by Kay Maree
“Trace. Lucifer. Are either of you in here?” Lula’s sweet, yet husky voice calls out.
Goddammit! Of all times for her to pop in, now would have to be the worst timing in the history of mankind.
“Back here, babe,” Lucifer replies, making me want to beat his ass all the more.
I haven’t been able to hide how I feel about Lula well. She elicits a response from me like no other woman I’ve ever met. Aside from her beauty and huge heart, Lula has a fragility about her that speaks to me.
You could probably describe me as having a savior complex when it comes to women I care about - scratch that, women in general – but Lula’s different. I don’t just want to save her; I want to protect her from anything and everything that could even possibly cause the perpetual smile to fall from her beautiful lips.
“Hi, guys,” she chirps, rounding the corner into the back offices, Lucifer, and I work out of.
This building is old and set out like all the others on Colonial Boulevard – the main drag that runs through the center of town. The guy who owns our building and every other on this side of the street is the oldest son of one of the two families who own most of the commercial properties in Waterfield.
The Ascots and the Trenton’s are treated like royalty around here. They bought up huge parcels of land, back when Waterfield was just another tiny dot on the map, infusing huge chunks of change into the community to grow the town from a population of five hundred residents, to the twenty-eight thousand it is today.
That’s not to say they’re good people, though; they’re not. Wallace Ascot, is the son of one-half of the town’s patriarch’s and the owner, by living inheritance, of our side of the street. He’s a pompous ass, who has nothing better to do than stick his nose and hands into everyone’s business.
Honestly, for lack of a better description, old Wally is a shakedown artist.
Granted, he’s not fucking dumb enough to try that shit on with Lucifer and I, but word around town is that he’s tried and succeeded in some cases to collect what he calls “extra payments for rental security.” In other words, he’s extorting money out of business owners under the threat of eviction.
Lula’s face and incredible body comes into view, and my dick goes rock solid at the sight of what she’s wearing. Tight as hell yoga pants, which stop at mid-calf, and a loose, flowing tank top, that’s cut low enough under her arms you can see the bright pink sports bra she’s wearing. On her feet are a pair of plain black flip flops with a huge flower on the toe, and her long black hair is pulled up onto the top of her head in a messy bun. While this is her standard attire, there’s no denying Lula’s a knockout – something my cock seems to adamantly agree with.
“What are you doing here, Lula?” I bark, a hell of a lot more harshly than necessary.
Controlling my emotions around this woman is next to impossible. Since the first time I saw her walking out of her yoga studio, four doors down from the Sentinel offices, I haven’t been able to get her out of my head. For love nor money, no matter how many women I use to try and fuck her out of my system, but it simply doesn’t work.
But the worst part is, Lula is completely unaware of my attraction toward her. She takes every opportunity to touch my arm or stand as close to me as humanly possible without being surgically attached to my side. Her sweet, chaste kisses on my cheek every time she sees me are like adding kindling to an already smoldering inferno. Everything Lula does turns me on, and she doesn’t have the first fucking clue she’s even doing it.
Looking between Lucifer and me, Lula stammers, “Oh, well, I was hoping to talk to you for a minute, but if you’re too busy right now, I can come back.”
Lucifer reaches over and takes her hand in his. “We’re done. He’s all yours.” Leaning down and kissing her on the top of her head, Lucifer whispers something I can’t hear in Lula’s ear which causes her to giggle.
Fucking asshole. Now I’ve got to worry about him charming two of my girls, not just Tatum.
“We’re far from done,” I growl, crossing my arms over my chest. “Mark my words; you and I are gonna have a lengthy conversation about this shit later. But until then, stay away from Tatum.”
Lucifer chuckles at my demand, collecting his keys and wallet off his desk before replying. “Yeah, there’s not a chance in hell of that happening.”
Prick.
The silence is deafening once the door slams shut behind him, leaving Lula and me alone. Being in the same room as her is uncomfortable, not just for my cock, but my heart too. She makes me feel things I didn’t think I was capable of feeling after my two failed relationships, and the string of women I tried dating afterward.
