Devil You Know (Lost Boys Book 1)

by L. A. Fiore

  Dinner had been delicious and not just the quality of the steak, but Bobby was a true grill master. We were sitting inside; the kids had gone off to watch a movie. I had had two glasses of wine so was feeling rather mellow. Bobby and Missy were adorable together, often affectionately teasing one another as they were now. I shifted my focus to Damian and felt a jolt to find his eyes on me. I rested my head on my hand and stared back. He was beautiful, even more so when he was relaxed, and he was definitely feeling relaxed right now. I wanted to crawl into his lap. I wanted to leave here, go back to the cottage and rip each other’s clothes off. He clearly read my thoughts because his pale eyes turned darker. He made some sound from deep in his throat, but it was the accompanying look that had heat pooling in my belly, and a little lower if I were being completely truthful.

  “It’s getting late.”

  I felt giddy hearing Damian making an excuse for why we needed to leave and energized because I so wanted that look he had given me to mean what I really hoped it meant. Jumping up and running to the car wasn’t cool, so I managed to pace myself, but my heart was galloping in my chest.

  “Thank you for a wonderful evening.”

  “We should do it again,” Missy said as she walked with me to the door.

  “Our house next.”

  “I’ll bring dessert.”

  We hugged. She actually hugged me and yet I barely knew the woman. I waved to Bobby who was shaking hands with Damian. When I reached the car, Damian was already pulling the door open. I watched as he walked around the car, felt my heart move into my throat. He started the car and pulled down the drive. My brain went completely blank. I couldn’t grab onto a subject if my life depended on it. By the time we reached the cottage my body was so over-sensitized that I wanted my clothes off because they were actually hurting my skin. And how badly I hoped Damian would be the one to remove the offending articles. He shut off the engine then looked over at me and there was no mistaking what was going on in his head. Before he could act on the heat I saw burning in those pale eyes, his phone rang. Talk about a buzz-kill. He glanced at the number and all that was hot turned ice cold. My heart stopped, but now it was worry causing it.

  “What’s wrong?”

  “I’ve got to take this?”

  “Is it Cam?”

  “No. It’s personal.”

  Those words ricocheted around in my head. It’s personal. And feeling what I was feeling those words cut deep so I was just as abrupt when I said, “I’ll leave you to it then.”

  I strolled inside and headed right to my room. I showered, changed and lay in bed staring blindly at the re-runs of How I Met Your Mother but thinking about his personal call.

  The following day, I invited Damian on a picnic to the place that Missy had mentioned. I was surprised he agreed. He didn’t mention his phone call, even when I asked if all was well. That bothered me, but it wasn’t my business even though there was a huge part of me that didn’t agree with that statement.

  The view was beautiful, Missy wasn’t wrong about that. I had really enjoyed our dinner with the Sharptons. They were such down to earth people. The food had been delicious, the children engaging and sweet. The night had been close to perfect except for the scene before dinner and his damn personal call after it. He wasn’t one to keep things from me. Quiet and reserved, yes, but not secretive and I had to say I really didn’t like it.

  Again I adopted the no worries attitude and tried to enjoy the beauty around us. We left the picnic basket near a tree. I had even brought a blanket. I didn’t think for a minute that Damian would sit on the blanket under a tree sharing a meal with me, but I planned on being comfortable.

  “Anton mentioned you ran a team of ex-soldiers, a security firm in the private sector. How did that come about?”

  I hadn’t expected him to answer and was pleasantly surprised when he did. “After I resigned my commission I needed a livelihood. I’ve got the gym and that helps but not enough to build a life on. The only things I’m good at are fighting, fixing cars and running ops. The military has been a part of my life since I was eighteen years old and like a lot of guys, I felt displaced when my career was over. There’s money to be made in the private sector for men with our skill sets and it helps with adapting to life outside of the military.”

  I didn’t want to think about the ops he ran, I had convinced myself he was out of danger when he left the military, but that wasn’t the case and it was scary to think about. His claim of being only good at a few things was bullshit, but telling him that would be a waste of time.

  “What about you? I knew art was your passion, but what made you decide to focus on graphic design?”

