by Layla Frost
It didn’t work.
Nothing but Gus would.
GUS
Living with Killian was fucking—or as he said, fookin’—hard.
Not for the reasons I’d been expecting, though.
Sure, picking up after myself and not letting my garbage person instincts take over was a full-time job. And coming up with an appropriate thank you gift was near impossible, especially since my sixty dollars of wine hardly scratched the surface of what I owed him.
All of that was tolerable. But what wasn’t?
Killian Nox.
A man who was as unreal as his name.
First of all, he smelled amazing. His soap and cologne were manly and crisp. Adding in the scent of his occasionally smoked cigar—woodsy with a hint of honey—made the combination all the more appealing.
And I may have known him for almost two weeks, but I still hadn’t gotten used to how attractive he was. The height, the muscles, the beard, the tattoos… It was all working for him. And, creepy admirer I was, it was very much working for me, too.
On top of his many physical attributes, I’d been forced to deal with his thoughtfulness. He’d given me his bed, crossing his arms and not budging on the issue. Almost every morning, he’d made me a travel mug of coffee the way I liked. Every night, whether he was there or not, he’d ordered and paid for dinner to be delivered. Twice it’d been Mexican, which was my favorite—something he’d quickly picked up on.
Just that morning, he’d texted to tell me he’d be making Thursday night dinner. After the hellish week I’d had, there was literally not one thing that sounded better than a home-cooked meal.
Especially when I wasn’t the home-cooker, only the home-eater.
When he’d gotten home that afternoon, he’d been carrying bags holding everything we needed for a steak and potato dinner. Plus, the ingredients for chocolate chip cookies—something I’d mentioned in passing I’d been craving.
There was only so much perfection one woman could put up with. Killian was smart. He was sweet. He was dangerous, imposing, intimidating, funny, soft, tender.
Intense.
He was the kind of guy who’d rip a heart to shreds, taking some pieces so it could never be whole again.
Not on purpose, of course, but the outcome would be the same.
Which was why, as I stood in his kitchen, I contemplated starting a small fire and fleeing from the building. It may have been extreme, but compared to the other urges in my head, it was actually the most reasonable.
I wanted to climb the man like a tree.
And, if his hand touched my lower back one more time, I might lose my head and try.
To be fair, his touches had been innocent. A light graze as he’d passed to grab something or another.
But that didn’t mean my lust-fueled mind didn’t do its thing. It bent. It twisted. It turned the innocuous touches into strip teases followed by Cirque du Soleil level kinkiness.
I was a dirty perv.
When Killian moved in close behind me, his muscular arm reaching past to refill my wine, I went rigid so I wouldn’t do something stupid.
Like, lean into him.
Or turn and beg him to kiss me.
Or offer myself up for dinner.
“You okay, little one?” he rumbled in my ear.
That was something else new.
Little one.
I was short, but compared to him, I was downright tiny. My height, or lack thereof, seemed to make people think jokes were okay. Like, did I use a booster seat when I drove, or was the weather different down here. It also gave the impression I’d enjoy the top of my head being used as an arm rest or constant comments about how ‘cute’ I was.
Except for some self-doubt a couple weeks ago—courtesy of the face-to-face with the leggy beauty—people’s comments didn’t make me dislike my size.
They made me dislike people.
With Killian, it was different. He wasn’t mocking or teasing me. It was an endearment, like honey or sweetheart were. Casual niceties.
I liked hearing it from him, especially rumbled in his thick accent.
But it wasn’t my favorite.
The night before, I’d jolted awake from a bad dream. It’d been the type that made my heart clench, the vague pieces of the nightmare quickly fading from my mind, but the panic it’d brought had held me hostage. I’d slipped out onto the balcony to get some fresh air, and Killian had already been there. Too tired to think, I’d gone to him and gratefully accepted the comfort he’d offered in his hug. I didn’t remember much more than the feel of his arms and what he’d called me.
