner's position long enough to take down Big John's organization. Once that was done, I was out.
"That's how I got to know Brennan. We got a lot of pushback on all sides. Nobody liked my working with the Raptors, including most of the Raptors. But they wanted revenge and the territory they could grab with Big John out of the way. The police think I'm a wildcard, but we got the job done."
"That's why you trust Brennan?" I asked.
"Yeah. Too many times, everything seemed like it would go sideways and Brennan always had my back."
"So you're not with the Raptors anymore?"
"No. I dealt with Big John, we took out the rest of his organization, and I handed my kutte to the real Prez and walked away. I'm not a cop, and I'm not on a crusade, but their thing is not my thing. And their bullshit got my brother killed. He made his own decisions. I know that. He didn't see the line between right and wrong the same way I do. I couldn't have saved him. He didn't want to be saved."
"But at least you got revenge," I said. "Does it help?"
Lucas gave me a long, measuring look before he said, "Not really."
I stared down at the bubbled scraps of paint I was scraping off the baseboard. The police reports said my aunt and uncle’s and my parents’ deaths were both murder-suicides. Both cases were closed.
But I knew, all of us knew, that there was no way my uncle would've killed my aunt or my father my mother.
No way.
They'd been murdered.
After all this time, we still had no idea who had done it or why. Their deaths had left a wound that wouldn't heal. Not just grief, but a rage that had no target.
Someone had stolen them from us.
Someone needed to pay.
I'd always thought revenge would help that wound to heal. According to Lucas, I was wrong.
Lucas switched off the portable heater and set it down on the floor, upside down so the heating element could cool. Pulling the scraper out of my hand, he set it aside and stood, bringing me to my feet along with him.
"Come on," he said. "Let's go get a beer and some food. Then we'll come back here and I'll fuck you until you beg me to stop."
At that absurd thought, I busted out laughing. "Good luck," I said when I got my breath back. "That's not gonna happen. You can fuck me all night and I'll still ask for more. You'll be begging me to leave you alone and let you sleep."
"You want to bet?" Lucas asked with a chuckle. "First person to beg has to mow the other one's yard. You spent enough time watching me behind the mower. Now it's my turn. I can see you now, nothing but the mower and you, in a bright red bikini."
"Cocky much?" I asked as we went down the back steps—after I set the alarm and locked the door. "No bet. I don't mow lawns. And I don't own a red bikini."
"That's a crime. Your body in a red bikini?" Lucas shook his head and looked at the sky, the anticipation in his eyes so hot I immediately considered some emergency online shopping. Though I still wasn't mowing the lawn.
It was only a few blocks to a neighborhood bar that had a great beer selection and a fantastic bar menu. We dropped the bet, which was a good thing because a few minutes after we hit the futon, I was naked with Lucas's mouth between my legs, begging desperately for him to stop teasing and start fucking me.
Which he did.
All night.
CHAPTER THIRTEEN
LUCAS
I slept late, waking with the glare of sunlight in my eyes. Charlotte Winters was a bad influence. After our unexpectedly heavy conversation while I helped her strip paint, I planned to get something to eat, fuck her senseless, and leave her safely tucked into bed, protected by solid locks and a secure alarm system.
My plan had gone to hell the first time she came on my tongue.
I loved making that woman come, the way she fought it at first, embarrassed she got so hot for me so fast. The way she squirmed, then rocked up into me—my mouth, my cock, my fingers—it didn't matter.
As soon as she decided she wanted it, Charlie went after her pleasure with a hunger and a heat that turned me on like no woman ever had. And then after, the way she collapsed into me, defenseless and sated and so fucking gorgeous.
Knowing that I did that to her, that I gave her that pleasure, that her beautifully relaxed face was mine, was a
rush like nothing I'd ever known.
No fucking way I could leave that. I went back for more, again and again. We slept a little, here and there. Not enough.
I needed coffee. So did Charlie. And if the light streaming through the window was any indication, we both needed to get up.
She had a crew coming to rebuild the front porch and I had a job I needed to finish before afternoon. I caught a quick glimpse of her face, eyes closed in sleep, her dark lashes feathery half-moons against her creamy cheeks.