  “I’m not limited in my medium or the scope. I can work marketing campaigns, book covers, technical drawings for architects and I get to choose the work and the client.”

  “Your work is beautiful.”

  I turned to find him watching me. “You’ve seen my work?”

  I wouldn’t say he was embarrassed, but he was definitely off-balance when he confessed, “I own every book you’ve worked on.”

  Love washed over me. “You do? How did you know?”

  A little grin tugged at his mouth. “Cam. I haven’t read them, but I own them.”

  His clarification made me laugh because I couldn’t see him reading romance novels.

  “You used to doodle all the time, sketched me and Cam on scraps of paper, your house, a slice cake you were about to eat. Your life as seen through your eyes and hand, do you not doodle anymore?”

  “I haven’t. Not in a long time.”

  “Your work is very artistic and probably challenging, but your personal sketches, the ones that reflect you and your life, I think that’s a show people would line up to see.”

  What a thing to say. I was moved to the point of speechlessness and he used the silence to steer us back to our picnic.

  He ate his sandwich while standing. His attention focused on our surroundings. His words from earlier were still swirling around in my head.

  Our meal was quiet and yet perfect, the silence not frustrating but comforting. When he suggested we leave a little while later, I didn’t argue with him and walked silently next to him as we made our way back to the car. I thought about a showing of my own art. I forgot that I used to sketch my family. They were usually goofy caricatures but I had loved doing it. After Dad died I stopped doodling. I loved my work, but I wasn’t passionate about my work and Damian picked up on that without me even having to say. We pulled into the driveway and I turned to him.

  “Maybe tomorrow we could go into town for a sketchbook and pencils.”

  Love looked back at me. “Absolutely.”

  The house was quiet, the sun had yet to rise, but I was awake. I headed to the bathroom. I loved having a bathroom in my room, but I didn’t love that Damian had one in his room because that meant I was not treated to the sight of him taking a shower. The memory of him showering at the motel had been burned into my brain and I could recall it with astounding accuracy, and had, several times late at night, as I made myself come.

  Moving quietly down the hall, I was surprised to find the kitchen empty. I was sure Damian was up, he was the one to wake the damn rooster. As I prepared the coffee, I wondered how he found this place. Was there a www.safehouse.com that people in the business could search when in a pinch and needed a place to flee? That was a stupid thought because they wouldn’t really be safe houses if there was a listing of them. Silliness aside, the cottage was picture perfect, charming and quaint and so not the kind of place I would expect Damian Tate to secure. Missy had mentioned the previous owner had died. Was it possible she was the woman he had lost? Were we even now living in the house he had shared with her? My stomach roiled at the idea, though I wasn’t sure if it was because of heartbreak or jealousy over a dead woman.

  I moved to the sink to fill the carafe with water, looked outside and saw Damian. I thought the sight of him preparing for the shower was h
ot. He was all sweaty—I was guessing from a run. He wore running pants and sneakers. His bare back, and that tattoo I wanted to study up close, was facing me. I didn’t know when he had done it, but there was a pole between two trees and he was doing pull ups so every muscle that I could see flexed. The man was strong. I had firsthand knowledge of this from the scene in that alley, but seeing all that power as his muscles bunched and corded was seriously sexy.

  I needed to make a pie, needed to keep myself distracted because what I wanted to do was walk outside and climb that man like a tree. I got the coffee on and then started pulling what I’d need for the pie from the pantry and refrigerator.

  I was in the middle of making the crust when he entered from the back door. My greeting was a little too bright due to lust because while I prepared the crust I was thinking about squeezing his buns, rubbing my naked body against his, riding his cock until we both passed out from the pleasure.

  “What are you making?”

  “Pumpkin pie. Two actually since the crust recipe makes two crusts and pumpkin pie only needs one.” I was rambling. “Did you go for a run?”

  He walked to the coffee. “Yeah.”

  “Is it as nice a morning as it looks?”

  “Yes.”

  “Do you take the same route every morning?”

  “No.”

  I wanted to pull my hair out. I was growing tired of the one word answers, particularly since he had slipped a few times while here and forgot to be a cyborg. “No one is breaking through the door, I’m not going to throw myself at you. You can talk to me and not fear you will morph into a lust monster.”

