The Alpha's Assistant & The Dom Next Door

by Michelle Love

  “Y-yeah, sorry, I left early that day. I was going to introduce myself but the crowd got kind of overwhelming after a while.” I blame Shayla. I was afraid of running into her in that crowd, after a week of obsessive phone calls out of nowhere. If that hadn’t happened, maybe I could have spent a little more time at the block party, and become friends with the neighbors I still don’t really know.

  Like Carl.

  The warmth of his hand sinks into mine, and for a long moment, I linger, wishing I could keep holding hands with him without seeming like a weirdo. Finally, I let him go. “I wish the circumstances were better, but I’m glad we’ve finally introduced ourselves properly.”

  His smile goes a touch cheerier. Then he points over his shoulder at his house. “Hey, uh, I can’t leave my kid. You want to come over for some cocoa?”

  I blink at him, the homey offer sounding strange coming out of a gigantic tough guy like him. He seems to know it and chuckles sheepishly, shoving his hands in his pockets. “Can’t break out the booze until after my kid’s in bed. It’s a rule.”

  “Oh, that’s all right. I could really use some chocolate right now, actually.” I step out onto the porch, fishing in my pocket for my keys. Shayla is gone, but until the smell of her perfume dissipates from the rooms of my house, I don’t want to be there.

  And as for Carl … he could ask me o go to the garbage dump with him, and I would probably say yes

  “So does she hassle you like that a lot?” he asks quietly as I finish locking up and turn to follow him back to his house.

  “Since I was three. She has a kind of mental disorder—and she’s a complete bitch on top of that.”

  He opens the gate for me. “Maybe you should get a restraining order. I don’t want to get in your business uninvited, but if she’s been this way for almost twenty years, she’s not gonna change.”

  His garden is immaculate, populated with nontoxic trees and flowers to go with its clover and chamomile lawn. Even his yard is kid-safe. I wonder if he redid the landscaping himself.

  I drink in the sight and scents, letting them soothe me. “I know,” I reply once I’ve centered myself a little. “It’s part of why I moved out of our family home. But she doesn’t seem to be satisfied with just driving me away.”

  “If she’s as narcissistic as she seems, they’re all like that.” His tone is tired and knowing as he leads me up onto the porch. His house is twice the size of mine, the porch double-deep beneath a matching wraparound balcony. “Narcissists drive people away with their behavior, but then they get desperate for attention and go chasing after them.”

  “Sounds like you’re speaking from experience,” I comment as he unlocks his door. He nods mutely, an ironic smile ghosting across his face as he looks back over his shoulder.

  Maybe he’s right and I should get a protection order against Shayla. I’m tired of this.

  A blast of warm air hits me in the face as I step in behind him. It smells of toasted bread, mint, and faintly of damp doggie. No sooner is the door shut than two small figures race out of the living room, one dressed in pink, the other in gold fur.

  The latter, all wagging tail and flailing paws, pounces on my shoe, and I feel the last of my tension dissolve as I watch the little guy untie it with his little black-jowled mouth. “Well, hi there!”

  “Daddy, you promised cocoa,” the tiny blonde imp clinging to Carl’s leg pouts slightly and then turns to look at me. “Hi, did you come to see my new puppy?”

  “Hi! I’m Emmeline. Um, I’m your neighbor. Your dad invited me over for cocoa.” I reach down and scratch the puppy’s ears, and he starts trying to engulf my fingertips in his mouth.

  “That’s a pretty name. I’m Jenny. My daddy’s named Carl, but you can call him Daddy.”

  Carl suddenly bursts into a coughing fit, harrumphing and pressing a fist against his mouth.

  “Um. Okay, thanks for that?” I smile awkwardly, wondering what Carl finds so funny, and why he’s hiding his laughter.

  Chapter 4

  Carl

  Something about this whole Shayla situation stinks, but I’m too busy being glad that Emmeline and I are finally talking, that for a while, the ugly truth doesn’t sink in. But minutes later, when I’m stirring melted chocolate into milk and listening to Jenny brag about her new dog to our neighbour, I feel my hackles go up. Long experience tells me that Emmeline’s hiding just how bad the situation with her sister is.