I tried not to think about her naked body beneath the sheet.
Get up. Get up, you horny bastard, and get in the shower before the construction crew catches you balls deep in Charlie's sweet little body.
Without looking at her again, I dragged my ass out of bed and jumped in the shower. I was going to smell like Charlie's flowery, fruity body wash all day, a constant reminder of a woman I didn't need to be thinking about when we weren't fucking.
This whole thing with her was going sideways.
I knew it and I didn't seem to be able to stop it.
It's safe to say Charlotte Winters was not what I expected. I knew from experience that the rich were different from the rest of us, but the truly, obscenely wealthy were a completely different breed of human.
I worked with enough of them to know how set apart they were. I had money. Hell, after the jobs I'd been doing the last few years, I had the kind of cash in the bank I'd never dreamed of, growing up in a rundown trailer. In a few years, I'd be able to retire and never have to worry about money again. But the Winters family probably had that kind of cash rattling around in their couch cushions.
I'd expected Charlie to see my tattoos and my truck and dismiss me as beneath her.
Instead, she was Charlie. Sexy, funny, adventurous, smart, sweet, and fucking gorgeous as hell.
The second I laid eyes on her, weeks ago, as she strode up the cracked driveway of her house beside a pretty, curvy redhead, I'd known I wanted to see what was beneath her perfectly tailored gray suit.
Any man would. There was no denying the suit was professional, but it didn't hide her body.
I'd never expected to like her, to look forward to seeing her. To need her.
I was going to have to get this shit under control. Charlie Winters was not for me. I was a rebound guy. An experiment. An adventure.
She was not, and she never would be, a girlfriend. I needed to remember that.
I didn't even want a girlfriend. Been there, done that.
I needed to stay focused. My goals were to build my client list, finish my house, and maybe look for another one to rehab and flip.
That was it. I didn't have room for a relationship, especially not one destined to fail.
I jumped out of the shower, drying off with a quick swipe of the towel, and steeled myself before I walked back into Charlie's bedroom.
Steeling myself didn't work.
Propped up on one elbow, the sheet barely covering her breasts, her mass of wavy auburn hair tangled in her blue eyes, still half-asleep, she was a siren.
Without saying a word, she called me back to bed. It took everything I had not to drop the towel and join her.
Focus, I reminded myself. Also, the construction crew. We wouldn't be alone for much longer. Pulling on my clothes, I snagged my phone and my keys before heading to the kitchen, saying over my shoulder, "I'll make coffee, but you'd better get up. Your guys are going to be here in ten minutes."
Behind me, I heard Charlie scramble and I grinned to myself. She shuffled into the kitchen a few minutes later wearing an ancient pair of jeans with holes in the knees and an equally threadbare T-shirt, her hair pinned back from her face with matching butterfly barrettes.
"You look fifteen," I said. She grunted and held out a hand.
"Coffee," she demanded. Then, after taking a long sip, "What time is it?"
"7:57," I said, laughing a little as her eyes flew comically wide.
"Oh, my God! I never sleep this late."
"Neither do I," I said. "That's what happens when you stay up all night fucking instead of sleeping."
A faint blush colored the apples of her cheeks. She slanted me a sideways look from beneath her lashes and said, "I'm really tired, but it was worth it."
We heard the sounds of doors slamming outside. The alarm panel beeped, as did Charlie's phone, letting her know there was motion on the property.
After a glance at her phone, Charlie said, "The crew's here. Should I turn the alarm off?"
"You can turn it off when I leave, but unless they're going in and out of the house today, you should leave it on while you're inside."
"I think I'm going to work on stripping more paint. And they're scheduled to stay outside, working on the front porch. Can I hang on to the heater for a while? I can go get my own if you need it."
I shook my head. "No, it's yours as long as you want it. I won't need it again for a while."
"Okay, thanks—"
Charlie cut off at the sound of a knock at the back door. With the front door unreachable until the workmen replaced the decking, the back door was the only entrance to the house.
I turned to see a man in a suit at the door, average height, medium brown hair, and one of those patrician faces that made me think he'd been born in a country club. I didn't recognize him, but Charlie obviously did.
