by Cora Kenborn
I pulled her to me and devoured her neck, and she leaned into me, wordlessly inviting me in.
***
For two weeks, I tried to keep her away from the paparazzi. The minute we stepped out of a doorway, they were sniping like fucking lens terrorists. It didn’t bother me, but it was new territory for Phoebe, and I wanted to protect her as much as possible. I’d kill an asshole for upsetting her. That included stalker bitches who thought they had an opinion on where I spent my time. Especially today.
She’d been moody since yesterday and wouldn’t tell me why. She jumped at every phone call and refused to let me turn on the TV. Her whole demeanor seemed strange, but nothing about Phoebe Ryan was normal. I chalked it up to monthly female issues and arranged a surprise to cheer her up.
Standing outside of her apartment building, my plans went to hell the moment I caught a glimpse of my car, sitting double parked in front of her brownstone. Thinking fast, I grabbed her shoulders and twirled her around before she could see it.
“Hey,” I whispered with a kiss to the back of her hair. “It’s kind of a long drive. Can you go back inside and maybe grab a couple drinks and chips or something?”
She shot me a peculiar look, and I held my breath, praying she wouldn’t argue. Thankfully, she shrugged and headed back up the stairs toward her apartment. I wasted no time in a full-out sprint toward my car.
“Fucking bitch!” Anger bubbled out of every pore in my body as I took in the brown substance smeared all over the windshield of my Corvette. A sickening stench emanated from the hood and assaulted my nose. Leaning in, I took a tentative whiff.
Shit.
Smeared across my goddamn windshield in fucking dog shit was a message.
Lose the piece of shit whore.
Rage that the bitch defiled my car filled me initially, then my blood ran cold as I remembered my car had been parked outside of Phoebe’s apartment—not my house.
My stalker knew where Phoebe lived.
She’s been following me.
Without hesitation, I pulled out my phone and texted Phoebe to stay inside. The last thing I needed was for her to read the vile words that kept repeating in my head. Holding my breath, I climbed in and drove to the nearest gas station to wash the shit off. It ended up taking three cycles to remove all traces of animal feces.
By the time I pulled back in front of Phoebe’s brownstone, she stood waiting in front of it, leaned against the building with her arms folded across her chest. Taking a deep breath, I opened the door to my Corvette and motioned her inside. “It’s not a horse and carriage, princess,” I joked, trying to remove the irate look from her face. “But it’ll have to do.”
Her gait slowed as she paused at the car door. Lifting onto her toes, she wrapped her arms around my neck. “You can make it up to me later.”
My best course of action was ignorance, so I smiled against her lips. “Is that right? What’s in it for me?”
She wrinkled her nose. “What’s that smell?” When I kept my eyes on the road, she finally shrugged and pressed against me. “If you have to ask, Julian, I’m not doing it right.”
“Oh, trust me,” I assured her, swatting her miniskirt. “You’ll get no complaints from me.”
Phoebe started to get in the car when she turned back to face me. Her lips pursed in confusion, and her brow lifted in speculation. “What the hell, Julian?”
I froze, paranoid I’d carelessly left a word scribbled across the hood or something. “Something wrong?”
Her eyes swept over me, and she looked at my attire, different from when we walked out of her apartment. She was dressed sexy as hell, ready for a night on the town, and I’d changed into tan cargo shorts, a camouflage t-shirt, and black sneakers at the gas station.
“Julian, why the hell are you dressed like you’re going bass fishing in Afghanistan?”
I couldn’t hide my grin at her confusion. She was unequivocally screwed. “I dressed for our date, princess. I know you didn’t forget the date you promised me at the album release party, or how I told you to dress last night.”
“You told me to be dressed to kill.”
“That I did.”
“So what are you dressed for?”
“Same thing.”
If anything would get her mind off of stalkers and perceived threats, it would be this.
She stomped her foot. “I’m not going to dinner with you if you’re dressed like a guest star on Duck Dynasty.”
