by Snow, Nicole
My name's on the front, neatly handwritten. Landlord’s letterhead logo in the upper left corner.
Oh, crap.
Just another thing I don’t want to open tonight.
I need something to fortify. Wasn't that the whole reason I went out, anyway? Not to meet some Cabernet-swigging wannabe Casanova.
I’ve been ignoring an email from my publisher all day. Subject line? “Re: His Royal Nuisance.”
Pinch me. I sent the manuscript in over two months ago. Normally I get a response back within weeks. The silence has been deafening, and I’m afraid the email will be damning.
If I’m going to author-hell, I'll do it on a five dollar bottle of pink Moscato.
Never trust a girl who drinks Barefoot Cellars, either.
She’s usually broke and chases her wine with straight up bad luck.
I drop myself on the barstool in front of the kitchen island, pour a glass, and toss it down. Courage comes in pink fizzy form.
I close my eyes, letting the tingles go to my head until everything feels a little floaty. Sweet distance. That’s what I need. That muting layer of mild intoxication that makes everything feel just a little farther away, and a little less likely to stab me in the heart.
Okay. Now for the envelope.
I slit the top with my fingernail, so not in the mood to care about my manicure. The single sheet of paper spilling out is obviously a form letter. The blue ink swoop of my landlord’s name gives it away. So does what’s supposed to look like a signature, but is obviously a rubber stamp smacked on by a tired secretary. A number in the middle of the top paragraph jumps out at me.
Two thousand dollars.
That’s what they want to charge me for rent, starting in two weeks.
I can barely manage the eighteen hundred I'm paying now for an overpriced shoebox of a one-bedroom walk-up.
“Holy shit,” I mutter to myself, the grim realization setting in. Two thousand will push me from living on ramen to living in the cardboard box the ramen was packed in.
Defeat hovers over me like a guillotine waiting to drop, but that thread’s not snapping just yet. There’s still hope in the email.
All I need is a solid advance for His Royal Nuisance and I’ll be able to handle the rent hike. At least long enough to keep from having to move again after the fifth rent adjustment in two years.
I top off my glass, take a sip for bravery, unlock my phone, and swipe the email notification.
And immediately feel my throat close shut at those horrid first words, “We regret to inform you…”
Those bastards don’t regret anything at all. Not when they go on to list a litany of my faults, calling the book rushed with flat, unrealistic characters, incoherent sex, and zero chemistry.
I guess it’s not enough to stick the dagger in my gut.
They have to twist it, too.
Mission accomplished because I can't even breathe.
Yes, I know I forced the book. But I thought I’d been doing this long enough that I had it in the bag and could at least rely on experience to push me through.
I haven’t been shot down like this since I was a baby author sending my first query letters. Another brutal sign I’m off my game.
Mojo, lost. Everything’s a disaster, and that disaster’s name is McKenna Burke.
I’m ready to chuck my phone across the room when it buzzes in my palm. My brother’s name pops up on the screen with the same cheesy cheerful selfie grin I’d set for his icon.
Steve, not now. Bad, bad timing.
I almost hang up. My head throbs, my heart hurts, and I don’t know if I can stand someone else being happy right now while I'm so miserable. But I could use a little human connection, too, and one way or another...
Steve always makes things right.
I take another swig of Moscato, this time straight from the bottle, then wipe my mouth with a gasp and tap to answer the call.
“Hello?” It falls from my lips by reflex, when my mouth feels numb and my head is whirling.
“Hey, sis,” Steve says. Perky as ever. With the way I feel right now, it’s like being dead and hearing voices from the living. “Did you get my email?”
“Email? What?” I blink vacantly, and pull my phone away for a second. Oh, hell. There’s like...ten other emails I’d ignored, including one from Steve with the subject “Gamma’s birthday.” But he’s still talking, this tinny voice coming from the speaker, as I put my phone to my ear again. “Sorry, sorry, just looking now. I just saw it and haven’t had a chance to open it. Sorry.”