“Trace,” Lula’s hesitant voice echoes through the quiet.
My brain is swimming with images of that sweet voice crying out my name as I thrust into her equally sweet body. Hearing her scream out her pleasure as I bring her to orgasm over and over again goes a long way to calming the savage beast Lucifer’s announcement unleashed.
“What brings you by, sweetheart?” I finally find myself asking when what I really want to know is what it would take to get her to agree to go on a date with me.
I’m a good fifteen years older than she is – a fact which as much as I try to ignore keeps coming back to haunt me. Lula’s still young enough to find a man to settle down and have children with; she doesn’t need an old man like me tying her down. Because I would, happily. I’d tie her to me so tight that she had no way of leaving me, nor would she want to.
Lula fidgets with her hands, wringing them together as she gestures to the chair beside my desk. “May I sit?” She asks politely.
Fuck.
“Sure, sweetheart,” I nod, retaking my seat.
“I know you and Lucifer are really busy, so I hate to ask, but I want to hire you. One of you that is. It doesn’t have to be you. I mean, if you want the job, I’m more than happy for it to be you, but Lucifer would be fine too,” she rambles.
Laying my hand on her arm, a jolt of electricity sparks between us, further confirming what I already knew. Lula and I have a connection – one that’s going to eventually be impossible to ignore.
“Do you know what we do here, sweetheart?”
“Yes,” she breathes, making her phenomenal tits heave as she inhales.
“Then you know we chase down criminals who have jumped bail or have outstanding warrants. I’m not sure what you think we could do for you darlin’.”
“Ah, see, that’s the thing,” she murmurs, gnawing on her thumbnail. “I need you to find someone for me.”
All of my senses go on high alert at the look of sheer terror in her eyes. Lula isn’t a woman prone to dramatics, so whatever is worrying her has to be a big fucking deal. Her fear is a tangible thing; I can almost taste it.
“Explain,” I state forcefully. Almost urgently.
Lula refuses to look me in the eye, diverting her attention to a spot over my shoulder. “Have you ever heard of Nelson Dunleavy?”
“Everyone’s heard of him, sweetheart. That asshole runs the biggest underground gambling circuit this side of the Nevada border.”
Before I can ask how Lula knows about him, she says, “Then you would also have heard the name, Elias McDougal.”
Yeah, I know that bastard alright. Elias McDougal is Nelson Dunleavy’s, right-hand man. A notorious Irish Mob enforcer, McDougal has a body count higher than that of most active duty military personnel. And I’m not just talking about your average, run of the mill grunts here; I mean SEALS, covert ops, and spooks alike.
Jesus, what has my girl gotten herself into? These guys are bad fucking news.
I don’t reply, although I’d love to. Instead, I sit and wait for her to go on. Thankfully, she doesn’t make me wait long.
“You have to understand, Trace. I didn’t know who or what he was. I was young and blinded by promises of being taken care of. My mom and dad weren’t bad parent’s; th
ey were worse than that. Mabel had to practically raise me herself. She was only sixteen, caring for a one-year-old because our parents were either too high or never there. However, anything was preferable to them being home. They are mean, violent, and desperate people, willing to do anything to get their next fix. Which is why I’m surprised they waited so long to do what they did. Mabel had been gone for years when my parents offered me to Elias in lieu of paying the debt they had accrued. I didn’t realize it at the time, but they were bartering their own daughter to cover the cost of their addiction.”
Lula pauses for a moment, and just when I think maybe that’s the whole story, she goes on to add, “It wasn’t until the day I married him that I found out the truth, but by then, it was too late. There was no way out, and believe me, I tried. The first time I attempted to run, Elias broke my leg. He said if there were a second time, my punishment would be worse. Then he promised that if there were a third, he would just kill me and dispose of my body somewhere no one would ever find me.”
“Fuck, baby,” I hiss low in the back of my throat.