“Ah, she’s catching on,” I teased.
“What? Oh my god, you’re so damn frustrating!”
I was enjoying the hell out of this, and my bad mood began to lessen. “I told you to be dressed to kill.”
“What the hell, Julian? You said dress to kill. That’s exactly what I…” Her eyes widened. “Oh my god.”
I lowered her into the car. “Oh, this is going to be all kinds of fun.”
I recalled our words from the darkened hallway one floor down from a rooftop.
“Oh, princess, you didn’t think I’d go to all the trouble of digging up the ghosts of flower queens past just to be your wingman, did you? You think I want to take you shopping or some platonic shit like that?”
“I could be non-hostile learning to shoot a gun. How does that fit into your agenda?”
“Maybe some one-on-one time to teach you how to handle heavy artillery?”
“I’d hate for you to be embarrassed and have your ass handed to you by a flower queen.”
“So it’s a date.”
I never forgot anything that woman said to me. She’d do well to remember that.
***
“Basically, skeet shooting is designed to simulate bird hunting,” I explained as we walked from the car to the clubhouse. “There are two houses that hold devices called traps, and they launch targets. You use shots to break the clays.”
We’d just arrived at the Asbury Skeet Club off the Garden State Parkway in New Jersey. I held her hand and watched her reaction as we made our way through the grassy field. I didn’t think of the consequences for myself when I gave her wardrobe instructions for clay shooting. I wanted to knock her out of her funk, but in that skirt, she knocked me out.
Denting the fortified walls she’d constructed around herself was a motivating factor in today’s activities. We’d made huge strides the past couple of weeks, but something still kept her at arm’s length.
“You shoot from seven positions on a semicircle. There are high shots and low shots, and…am I confusing you?” I second-guessed myself as her heels sank deep into the mud.
“No, well, maybe a little. It seems so complicated.” She chewed the inside of her cheek and batted those freaking baby blues.
She wasn’t telling me something, but hell, that was nothing new with her.
“Don’t worry, we’re just getting away from the city for a while.” I winked at her. “I want you in the wilderness where no one can hear you scream.”
I was rewarded with a punch to the bicep. “I’ve got seven-point-five million volts that says I’d make you scream first.”
“Damn.” I rubbed my injured muscle. “I was kidding. You scare me with all that stun gun talk. I have an aversion to electrified nuts.”
She giggled, and pressed the back of her small hand against her mouth.
“That’s a beautiful sound.”
She looked up, confused. “What sound?”
“You giggling. It doesn’t happen nearly enough.” Too much seriousness overshadowed such a beautiful girl.
Her look shifted from amused to forlorn. “Not much to giggle about, I guess.”
“Want to talk about it?”
As quickly as she opened up, the iron gate slammed closed with a vengeance. The cords in her slender neck strained with tension. “I’d rather hear about these shotguns we’ll be shooting.”
We were supposed to be concentrating on us, so I let it go. “You ever shoot before, princess?”
A smile curved the side o
f her mouth. “It is our second amendment right, isn’t it?”
“Mmmmm, evasive.” I slid my eyes down the length of her bare legs.
“So, Jagger, wanna show me your gun?”
My head jerked up. “What?”
She tilted her chin toward the clubhouse. “Shooting, genius. The whole reason you brought me here for this strange ‘date’ of yours? Or did you forget?”
“Oh.” Forcing my mind out of the gutter, where it happily swam in a stream of shame, I cracked a smirk of my own. “Of course I didn’t.” Holding my arm out, I indicated a clear path for her to walk ahead. “By all means, after you, your highness.”
She brushed past me, purposely rubbing against me. As she swung her hips back and forth in an exaggerated gait, conflicting emotions raged within me. Although there’d been no texts, no letters, and no phantom photographers in days, the words written crudely on my car weighed heavily on my mind
Watchful eyes were everywhere, and I had to be on constant alert.