“No biggie! I was just asking about the card.”
“Card?”
“Gamma’s turning ninety, remember?”
“Oh...”
Ninety. Oh God. Oh hell, I...I completely forgot, and ninety’s the big one. Ninety’s the one where you know you won’t have them for another decade, but you hope anyway and celebrate like it’s not all downhill and scary from there. I'd wanted to pick out something really nice for Gamma’s ninetieth, and yet I’ve been so wrapped up in my own mess that I completely forgot.
Add bad granddaughter to my growing list of faults, too.
“Sorry,” I mumble, and the next thing I know the counter is blurry in front of me and my nostrils are burning and I can’t make heads or tails of anything when everything inside me is constricting. “I’m sorry, I-I –”
And that’s when the tears hit.
Snotty, sniffly, ugly-cry tears, slamming into me like a sledgehammer and coming out on a coughing sob. I cover my mouth, trying to whimper another apology, but all that spills out is these wretched, awful sounds. Steve makes a panicked noise.
“Kenna? McKenna, what’s wrong? It's – Jesus, sis. It’s just a card. You didn't murder anybody, don't worry, I’ll pick one out for you if that'll help –”
“Steve, it’s n-not th-tha...”
“Then what's going down, baby sister?” His voice softens. Calming. Soothing. “C’mon, Kenna. Talk to me. Let it out.”
I take several breaths, quick and deep, trying to get myself under control until I’m not stammering and hitching with every word.
“Everything, Steve.” I croak out finally. “My publisher just rejected my latest novel. My rent’s going up. I can’t meet a single man who isn’t like some creepy carbon copy of Ryan Seacrest. I’m so cursed I might as well be a black cat, and my life is shit. It’s just shit and I don’t know what to do.”
The last part is a wail that makes even me cringe, but Steve takes it all in stride. He always does.
He’s older than me by a few years, almost thirty, but with his bright cheer you’d think he was the younger one. He’s like a Labrador or Golden Retriever or something. Just scratch behind his ears and his world is all good. And if you're hurt, he comes running.
“You’re not cursed,” he says with more confidence than I could ever muster. “You’re going to be fine. Everyone has bad streaks. The important thing is to make a plan and get through it. You’re great at planning, remember?”
“Right. Just fabulous. The last time I planned a family vacation, we ended up sleeping in a stable in Nepal. With goats. Remember?”
“That was an AirBnB mixup, not yours.” He laughs. “Look, sis, you need to recharge your batteries before you write your next book. So why not stop worrying about rent and get away to the beach?”
I snort. “Sure, I have beach money lying around. I’ll just live on my wealthy rich kid trust fund for a few months.”
“Okay, smartass,” he teases gently. “But I’m serious. I know a place you can hang out. Look, it’s just a few hours north of L.A., like twenty minutes north of the bay in Sausalito. You can drive there in less than a day. An old friend has this place on the beach where you can stay in the guest house rent free.”
I tilt my head, eyeballing the bottle of Moscato. It’s calling me, but I’m trying to resist its lure. It won't help me. Steve, on the other hand...
“No such thing as rent free,�
�� I tell him. “Where's the catch?”
“Nah, no catch. Friends helping friends, that’s all. You remember Landon, right? My best friend? How we were always over at his place when Mom and Dad were traveling?”
I remember.
I remember hard enough to drop a stone on my heart, and the bottle of Moscato’s suddenly in my hand like a woman dying of thirst while I take a deep swig.
Holy hell, Landon Strauss. I could live ten more lifetimes and I'd never, ever forget that name.
“Nope!” I say as soon as I swallow. “Sorry, Steve, but no.”
Landon Strauss isn't someone I need to be around. He’s just a dark memory.
But wasn't it that memory of blue eyes and how starry-eyed he made me feel that led to a completely foolish decision tonight?
Once upon a time, I had the worst crush on Landon Strauss. More than a crush, actually.