Crossing the room, she reached for the back door, flipping the lock before I interrupted to remind her, "Alarm, Charlie."
"Oh crap, I forgot already."
She held up one finger, telling the man on the other side of the glass to wait and turned for the alarm panel, missing the expression of disdainful annoyance that crossed his face.
The muscles in my shoulders tensed, and I shifted my weight to the balls of my feet. No one looked at Charlie like that.
She wasn't mine to protect, but I couldn't help myself.
This stranger's arrival was the perfect excuse to go back home and get started on the work I had to finish by the end of the day, but I wasn't leaving Charlie alone with this guy.
Successfully deactivating the alarm, she finished opening the door, swinging it wide. "Uncle William," she said in an easy, relaxed tone that told me she thought this man was no threat.
As he took in the bruising on her face and wounds on her cheek and temple, his eyes narrowed, then flicked to me.
"Charlotte, Charlie, sweetheart, what happened?"
He raised a hand as if to touch her, but dropped it before he made contact.
Charlie shrugged. "It looks worse than it feels. Someone jumped me when I was walking home the other night. But I'm okay, and Sinclair put in a security system yesterday."
He frowned, studying her face, then turned to stare me down. Well, he tried to stare me down. I was immune to stare downs from stuck-up old men in suits. I crossed my arms over my chest and returned his measuring look.
There were times when my size was a liability. It came in handy when I wanted to intimidate someone. As I'd expected, he looked away, breaking our eye contact.
Knowing it would annoy him, I stuck out my hand and said, "Lucas Jackson. And you are?"
He took my hand in a firm grip and shook. "William Davis. Are you Charlie's security?"
Charlie let out a high-pitched nervous laugh. Reaching out, she lay a hand on William Davis's arm and said, "No, Uncle William, Lucas is my neighbor."
"And your neighbor comes over for coffee before 8 a.m.?"
Ignoring his insinuation, Charlie looked at me and asked, "Why is it that everyone assumes they have the right to comment on my personal life?"
I shook my head. I wasn't stepping in the middle of this. William, incorrectly taking my silence for agreement, said, "Because you need looking after."
I didn't like the way his words echoed my own from the day before. Charlie did need looking after, but I knew in my gut that William Davis and I meant two completely different things when it came to looking after Charlie.
Provi
ng me right, he said, "This is just one more problem from you, Charlie. When are you going to give up this foolish rebellion and move home? Aiden needs a hostess. Since he can't manage to get himself married again, that has to be you."
"I don't want to be Aiden's hostess," Charlie said. "I don't want to move home. And besides that, I'm still mad at Aiden."
"This is what I'm talking about. Aiden did the right thing in firing you from the company. He never should've hired you in the first place. I've been telling him since you were a teenager that a young woman like you has no place in business. I'm glad to see he's finally listening."
I'd swear I could hear the low sound of Charlie's teeth grinding together as she stared at William Davis. While she struggled to formulate a respectful response to this man who was obviously important to her but clearly out of touch, I couldn't help poking at him a little more.
Gesturing with my empty mug, I said, "Coffee?"
William narrowed his cool brown eyes at me, raising one eyebrow in a perfect expression of privileged disdain before saying, "Why don't you go back home and let me talk to Charlie in private? You're not needed here."
Charlotte's face flushed red. Before she could speak, I said with a casual shrug of one shoulder, "So . . . no coffee then? Charlie? More coffee?"
Not needing an answer—I knew damn well she needed more coffee—I plucked her mug from her hand and crossed the room to refill it.
"Uncle William," Charlie said evenly, "Lucas is my neighbor and my friend. There's nothing you can't say in front of him. And it's completely inappropriate for you to ask him to leave when we are in my house. Just because you're upset doesn't mean you can forget your manners."
She finished with her chin up, looking down her nose at William even though he was taller than her. I kept my eyes on the coffeemaker, hiding my grin. On William Davis, privileged disdain was irritating. On Charlie, it was adorable.
William let out a sigh. In a low voice, he said, "Charlie, surely, you know you can do better than this."
William's eyes slid to me. It wasn't hard to read that he knew I'd heard and didn't care. I didn't care either. If anything, I needed this kind of in my face reminder that Charlie and I were worlds apart.