Chapter Twenty-Four
Phoebe
I twisted into a pretzel while trying to take my heels off without flashing the entire range. The only thing that made it bearable was forming twisted ways of getting him back for making me wear this ridiculous outfit.
“Want to hold it?”
My head jerked up, and I met his eyes. “What did you say?”
“The gun, Phoebe. Do you want to hold it before the traps start throwing targets?” He grinned and handed me the shotgun, squinting one eye. “Why? What were you referring to?”
“The gun. What else?” I unbuckled my remaining heel and threw it on the ground. Standing, I snatched the gun out of his hands, and settled into position.
“I don’t know.” He smirked. “You looked at me like you thought I was talking about something else. What did you think that was, Phoebe? I’m curious.”
The man enjoyed tormenting me like it was his hobby. “Are you sure you wanna go there?” Holding the butt of the gun, I leveled the barrel at his crotch.
Julian licked his lips and paled. “I guess not.”
“You’re a wise man, Jagger. No matter what the tabloids say.”
Julian snorted and stood up, pulling a blue baseball cap over his unruly brown hair. “Don’t believe everything you read.” He quieted for a moment, then looked back at me. “What’s with the nickname?”
“I don’t know. Isn’t that what your friends call you?”
“You’re not my friend,” he said, his face serious. “They do it to be jackasses. It’s not complimentary.”
I bristled at his tone. “I didn’t mean to assume—”
“You’re more than a friend, Phoebe,” he said, pinning me with a stare. “I think you know that.”
Our relationship hadn’t neared a point where I could comfortably define what we meant to each other. Everything had happened too fast and felt too new to have this discussion. I tried making a joke. “It’s not complimentary because you’re a man-whore?” Silence raged between us. “I was kidding, you know.”
He glanced at me and popped an orange plug in his ear. “What, you don’t read lie mags?”
“That too.” I grinned.
Julian quirked an eyebrow and sighed. “When the band picked up speed and got groupies, the guys used to say I had more panties flying on stage than a Victoria’s Secret show. I never figured out if they were being pricks or were just jealous. Zane had always called me J, and somehow it morphed into Jagger. He said the name was because I got laid more than Mick Jagger. Ty and Lam attacked it like vultures and it stuck.”
“Sorry I asked.” I set the gun down in front of him, making sure the safety was securely latched. Smiling, I made my confession. “By the way, it wasn’t loaded.”
Fighting to keep a straight face, he loaded the gun, inserted his remaining earplug, and assembled his eyewear. “So like I said, there’re seven positions.” He lifted a muscular arm and pointed out each station on the arc.
He could’ve been pointing out unicorns—my eyes were focused on the definition in his arm muscles as they rolled together in one harmonious unit.
“You get two to four shots, depending on the position.” He stopped and looked back at me. “Am I going too fast for you?”
I smiled innocently. “No, I’ll figure it out as I go along.”
His cheek sunk with his grin, revealing the adorable ghost dimple. I remained fixated on him as he quickly shot through his positions, taking twenty-five shots and only missing five targets. Not bad. He impressed me for a Jersey boy. He re-locked the safety and stared vacantly at the field.
“Going again?” I asked.
“Nah. I have to reshoot the first missed target again.” He’d gone somewhere else, seemingly lost in his mind for no apparent reason.
“You’re pretty good at this,” I said, moving in beside him.
He continued facing forward. “Lam and I—I mean, Billy and I—used to come up here all the time in college.”
“Sounds fun,” I offered, encouraging him to volunteer more information.
“We’d come here for a round then show up at home six hours later.” He let out a laugh that startled me. “God, when we’d finally make it back for practice, Zane would…” He stopped, and ran a hand across his mouth as if the words hurt to say.
“Julian?”
“Never mind. It was a long time ago.”
“Are you all right?” I asked, legitimately concerned about him.
He rubbed his eye furiously as if trying to scrub it out his memory. Lowering his hand, he pasted on a fake smile. I was the queen of them.
“Are you ready for your first skeet shooting experience, princess?”
That’s it?