  “Lust monster?”

  “You remind me of the Hulk with your belief that there is a trigger that turns you from all disciplined to reckless in a heartbeat.”

  “There is a trigger. You.”

  My body throbbed. “Are you feeling reckless now?”

  That earned me a hot glance from over his shoulder. And it was a really nice shoulder, bare, wide and it so beautifully blended into the muscles of his biceps and triceps. I yanked my eyes from his exquisite arms to find his were on me.

  “I understand what is motivating you, but it has been difficult with the wall you’ve put up to keep me out. Maybe if we could define what I do that is considered a triggerable offense, we could spend time together without you shifting into a horny caveman. Though I would like to say I am all for you turning into a horny caveman. And by that look, I’m guessing me saying that is a trigger.”

  “Fucking hell.”

  “I’ll take that as a yes. Okay, well I can’t believe watching a movie with me would trigger your inner beast.”

  “You curled up against me, your hands on me, your breath teasing the skin at my neck. Big fucking trigger.”

  They were all the reasons I really liked watching movies with him. Okay so movie watching was out. “What about me joining you for a run? Not that I’m thrilled with that plan because I don’t believe in running as a rule, feel it should only be done when being chased. But if it gets me time with you, I would consider it.”

  “You dressed in a sports bra and shorts. Trigger.”

  “Baking?”

  He eyed the pumpkin mixture I was whisking. “I want to dribble whatever the fuck that shit is on your breasts, down your stomach to your pussy and take my time licking it off.”

  I stopped whisking, needed to brace myself on the counter because I just had a mini orgasm at the thought.

  He then added, “Smelling your arousal is a definite fucking trigger.”

  “Then you should leave the room because I’m so hot right now I’m going to combust.”

  And yet he stayed where he was, across the kitchen leaning against the counter sipping his coffee like he didn’t have a care in the world.

  “How do you do that? Look so calm.”

  “Years of military training.”

  “Talking has to be safe. What harm is there in talking? What are your thoughts on the expression lipstick on a pig? I find it insulting to pigs, but it doesn’t really make sense because pigs are adorable. Now if it was say, lipstick on a cockroach I get that, but the visual is a nasty one not to mention who the hell would want to be that close to a cockroach to put lipstick on it?”

  His mug was halfway to his mouth when he answered. “I don’t have a thought on lipstick on a pig, however lipstick on your lips and those lips around my cock. That’s another trigger.”

  “Everything is a trigger.”

  “No shit. Why do you think I’ve been avoiding you?”

  “I get it now. But I’m going to throw it out there. When horny Damian wants to come out and play, you know where to find me.”

  He left the kitchen on that note, but not before he called from over his shoulder. “Trigger.”

  After our conversation that morning on triggers, I needed to get out of the house because I was definitely feeling a little hot under the collar. I left a note for Damian, grabbed the bike from the garage and headed to the nursery we had passed the other day when we went into town. The place was huge compared to what I was used to in the city. I was wishing I’d brought the car. Strolling around the tables outside, the premade pots were beautiful—aster and millet, mums and ornamental cabbage. Fall was definitely in the air, freshly cut cornstalks were tied in bundles and resting against the wall. There were tables and tables of pumpkins of all sizes, shapes and colors and a table of nothing but Indian corn. It was while I moved through the army of scarecrows that someone approached me. She was in her sixties, dressed in jeans and a flannel shirt and had the biggest smile on her face.

  “Hi. Can I help you find anything?”

  “I’m just looking.”

  “I don’t recall seeing you before. Are you new to town?”

  “I am. My husband Damian and I just moved here last week.” The lie so smoothly slipped off my tongue. I offered my hand. “I’m Thea Tate.”

  “Maureen Petersen.”

  “Is this your nursery?”

  “It is.”

  “It’s lovely. I’m wishing I brought the car.”

  “I may have gone a little overboard, but I just love decorating for fall.”

  I did too.

  “I’ll leave you to browse. If you need anything, I’ll be inside.”

  “Thank you, Maureen.”

  It was amazing to me how nice people were here, so genuinely friendly. If I was more of a cynic, I’d been suspicious about what it was in their air supply that had them acting so nice.