  I don’t know if Shayla is a cokehead or just naturally unstable. My guess either way is that she’s a typical abuser: deep down she knows that what she is doing is wrong, and tries to keep it under wraps in public to avoid criticism, which she clearly cannot stand.

  I’ve dealt with tons of coke-fueled narcissists and paranoids before. During the early noughties it seemed like every single grower from Mexico to Jamaica to Humboldt was snorting half their profits to “keep sharp.” I would show up to make my pickup, and some twitchy, argumentative addict would start fucking with me over price, amounts, packaging, and every other damn thing.

  Cocaine confidence makes crazy idiots out of people, which is part of why I never touch or sell anything besides pot. Cokeheads always think they’re the masters of the universe while they’re flying, only to turn into desperate assholes as soon as they touch down. Either way, you’re dealing with an irrational person who nine times out of ten will be a dick just to watch how it affects you.

  It’s even worse when they’re related to you.

  I only know that one second-hand, though. I don’t have much in the way of family. I’ve got some cousins out of state that I grew up with, and I check in on Mary’s mom to let her see her granddaughter every week or so.

  She’s a nice lady—and hurt as hell over what Mary did. We had that in common, though I’ve finally made my peace with it.

  I’ve committed myself to helping her feel a little less alone. Propping “Gramma Carol” up and looking after my little girl helped me get through. It’s a lot easier to be strong through a heartbreak when you’re being strong for someone else.

  I sigh and keep stirring, knowing that if I let the cocoa boil it will separate and get nasty. Easier to throw a packet of some chalky stuff into warm milk, but that’s not how I roll. Not with my little girl, and not with my hot, adorable, and very distressed guest.

  Emmeline might be bearing up well, but I can tell she’s suffering under it all. Her voice is almost overly gentle right now as she talks to my daughter in the other room. Now and again it grows a little breathless.

  I wonder how many times she turns her head to check the windows while I’m in here making cocoa. She did it constantly when I was in the room with them.

  I wonder if she’s checking for Shayla, and if so, if Shayla is actually the sort to lurk at strangers’ windows. If I do find her out there, I’ll call my buddy Jake at the precinct to come take care of it. Better that than give in to the temptation to pitch her over the fence like a sack of trash.

  When I walk in with two mugs and one insulated sippy cup of hot cocoa, the dog gets underfoot, excited at the new smell. Jenny giggles, and Emmeline gets up to corral the little guy before I can trip over him. “Thanks,” I grump good-naturedly as I set down the tray on our cherry coffee table.

  Jenny toddles over with her hands out and nearly gets tripped by the dog herself. Emmeline grabs the little beast again and wrestles with him while Jenny rights herself and takes her prize, immediately taking a swallow. This is why I always cool hers with an extra dollop of milk.

  “You come up with a name for this furball yet, sweetie?” I ask my daughter as she climbs back onto the recliner across from the couch.

  “Flubber!” she declares, and I burst into incredulous laughter. Emmeline settles onto the far end of the couch, chuckling quietly.

  “Flubber? Why are you gonna call your dog that?” It’s cute and hilarious, and better than Doggie-Face, which was her first idea for a name.

  “Because he bounces!” she
declares, and I can’t help but laugh more.

  “Flubber, it is. Just don’t complain about it when you’re ten and he’s eighty pounds.”

  “I won’t! C’mon, Flubber!” She pats the seat next to her and the dog scrambles up to settle in beside her, snuffling at the cup. He loses interest after a few moments, the insulation and narrow opening masking most of the chocolate scent.

  “They’re so cute.” Emmeline is smiling, really smiling, and the sight of it warms me more than my drink. “How long have you lived here?”

  “Two and a half years. It was a mess when I got here. Had to fix it up so it was good enough for my little girl.” I scratch the corner of my jaw thoughtfully as I look at her. “How about you? Where were you before this?”

  “Garden District. I grew up there. Mom and Dad both have family here going back a couple of hundred years.” She smiles faintly, her velvety dark eyes hiding demurely behind her lashes. A true Creole beauty, with deep roots that I find myself envying.