Mo chuisle.
I had no clue what it meant. Googling for a translation had offered up nothing, likely because I’d butchered the spelling. I’d considered asking but had decided against it. I liked the way it’d sounded. The way he’d said it. I’d rather keep the mystery than find out it meant something as simple as chick.
Or messy garbage person.
Trying to play it cool, I began stirring the mashed potatoes. “I’m fine. Just don’t want these to burn.”
“Well, you know how serious us Irish take potatoes, but I’d say we’re safe.” When I looked at him, he added, “I turned that burner off a few minutes ago.”
“Oh. Right.” Left with a massive amount of nervous energy, I was about to do something desperate… clean. Luckily, the timer for the cookies went off. I pulled them from the oven and was transferring them to the cooling rack when Killian’s phone rang.
“Aye?” he answered. There were a few beats of silence followed by a low, annoyed grunt. “You’ve gotta be shittin’ me. Aye. Aye. Hell. I’ll be right there.”
I tried not to let my disappointment show. “Maybe, if you’re lucky, I’ll save you some leftovers.”
His body was tight, his jaw clenched, but at my words, he smiled. It was small, but it was there. “Sorry, lass. If it wasn’t—”
I waved my hand to brush off his apology. “It’s fine. Nolan and I will eat like kings and get caught up on our shows.”
Killian took a step toward me before his phone started ringing again. “Fookin’ hell,” he growled, answering it as he stalked to his room.
My mind wandered as I packed away most of the food. I wondered where Killian was going. I wondered what sort of freelance situation had called him away. I also selfishly hoped it was easily resolved so Killian would return quickly.
Grabbing a Ziploc bag, I tossed most of the cookies in and walked to the bedroom to offer them to him. My words died in my throat when I saw what he was holding.
That’s a really big freaking gun.
Why does he have a big gun?
And why does he have a gun holder thingy at the small of his back?
Well, duh, to hold his really big freaking gun.
Why does he have such a big gun?
After sliding his gun in the holder at his back, he put his left foot onto the bed and pulled up his pant leg. He strapped a smaller one in its holder on the inside of his leg.
I should’ve backed away or made a lot of ruckus to make it seem like I’d just arrived. I should’ve done something more than stand there frozen, staring in mesmerized silence.
When Killian put his foot down and turned toward me, I was ready to lie and say I hadn’t seen anything. However, one look at his expression told me he’d known I was there the whole time. It was guarded yet expectant, like a blank mask had been slipped on as he waited for my reaction.
What is my reaction?
I have no clue how I’m feeling right now.
Holding up the bag, I blurted, “I packed you some cookies. I know I said I’d save you leftovers, but I can’t guarantee it’d include the cookies because I love them, and I have zero willpower. So I packed them for you to take.” I tossed the bag at him before spinning around. “Okay, enjoy.”
“Gus.”
At my name, I stopped but didn’t look back. “Hmm?”
“You gotta give me
more than that, mo chuisle.”
“Okay, I’ll pack another bag of cookies if you’re gonna be so greedy.”
“That’s not what I mean, and you know it.”
Inhaling, I looked back at him. “What’re the chances you’re a cop or a government agent or James Bond?”
He shook his head.
“Right,” I murmured. “Are you at least a good guy?”
He shook his head, and my stomach sank.
“Rosie calls you ‘Mr. Bigger and Badder’ which is even more fitting now,” I shared.
“Your best friend?” At my nod, there was a definite curve to his lips. “You told your best friend about me?”
My eyes widened as I realized the—very true—implications of that. “Briefly. In passing. Hardly anything.”
“Enough for her to give me a nickname.” Before I could think up an excuse, he continued. “I may not be a good guy, but I’m not the bad guy.” He paused for a second before amending, “Not the baddest.”
“So you’re in the gray area? That sounds pretty Batman-ish to me. Do you have a secret underground fortress, a butler, and a Batmobile? Because if you have a butler, you’ve totally been holding out on me.”