  After the nursery, I went for a ride. Maureen wasn’t the only one who liked decorating for fall. Practically every house I passed had mums and pumpkins which got me wondering who had decorated the place we were staying at. Unless the neighbors took it on themselves so the house didn’t stand out.

  Two hours after I left the house, I returned to find Damian pacing in the living room. I hadn’t even closed the door and he was on me. Right up in my face, pinning me to the wall. “Where the fuck were you?”

  In the alley when he’d killed that man I hadn’t been afraid, but I was afraid of him now. “The nursery. I left you a note.”

  “I was at the nursery. You weren’t there.”

  “I went for a ride.”

  “Until this is over, I want to know where you are every second of the day.”

  “Okay.”

  He rubbed his hand over the back of his neck, the first sign of frustration I had seen from him.

  “I’m sorry.”

  “No, I’m sorry. I just...when you weren’t there…”

  “Maybe we should find something to do with our evenings. Being platonic and alone together is taking a toll on both of us, but maybe we could find an activity or even a job.”

  “You want to get a job?”

  “I want to get out of the house and talk to people.”

  “What kind of job are you looking for?”

  “I don’t know. I’m busy during the day with my design work, but somethi
ng fun and easy.”

  “There’s a bar on Main Street, Janice’s. That place looks pretty happening.”

  “Waitressing is hard work, but it’s a thought. I’m going to pound the pavement tomorrow and see what’s available.”

  “Bring your cell and check in every half an hour.”

  “Okay.”

  “I’m going for a run.”

  “Again?”

  “Yes.” I could have sworn he added, “And a cold shower,” as he walked out. He wasn’t going to be able to keep his hands off me for much longer and that thought had me heading to my bathroom for a cold shower too.

  “I’m sorry. It’s all I have right now.”

  My first stop of the day in my hunt for a job was Charlie’s Chicken Hut. I had thought I could work the register or fry up some chicken since I had worked in the fast food industry in college, but the only job available was a two-day a week afternoon gig of wearing the Charlie Chicken costume while walking up and down Main Street handing out free samples. I wanted social interaction but badly enough to wear a chicken outfit?

  “Thank you for taking the time to talk with me.”

  “I hope you find something else, but if not, I’d be happy to have you.”

  Stepping outside, I put a question mark next to Charlie’s Chicken Hut and moved to the next stop on my list. For the next two hours I was told thank you, but no thank you in more ways than I thought the words could be spoken. My future in Deadwood was not looking bright when Charlie’s Chicken Hut was the best I was going to manage. I was taking a break, having a coffee at the local café, which had me missing Ryder and Kimber. We hadn’t been here all that long and already I was homesick. I noticed the bar, Janice’s, that Damian had mentioned, at the end of the street. It was only two in the afternoon and yet the foot traffic was impressive. He was right, the place was happening. It was hard work, but imagine all the people and conversations. I finished my coffee, popped a mint—coffee breath wasn’t pleasant—and hurried across the street. I pulled the door open and immediately my eyes had to adjust to the dark interior. There was a huge, scarred wooden bar that ran along one whole wall and behind that bar were shelves of liquor that would put to shame many of the more upscale places in Manhattan. Tables dotted around the open floor plan. There were no cloths or flowers decorating them. It was just condiments, napkins and menus. Many of those tables were packed and based on the smells coming from the kitchen, I wasn’t surprised. Two women, around my age, moved through the tables, collecting empties, dropping off lunches, topping off drinks. A man worked behind the bar, cleaning, refilling…obviously preparing for the evening. If the place was this packed during daylight, it was probably shoulder-to-shoulder at night. A woman appeared from the back and how I knew she was Janice, I couldn’t say. Maybe by the way she moved like she owned the place or maybe in the confident set of her shoulders, the arrogant tilt of her chin, the no-nonsense look in her eyes. She was tall, five feet ten at least, long brown hair, but not brown like my hair, auburn brown that hinted at red from the lights shining down on it. Thickly lashed eyes the color of a forest shared a face with features that alone were perfect, put together were exquisite. I felt like a wilting flower, was beginning to think Charlie’s Chicken Hut was not a bad idea.