  “A real New Orleans native, huh?” It’s hard not to smile now that we’re finally in the same room together, even though part of my mind keeps chewing over the scene with Shayla the whole time.

  I need to talk with her about this. As much as I’d like to be her personal hero, even if nothing ever happens between us, this is my street. I won’t let anybody get hurt in my territory, even if she’s just a friendly neighbor.

  “That’s me. I don’t think I’ll ever want to leave. I mean, maybe part of the year. The summers do get really hot up here.”

  “When it gets too bad, I usually take Jenny and go off in my plane for a month or two to my farmlands in Oregon. We come back after the last harvest and processing are done, which is usually late fall.” It’s a lot to tell her about myself in one go, but since I now know so many private things about her, it seems fair to open up a bit.

  “You’re a farmer? I thought you were an ex-soldier or something.” She’s intrigued, and I take that as a good sign.

  “Ex-pilot, actually. I used to run my own delivery company.” Close enough to the truth. “I own a hundred acres in Humboldt County; got a buddy managing it for me.”

  “Humboldt?” Her eyebrows rise. She’s heard of it—of course. Everybody who has ever smoked bud at least once has heard of it. “Oh.”

  “Do you think Flubber’s a good name?” Jenny breaks in after running out of cocoa to drain from her sippy. She sets it aside, leaving the puppy to nose at it curiously, and peers at Emmeline earnestly.

  “Flubber is a lovely name, sweetheart. Don’t let your daddy give you a hard time.” She shoots me a mischievous look that’s a pleasant surprise. Her mood’s recovering. That makes me feel good—too good, maybe.

  Maybe if I work hard enough, I can get her mind entirely off of Shayla … and on me instead.

  “I can’t believe she even remembers that movie,” I admit, a little baffled. When did I even watch it with her?

  “Well, it must have stuck.” Emmeline is sipping her cocoa a lot more slowly than I, her hands laced carefully around the heavy ceramic mug, as if worried she will fumble it. She does still glance at the front windows now and again, whenever the breeze moves the branches of the mulberry tree and casts a shadow on the glass.

  I get the impression that she’s rarely at rest, and she probably doesn’t sleep very well either. Maybe I can help there too?

  Looking at Emmeline as she holds a friendly little conversation with my daughter about dog names, I want to do a lot more than just take her to my bed. I want to protect her. I want to make sure she can sleep at night, and feel safe during the day. I want to make her smile …

  Damn it, hold up. I barely know this woman, and here I am already imagining her in my collar.

  I have to watch that. If there’s one thing I have a problem with when it comes to women, it’s falling too hard for them, too fast. Especially the kind ones.

  The warm milk in the cocoa is doing its work, as did all the excited running around with the new puppy. Jenny yawns enormously, and I look over at her. “That’s yawn number one, sweetie.”

  “I’m not sleepy,” she mumbles—and then stifles another yawn. The puppy is already draped over her lap, blinking slowly.

  “All right, but you know the rules. One more yawn and I’ll have to shuffle you off to bed for your nap.”

  “I know,” she mumbles—and yawns again before I can even look away from her.

  “Gimme just a minute,” I say to Emmeline, who nods and takes another dainty sip of her cocoa. Her eyes dance slightly with amusement as I scoop up kid and pup and turn to bring them upstairs. The dog wiggles a little, but Jenny is already starting to doze.

  Once Jenny is tucked in with her shoes off and Flubber in her arms, I go back down to check on my guest. The weight of what I have to ask her tugs at my chest. This isn’t going to be easy, but I won’t feel right until it’s done.

  “How’s she doing?” she asks softly, her sympathy as honest and easy as if we’ve been close for years.

  “Out like a light. She’ll sleep until almost suppertime after all the running around she’s done today.” Chasing Jenny is starting to become a real effort. I’m fit, fast, and tireless, but three-year-olds are giggling blurs.

  I sit back down on the couch, settle back into my seat, and scoop up my mug. “Look, I don’t want to invade your privacy, but I think that we need to talk about what happened with your sister today.”