“I have a converted warehouse, Nolan, and a Harley.”
“That actually sounds better.” I glanced at the bed to see another big gun and what I guessed were bullet holder thingies next to it. “If you have two big guns, how come you don’t wear a…” I gestured from my shoulders to my armpits, “whatever that thing is? A gun bra?”
“Shoulder holster?” he offered, fighting a smile.
“Yeah. That.”
“Because I’m not a stereotype of a detective from the fifties.”
“Oh. So people don’t actually wear those? They look badass.”
“For short times, aye, they’re worn. Usually for show. But they get uncomfortable.”
“Just like with the tie on the door, TV and movies have lied to me.”
There was a beep from his phone seconds before the doorbell buzzed.
As he started throwing the rest of his things in his bag, I went out into the living room and paced. My mind worked through the bullet points.
Literally.
He had guns.
He may not have been a bad guy, but he wasn’t a good one, either.
Whatever he was off to do, it must’ve been dangerous to require the weaponry he had.
Wrapped up in my thoughts, I didn’t notice him behind me until I turned and almost slammed into his chest. As it was, I was thrown off balance and would’ve fallen had his hands not spanned my hips.
Keeping hold of me, Killian whispered, “I’ve gotta go, little one.” His expression was filled with regret and anger, though I was pretty sure only one had to do with me.
“Okay,” I whispered back.
“We’ll talk when I get home. About this. About… everything. Aye?”
I nodded.
Like he was a human lie detector, Killian searched my eyes—my soul. Seeming to accept my answer, he let me go, grabbed his bag, and left.
I stood like that for a while, curiosity and worry fighting for my attention. Since my thoughts could only stay circular for so long, they eventually shut down, leaving me numb.
On autopilot, I sat down to watch Netflix with Nolan while I ate my weight in cookies.
I fell asleep on the couch, surrounded by Killian’s scent. My dreams were filled with him—alternating between nightmares of his death and erotic ones where he possessed me so fully, I woke up panting and writhing with need.
It wasn’t until the next morning, when I exhaustedly plopped down in my first class, that I realized it hadn’t even occurred to me to call the police.
Batman would be so disappointed in me.
CHAPTER FIVE
WHISPERS IN THE SMOKE
GUS
A DAY DIDN’T SEEM LIKE A LONG TIME.
Twenty-four little hours.
One thousand four hundred forty minutes.
A… shit-ton of seconds.
Not very Rent like, but I was picking up Killian’s vocabulary, not Seasons of Love.
My day had felt endless as I’d waited to hear from Killian. In between classes and school work, I’d spent a lot of time dreaming up wild, soap opera-esque answers to my questions and worrying if he was okay.
Nolan missed him.
And, fine, okay, I may have missed him, too.
That was why, when my cell rang and showed a private number, my heart went crazy. Panic, hope, happiness, and dread tightened my chest, making my voice come out as a squeak when I answered, “Hello?”
“Augusta?”
“This is she.”
“Hi dear, it’s Susan Mayson.”
My already strumming panic went into overdrive. My stomach clenched painfully, a million worse-case scenarios racing through my mind at once.
Why’s Meema’s neighbor calling?
With shaking hands, I gripped the phone. “Miz Susan, what’s wrong?”
“It’s your grandma. She’s stable in the hospital with great doctors, but she’s had a stroke. She…”
The rest of her words faded to the whirling in my ears. I blinked rapidly as I glanced around, surprised.
Everything looked the same.
My entire world had shifted so violently, it seemed wrong that everything should look the same.
“Augusta, are you with me?” Miz Susan called, the worry in her tone penetrating my daze.
“Yes, ma’am. I’ll book a flight right now.”
“I wish I could tell you that wasn’t necessary, but I think it would be for the best.” She gave a small sigh. “You’re a good grandbaby.”
No, I’m not.
I ditched my meema.