Having a simple conversation with Julian Bale proved to be a constant battle of wills. Writing this book would be as quick and painless as pulling teeth. Whatever he still hid from me, I could tell from the hard set of his expression I wasn’t getting it out of him right now.
I saluted him. “Ready when you are, coach. I feel compelled to warn you that I’m a quick learner. I mean, I did grow up in the South. Pickup trucks and guns were a religion.”
“I don’t know. It can take years to learn.” He smiled and the dimple made a repeat appearance.
As suspected, shameless flirting pulled Julian back from the cliffs of Melancholyville.
“I tend to have beginner’s luck, Julian,” I taunted, running my fingernail down his arm. “Care to put your money where your gun is?”
Recovering rather quickly, his eyes glittered with indecency. “Baby, there’s nowhere to carry money on that Kleenex you call a skirt.”
“I’m a high roller. I say we go for high stakes.” I lowered my voice and gave him my best sultry stare. “That is, unless you’re scared.”
Not one to be intimidated, Julian settled his hand on my hip and pulled me close. “Princess, I’m never scared. Name your terms.”
I exhaled on a sigh, tracing his collarbone. “If I win, you have to give me a pass on a screwup.” It was worth a shot. I had to try to cover my ass.
He forcibly swallowed, his voice rough. “And if I win? What do I get, Phoebe?”
I’d been waiting for this part. “Whatever you want, Julian.”
His fingers dug into my hip, and a wanton grin spread across his face. “I reserve the right to hold you to your word exactly as stated, verbatim. Anything goes. And I mean anything.” His gaze dropped to my skirt.
I rolled my eyes and looked away to hide my red-stained face. “You’re negotiating over a sure thing? How elementary of you, Bale.”
It didn’t matter. I wasn’t worried.
“Ryan, nothing I plan to do to you is elementary. Shake on it?” Julian stuck out his hand, his eyes darkening.
I shivered as I placed my hand in his. He tightened his grip and we shook. Releasing my hand, he handed me earplugs and eyewear and re-loaded the gun. Inserting both plugs, I slipped on the glasses and twirled. “How do
I look?”
He rubbed his chin in deep thought. “Like an extremely nearsighted stripper.”
“You’re lucky you’re holding a gun right now or I’d kick you in the balls for that.”
“Luck is made, not given, princess.” Reluctantly, he handed me the shotgun. “Are my boys safe if I let go?”
“For now,” I scoffed, closing my hands around the weapon.
“For luck,” he said, sliding his blue baseball hat on my head. “It matches your eyes.”
I smiled as Julian stepped behind me. I took the first launch position and aimed.
“The skeets are going to be orange so look for those,” he explained. “It’s just like baseball or golf, your shooting stance requires a full follow-through…”
Time to claim the trophy and put this cow out to pasture.
“Spread your feet wide, and bend forward at the knee. You want to make sure that you…Jesus fucking Christ!”
I leveled the gun, aimed down range toward positions one and two of the high house. Like a slingshot, I popped off a high and then a low, finishing with a double that reduced the skeets to orange dust. Not giving him a chance to recover, I blasted through positions three through seven with frightening accuracy. Finishing eight with a high and a low, I punctuated both with self-congratulatory F-bombs.
I took a deep breath and turned around to face him. I wasn’t sure how he’d take to being hustled. The look on his face nestled somewhere between shock and pride. “Julian…”
“Never shot before, huh?”
I bit my lip. “Just raccoons. Nasty little fuckers.”
“I see.” He gathered our equipment. “Well, a bet’s a bet. I’ll get this stuff back to the clubhouse and take you home.”
Damn it. I desperately needed the victory, but the disappointment on his face screwed with my head.
“Julian?”
“Yeah?”
“I would’ve caught on faster if your fine ass specified that the gun had a thirty-inch barrel with a skeet choke wide pattern, and a twenty-one yard shooting distance. Maybe even a pump action semi-automatic. Now that’s real serious shit.”