Lula shakes her head sadly, refusing to acknowledge the sympathy in my hushed words. “I scrimped and saved for years before I had enough money hidden away that I knew I could get away and live for a little while. I put away every dollar I could from the meager grocery allowance, Elias gave me, spare change, money I stole from his wallet while he was sleeping, you name it, I squirreled it away. One day I was at a bookstore and saw a table in the back with a map laid out on it. I decided then that I was going to flip a coin; wherever it landed, that’s where I’d go. It landed on Waterfield, so here I am.”
My blood boils at the thought of Lula being hurt, that any man could cause this beautiful creature any measure of pain. Every cell in my body is screaming at me to hunt, seek retribution, destroy the man who dared harm a hair on her head. But that’s not what she needs from me right now. So instead, I stand and pull her out of the chair into my arms.
Her body stiffens at first, but soon she’s melting into my embrace. Lula buries her head in my chest and wraps her arms around my waist, hanging on for dear life. She doesn’t need to, though. Because about two point five seconds after she told me she was married to Elias fucking McDougal, I made the unilateral decision that no matter what it takes, if it’s right or wrong, and regardless of our age difference, Lula is mine. Mine to protect. Mine to avenge. Mine to cherish. And mine to love.
Now, I’ve just got to convince her I’m worth loving back. “Tell me what you need from me, darlin’,” I prompt, running my large palm down the length of her spine before settling it on the small of her back.
Shivering in my arms, Lula pulls away from me but doesn’t let go. “I need you to find, Elias before he finds me.”
Well, fuck!
Chapter Five
Tatum
Avoidance has been my go-to word over the past week. And when I haven't been avoiding everywhere Lucifer or my dad could possibly think to look for me, I have been employing evasion tactics like a boss.
Now, that's not to say I haven't crossed paths with my highly aggravating, too good looking to be ignored husband in the last seven days, or my fit to be tied father because I have. It's just that up until now, I've been faster at outrunning them, and more cunning at giving them the slip. My dad will tell you it isn't cunning, it's cowardice, but I try not to listen to him on the best of days, and especially not now, so whatever.
The text messages and calls have become more demanding, more explicit with what he intends to do to me when I eventually come out of hiding and face him. We're up to ten, if not an even dozen per day. That's when he isn't stalking me at the firehouse, leaving notes for me to call him or else, or camping outside my house until all hours of the morning. And, no, before you say anything, it is not romantic. Stalking is never romantic, regardless of the fact that said stalker is hot as hell and can melt a woman's panties from a hundred yards away with a mere smirk.
And let’s not get me started on my dad. He has been like a dog with a bone, demanding that I meet with him and his lawyer to look into an annulment. Dad is confident that Lucifer tricked me into marrying him, that he spiked my drink and dragged me to the altar, or something equally as ridiculous. And since I haven’t confirmed or denied any of his ridiculous assumptions thus far, dad is refusing to give up on the idea that this ‘temporary situation’ as he calls it can be resolved with the help of a few signed documents.
My bestie, Scarlet has issued numerous warnings as to how stupid she thinks I'm being, and for the most part, I happen to concur. I know running from Lucifer is a fools’ errand. He's a goddamn bounty hunter for God's sake; he can find a needle in a haystack from three states away, he's that good at what he does. However, every time Scarlet starts in on me with one of her lectures, I can't help but be a wee bit offended. Okay, so a lot offended.
I'm not an idiot like she thinks I am. In fact, I know exactly what I'm doing, and it's called buying time. Time for me to think. Time for me to plan. Time for me to decide what I really want without everyone breathing down my neck, telling me what to do. Not that I've had much of the aforementioned, or will since I can literally feel it slipping away from me.
“Can you please, please, pretty please with a nipple tassel on top text your husband back and tell him to stop coming into work and scaring all my customers away?” Scarlet whines pathetically.
I continue to strip out of my work uniform, which for the second day in a row is covered by questionable stains thanks to two of the patients my partner and I transported to hospital taking turns throwing up all over me, and ignore my soon-to-be-ex best friend.