  She looks down and away at once, a blush deepening on her cheeks. “I’m sorry. I didn’t ever want you to have to deal with Shayla and her bullshit.”

  “Why are you apologizing to me?” I ask, baffled. “Look, I brought it up because I’m concerned for you and your safety. You’re my neighbor, and I’d want to help you even if I didn’t like you or think you’re cute as hell.”

  Her eyes widen, and after a moment I realize I probably said a little bit too much, given how long we’ve known each other. Still, it’s true, and at least it gives her some idea of my motives. Okay, they’re not perfect—but they’re honest, and they do involve giving a damn about her.

  “Look, like I said, I don’t mean to embarrass you or get too personal. But I have known people like Shayla before, and they only ever become more bothersome. Are you sure you’re even safe with her around?”

  She sets her mug down a little hard. Her hands are shaking, and tears spill over her eyes. She wipes at them self-consciously. “Wow, my mascara’s really getting a workout today,” she mumbles.

  I feel terrible for a moment … until I catch the relief in her expression.

  “I’m sorry,” she says in a shaky voice. “It’s just that you’re the first person to give this much of a damn about me since my parents died.”

  “Holy shit, I’m sorry. Don’t you have any friends?” Somehow, though, that just makes her look more miserable, and my heart sinks. Think I just put my foot in my mouth there.

  “I’d like to have friends,” she admits after a moment, “but I don’t have any practice.”

  “What, why? Shayla?” It has to be Shayla.

  “She would always drive them away,” comes the soft reply, disgusting me. “I tried to have friends, but if Shayla caught me hanging out with someone she would bully both of us until they avoided me. She wanted all my attention so she could …” She trails off, her voice rising to a squeak before the tears come again and she closes her eyes.

  “Have you all to herself. But then she drove you away?” I’m trying to get a grasp on Shayla’s character, like I would suss out an enemy, or a potential betrayer. It was a necessary skill in my old business—always keep one eye out for a knife headed for your back.

  “She wanted me to give up my half of our childhood home so she could keep the whole thing. She drove me here, and then that wasn’t enough so she followed me.” Her chest is heaving distractingly, but the tears in her eyes make the luscious display impossible to enjoy.

  “It’s like I said. Is she on cocaine? She remi
nds me of a person on coke.” She might get curious as to how I know that, but right now, I just don’t care.

  “She might be, I don’t know. She’s so much bolder now that Mom and Dad are gone and she has money.” She sniffles, and then looks up at me suddenly. “Why do you care?”

  Her voice isn’t accusing, but rather full of a desperate plea—but it has the same basic effect. The question freezes me in my tracks, not because I’m uncertain of my answer, but because I’m uncertain of how she’ll take it.

  Go gently, I tell myself, draining the rest of my mug before answering.

  “It’s exactly like I said. You’re my neighbor, I like you, and I’m attracted to you. But more than that, I want my neighbors to be safe no matter how biased toward or against them I am.”

  “So you ... look after the neighborhood?”

  I nod. That’s a good enough way of putting it. “My little girl needs to grow up in a neighborhood where people look after each other. Only way to get people to do that is to lead by example.”

  Her eyes search my face, and then she slowly nods. “It’s been a while since I met anyone like that,” she admits, and I can only give her a sad smile.

  She sips at her cocoa, her gaze going from me to the windows and back again, her lush body drawn up tighter than usual. “I used to spy on the family therapists when they would be talking to my family. I was trying to figure out why Shayla is the way she is.

  “She would drive doctors away just like everyone else, and they could never agree on how to treat her. But they gave a bunch of diagnoses that explained some of her behavior.

  “They kept stressing that none of this excused her being that nasty and selfish. She refused to do anything that would help her cope with her personality disorders. They just became her excuse to be such a selfish, unkind person.”

  My lips twist and I look down. How many sad sons-of-bitches have I known who dove into drugs and stupid behavior while blaming their wartime PTSD, or their addiction, or any of the rest of it for their personal choices? I feel bad for them and what they carry, but most of the time, being sick has never been a get-out-of-responsibility-free card in my book.