After all she did for me, that was how I thanked her.
And now look what happened.
I made a noncommittal noise before asking for more details, hastily scribbling them down.
After hanging up, I loaded the airline website on my laptop while simultaneously calling Killian. I bounced around where I stood, as though that would make time move faster.
He answered on the first ring, asking, “Everything okay?”
“My meema,” I started before revising, “grandma. She’s had a stroke. Her neighbor called me, and she’s in the hospital. My grandma, not the neighbor. I didn’t even ask how she was. Shit, my grandma would be pissed if she found out I was so rude. And if she found out I just said shit. And said it again—”
“Gus.” Killian’s voice rumbling my name was enough to pull me from the loop of craziness I’d gotten stuck in.
“Right. Okay, so I need to fly into Nashville and rent a car. I’m not sure when I can get a flight, but I’m hoping soon. I can bring Nolan, but I don’t know how he does with travel—”
“You don’t need to take Nolan.”
“I don’t mind. I said I’d watch him, and you’re not the only one who keeps their word.”
“This is different. Someone else will take care of him.”
I tried not to let my imagination leap to man-whore conclusions in a single bound, but it did. Since I had enough on my plate without wondering if some big-boobed beauty would be spending time with my snuggly Nolan, I tamped down my jealousy and looked at my computer. “Shit. Shit, shit, shit.”
His voice went more alert. “What?”
“I get it that it’s last minute, but these prices are ridiculous. If someone’s travelling with such little notice, it’s likely an unplanned emergency. Yet these dickheads don’t hesitate to price gouge the desperate. If I ever meet one of them, they’re getting a throat punch.”
“Noted,” Killian said.
My eyes narrowed as I scowled. “Are you making fun of me?”
“Never, lass. You may be wee, but someone would have to be off their nut to go against you.”
“Oh.”
That’s… oddly super flattering.
Pushing that warmth to the back
of my mind, I tried to stay on topic. “Are you sure Nolan will be fine?”
“Aye, he’s good. I’m worried about you.”
“I’m okay. Meema’s fine. Yeah. Definitely. I mean, I don’t know for sure, but she’s only sixty-seven. That’s still young. Right?”
“Aye, it is. I’m sorry, mo chuisle. If I were doing anything else, I’d drop it to be there.”
That warmth was impossible to ignore or push aside. “Thank you.”
My phone beeped, and my heart went drumline crazy.
I was about to wrap up the call when he asked, “Did you get a text?”
“Yeah.”
“That’s your flight and rental confirmation. It’s a one-way ticket, so let me know when you’re heading back, and I’ll book your return.”
My eyes scanned the insane prices listed before me. Even the ones labeled as deals were more than I spent on books a semester, and those fuckers were worth more than gold.
“Killian, the cost of these—”
“Is fine.”
“I’ll pay you back,” I blurted, knowing damn well it’d take an eternity.
“You want, you can make me a shit-ton more cookies.” He paused for a second. “Your flight leaves in two hours. Go be with your nan. Keep me up to date. Aye?”
“Yeah, okay.”
“Go pack, lass. I’ll see you when you get home.”
He hung up, leaving me staring at my phone, unseeing.
Home.
In all my thoughts of going to Tennessee, it was just that. Tennessee. Not home.
When did that happen?
KILLIAN
Any other job, and I’d have dropped it. Walked out in the middle and gone to be with Gus.
The lass had sounded devastated and shaken, and it killed me.
But I couldn’t go. Not with the whispers growing. Not with shit about to hit the fan.
I glanced at two of my guys, Matt and Beck. While I’d been on the phone with Gus, I’d seen the curiosity they’d failed to hide. I had no doubt Dair had already run his big mouth to them about the lass who had me losing my mind, but it was something they’d never witnessed.
I didn’t offer—or owe—them an explanation.
“Grab Eddie,” I ordered instead. “Chances are he’s out of his mind somewhere, so it should be an easy pick up.”