“Seriously, Tate. That hulking mountain of man meat is fucking with my tips, and I need those. I've got my eye on a magnificent pair of new-season Louboutin's that are calling my name. Imagine this; four inches of spiked, leopard print, peep-toe perfection, and in my size. Did you hear me? My size, Tate. Do you know how rare it is to find pretties to fit these clodhoppers? Hmm, do you?”
Scarlet throws herself onto my bed. It's all drama, all the time with this one, but I wouldn't have it any other way. God, I love this girl.
“How could I not know, Scar? What, with you telling me every other day and all,” I sigh, sliding my button up shirt off my shoulder, and launching it in the direction of my overflowing laundry hamper.
Damn, I so have to do some laundry soon.
A fluffy accent pillow hits me on the side of the head.
“Shut it, biatch. You and your size sevens can kiss my ass. Fucking canoes, ruining my chances at full-blown addiction,” Scarlet mumbles under her breath. Unsuccessful, mind you.
While I'm glad she's gotten off the topic of Lucifer and me, I'm just not in the mood to hear her complain about her genetically abnormal size ten feet; her words, not mine. I mean, honestly, for a woman so hung up on the size of her leg ends', Scarlet sure does have a metric butt ton of shoes. As in, enough to wear a different pair every day for three months.
“So...” she grins evilly, crossing her arms behind her head, making herself comfortable. Oh, fuck me sideways. Scarlet getting comfortable can only mean one thing; she's settling in for the long haul.
“So, what?” I return as I pull my favorite pair of yoga pants up my aching legs.
Today was a long day that tested every ounce of my rapidly disappearing patience. As a paramedic for the Waterfield Fire Department, I work a rotation of three nights on, two days off, one day on, another day off. It's a grueling schedule that leaves me exhausted and bitchy. Now, don't get me wrong, I love my job. Nothing is more rewarding than saving lives and kicking ass. But there are occasions - today being one of them - that I wish I had gone to beauty school like my sister, Jayla.
Yeah. I could get down with ten to four shifts, five days a week if the most taxing aspect of my job was deciding how to make a sixty-eight-year-old retiree look forty for her granddaughter's wedding.
“So, my l
ittle ray of hangry sunshine, what are you going to do about the buff Adonis that provides half the women in town with X-rated rub-reel material?”
“Ew, can you be more disgusting?” I shudder at the image of women getting off to fantasies of my husband.
“I think we both know the answer to that is, yes,” Scarlet sing-songs.
“Well, can you not? Just the thought of Mrs. Krilljack flicking the bean to visions of Lucifer naked is horrifying,” I fake-gag, referring to my elderly eighty-year-old neighbor.
Waggling her eyebrows at me, Scarlet giggles uproariously. “Oh, but you so know she does. I've got to tell you, babe, if I didn't have my eye on my own sexy hunk-o-burning-love, I'd be totally dreaming about your hubby while I dip into the honey pot.”
“Sweet mother of fuck, Scar,” I groan. “That is way too much TMI.”
Sometimes I find myself asking, why the hell I haven't rendered Scarlet permanently mute. I have the skills to do it, and the equipment too. Hmm, that idea merits further thought, I mused, dropping onto the bed beside her.
“There's no such thing as TMI between besties. And anyway, you love me despite my potty mouth and wonderfully filthy imagination.”
That depends on the day, but I don't tell her as much.
“What's going on with you and Locke-o-love, anyway?” I ask, steering the conversation away from me and my man issues.
Scarlet rolls her eyes and scoffs. “Nice Segway there. And for your information, nothing. Nada. Zip. Zilch. I still cease to exist to my stubborn future baby daddy.”
“You do know, it's kind of a pre-requisite that Locke knows he's going to be the father of your offspring, right?”
“Po-tay-toes, po-tah-toes,” Scarlet quips. “I figure he'll get the message loud and clear when I'm riding his love wand from here to the land of climax.”
“And where does, Violet factor into your grand plan of impregnation?” I question, bringing up Locke's utterly adorable six-year-old daughter.