I was crazy mad in love with him, and how he’d spin me all around until I was ecstatic and floating, the next I was small and awkward and ready to crawl in a hole and die.
I don’t want that feeling back. The nerd next door, glasses and all. Annoying baby sister tagging along everywhere.
I'm also not ready to revisit that unspeakable, unholy thing that happened the day my crush on Landon ended. That stupid, dark, soul shocking thing that transformed him into someone else right before my eyes.
Not just no. Hell no!
I’ve grown into myself and I’m now McKenna Burke, successful romance author.
But to Landon, I’ll always be that annoying child who stuck her nose where it didn’t belong, and uncovered secrets I never should've seen the day I picked up his damn journal when he wasn't looking.
I’ll always be the girl who knows something damning I can never believe, but that could ruin him if I ever opened my mouth.
He hates me. And I should hate him.
And he sure as hell won’t want me living on his property anytime this century.
“Kenna? Why not? What's the big deal?” Steve asks, pulling me back from my memory-misted past and into my wine-fogged present. “Hey, it’s not like he’s going to invade your fortress of solitude or anything. You’ll have plenty of free writing time. He won’t even be there most of the time.”
“Why not?”
“His security company’s really taking off. He's a busy dude. Enguard, remember? That's the name. So, he’s away on jobs most of the time. He’s had a few beach bums and prowlers squatting on his property, I guess, and he said he needs to take care of the cats and make sure kids don't mess around. Really, you’d be doing him a favor. Keep an eye on the place, do a little writing, and soak up the beach without paying a dime of rent. No big scary neighbors from the past up in your space.”
I make a noncommittal sound under my breath.
I can’t possibly be considering this, but I have to admit, it does sound tempting. Life rent-free, a place to get my head together, away from the too-familiar rush of L.A.
If it’s possible to get cabin fever from an entire city, I’ve got it.
Still, it's Landon.
“What do you say, sis?” Steve presses.
I sigh. “Give me time. I'll think about it, okay? It’s not really as easy as packing up and taking off. Let's talk later.”
Except it is that easy, if I want it to be, I realize as I hang up the phone.
It’s exactly that easy.
It’s not like I haven’t done it before, only this time I’d be doing it without hungry landlords nipping at my heels. Hell, half my stuff is still in boxes from the last move. I never bothered unpacking because I didn't feel secure.
I can’t possibly be considering this. But the opportunity is too good to ignore, and maybe...
Maybe I need closure.
Maybe he does, too.
I owe Landon an apology, at least. A few words to clear the air. I can tell him I’m sorry, purify the bad blood between us, promise him I’ve kept his secrets, be an adult and hope he’s willing to be one, too.
As I go to bed, I tell myself I'm not doing anything on heartbreak and cheap wine.
But by morning, I’ve already left notice for my landlord that I’m terminating my lease, and I’ll be back in thirty days for my things.
The next thing I know, I’m packing.
Sun, sand, and some time alone to screw my head on straight.
All I have to do is write the perfect book, and I’ll be back in the game and able to take care of myself again. It’s not like, if things go wrong with me and Landon, I have to deal with him very much.
Okay. Okay, I tell myself as I stuff a sports bra and yoga pants into a duffel bag.
Let’s do this.
No hesitations, and no regrets.
I'm going to get over Landon and everything dark in my life, or else.
II: Little More Than a Fig Leaf (Landon)
I’m really not into animal cruelty, but right now, I’m ready to skin a cat.
That's because one just dropped down paws-first on my sore, bruised stomach. Among their other talents, cats are experts at concentrating all their weight onto one paw and then drilling it down into you like they’re trying to puncture through to an exit wound. And one of those sweet little assholes – Velvet or Mews, I’ve only had them two months and I can’t tell them apart – is currently doing a Russian army march right over the freshly purpled bruises I picked up during a rough night.
Whoever said love is pain was clearly a cat owner.
The cat on my stomach meows. Loudly.
Mews, then. A fitting name if there ever was one.
I groan, but don’t open my eyes just yet. I’ve got a headache from hell I was hoping to sleep off. Just five more minutes for the first time in what feels like years.
Cats, however, don’t really care about my beauty sleep. Or my blood pressure.
They care that I have opposable thumbs and can work a can opener, and the fact that I’m not doing so right this second.
I groan, dragging a hand over my face. “Fine,” I mumble into my palm. “Okay, okay. I’m up.”
Actually, I don’t move.
A soft, velvety forehead butts against the back of my hand, followed by a rusty-sounding purr. Even if I’m ready to string the little monster up, I can’t stop myself from scratching between his ears. He closes his eyes in sheer delight and thrusts against my fingers.
This is how they get you. Food for love.
Don’t think for half a second this fuzzy little jerk means it.
A thump and weight pressing on the end of the bed tells me I have about five seconds before Mews has a dance partner on my aching body. It’s that more than anything that gets me to roll out of bed, pausing to stroke between Velvet’s ears before dragging a robe on against the faint, wet morning chill blowing in off the ocean. Downstairs the sun is bright through the kitchen windows, scraping at my bleary eyes.
Coffee. I need a strong, paint-stripping cup.
And then it’s back to business as usual.
I'm still shaking off my 'fun' from the night before. A Mayor's campaign downtown brought us in, extra security for their fundraiser. The rabble rousers who showed up made good on their promise to make a scene after tensions flared. One of the assholes broke the police line, managed to land a blow to my gut and another to my jaw, before I had him by the throat and on the ground, holding him until the cops took over.
I remember why I don't like politics, even when it pays.
I leave a pot to brew and dump out a couple fresh tins of foul smelling food in the monsters’ bowls. Grain-free or something, but it’s just meaty and heavy and enough to make me retreat while they shove their faces in with hungry, messy sounds.
At least they’re easily pleased.
Wish I could say the same for the fucksticks jerking me around lately.
A few of said fucksticks whine nasally from my voicemail as I plop my phone on the counter and set it to play back on speaker while I do something about breakfast. Bot
h voicemails are pure bullshit, and both are from agents of the same client.
Milah Holly. The next big starlet manufactured by a Hollywood sound studio and fed the lyrics they’ve decided will be the voice of a generation. She’s high-profile. Big money. A good contract.
And she’s driving me out of my mind, when the job hasn’t even started yet.
These voicemails alone are full of scheduling issues. I might start working for Milah in a few days, or in a few weeks.
I don’t know. She doesn’t know. No one knows, and I halfway think they need to hire someone to get their shit straight long before they hire a security firm.
But I can’t afford to let this slip through my fingers. It's too big an opportunity for Enguard.
Ever since I turned over my old man's company, Crown Security, to Dallas Reese – grade A asshole, son of dad's former and currently incarcerated partner, Reg Reese, and the jackass who’s been playing a one-up game with me since we were fucking twelve – I need every leg up I can get to keep my own company thriving.
Enguard’s seen rapid growth and won a solid piece of the market, but if I let my guard down too long, then Dallas and Crown Security will swoop right in and snatch Milah – plus the prestige this contract nets me – right out under my nose.
I sigh, once again adjusting the dates in my phone’s calendar, and settle to pour a cup of strong black brew. As I set the carafe down, though, a hint of motion flashes in the corner of my eye, out of place among the gently wafting trees framing the house.
I glance out the window. Someone’s skulking around the beach house again.
Fuck. I bet it’s those goddamned kids again, or someone casing the place for a possible break-in.
I’ve had enough.
Slamming the carafe back into the brewer, I stomp to the door, yanking it open. I’ve got to get the drop on them this time.
Before they’ve seen me coming, and run off before I catch their faces on my phone, or collar them before calling the cops. This isn’t the kind of security I do, chasing down idiots on my property, but that doesn’t mean I can’t use my skills to make sure they get what they deserve for trespassing and potentially breaking and entering.