by RC Boldt
I tell him my story.
As I go through everything, it’s as though I’m having an out of body experience, my voice sounds detached as if I’m telling it from an outsider’s perspective and not as the person who experienced it.
Ty listens, jots things down as we go and, at some point, he switches on the outside porch light when dusk begins to fall upon us. I still don’t know where Foster went as he’s been inside the entire time. His sweet dog’s been watching over me, and it’s almost unnerving how he somehow detects my unease at certain moments while speaking with Ty. Harley raises his head at those given times and gently nudges me as if to say, Hey, you’re safe now.
As I wrap up my awful, convoluted narrative, I brave a glance at Ty to try and gauge his expression. To see if it’s more along the lines of This chick is a few sandwiches short of a picnic.
Which is why I’m stunned the moment I turn to face him in the yellow glow of the outside porch light. Sure, the yellow hued light makes him—makes us both—appear jaundiced, but I see the look in his eyes. And I feel like I already know what he’s about to say even before the words spill out of his mouth.
“Noelle, you did the right thing by getting out. But, we need to file this report now. In order to have anything to stand on when—yes, when—it happens again. Because you and I both know it will happen again. He’s not going to let you go.” Ty waves a hand, gesturing to the house. “He made that clear with those messages inside.”
Exhaling a long breath, he bends down to be eye to eye with me as I remain perched on the top step. “Fos is going to make sure you’re safe for tonight.” He must see the alarm on my face because he holds up a hand to stop me. “Let him. Please.” His lips tip up slightly, eyes crinkling a bit at the corners. “I need to be able to get some sleep tonight, knowing you’re safe and sound, okay?”
Offering a small smile, I nod. “Okay.”
Ty rises and turns toward the door to the house. “Let me get him out of there.” Pushing the door open, his voice begins to trail off as he walks farther into my house. “Fos? You about done?”
I glance over at Harley to find him watching me, and I lower my voice, lean forward with puckered lips. Crazy, but it’s like he knows my intent and lowers his head for me to press a kiss to the top of it. “Thanks, buddy. I appreciate you sticking by my side,” I whisper softly. He makes some sort of doggy-noise as if acknowledging my thanks and nuzzles my jawline with his nose.
“You two ready to head out?” I jerk in surprise at hearing Foster’s voice. That stealthy crap isn’t good for my heart—or my nerves—right now. Apparently, he notices and apologizes.
“Sorry, Davis.” His tone is gentler than normal and it makes me feel off—throws me off-kilter—because we don’t do this whole polite thing, normally.
“No biggie. Just a little jumpy still. I’ll get over it.” My tone is short and the casual tone I intend it to have falls short. Instead, I just sound like a nervous wreck.
Probably because I am one. Imagine that.
Standing up, I stretch my arms upward, feeling the tightness in my muscles from the overload of stress and anxiety during the last hour of my life, and blow out a long breath.
“You’re coming home with me tonight, Davis.”
And with Foster’s quietly spoken words, I find myself promptly employing all of my friend, Tate’s, relaxing, calming techniques used in the yoga class she teaches at the gym. None of which work. Because I’m going home with Foster Kavanaugh. My sexy, hands-off boss who doesn’t really like me. The one I have to steer clear of, the one who got wrapped up in my stupid freaking drama.
In that moment, I feel like asking Alex Trebek, “Can I please have A groaning ‘fuck me’ for one thousand?”
Chapter Seven
Foster
I spent the better part of the hour while Ty had been outside chatting with Noelle making the necessary calls to remedy—as best I could—this situation. I made a call to Perry, Noelle’s landlord, and had to use some quick, slick talk to strong-arm him into knocking down her rent because I knew how much he should be charging her—and it wasn’t fairly priced. Not to mention those shitty ass locks had been flimsy as hell. I plan on replacing those and will be installing a security system, as well. I also made a call to the cleaning crew and explained everything. The owner assured me they’d send a large crew out first thing in the morning.
Now, though, comes the tough part. Because I will be bringing Noelle home with me. And it wouldn’t be in the way I had sometimes—okay, often—imagined her coming home with me. Not at all.
It will be nothing short of tortuous to have her under my roof, but at least I’ll know she’s safe and that, in itself, is worth it. Without question.
Opening the door to quietly exit the house, I find her and Harley having a moment and, fuck, the sight of them with their heads together, Harley watching her adoringly, makes me feel as if I took a round—close range—to the chest. Quickly composing myself, I turn, meeting Ty’s eyes and he nods at me.
“I’m going to head on out. I’ll file everything.”
“Thanks, man. I appreciate it.” God knows he didn’t have to do all this. As Ty heads off to his vehicle, I focus my attention on Noelle.
“Harley.” His ears perk up instantly. “We’re going home, boy.” I start down the steps to my truck and about halfway down I stop. Because he isn’t following me. And that is not normal.
Ever.
He’s stopped, turned, facing Noelle who is standing a few steps below where she’d been perched, face etched with worry. Harley is looking at her and barks once, turning to look at my truck and then back to Noelle.
Get in the truck. That’s what he’s trying to tell her. But she appears frozen, and I worry that shock might be settling in. It’s not far-fetched as it often happens when a person is faced with something traumatic.
Slowly, as if approaching a wounded animal, I retrace my steps back up until only two steps separate us. And, just as slowly, I reach out a hand, palm side up, watching her, my eyes imploring her to take it. The moment she reaches out and slides her hand into mine, I close my fingers around hers in a light grasp.
Softly, I ask, “You coming with us?” Just then, Harley gives a brief staccato of a bark as if putting his two cents in. She looks down at him with a weak smile before meeting my gaze.
“Yes.”
We walk down those stairs, hand in hand, with Harley at our heels, making our way to my truck. And every single step of the way, a certain feeling gets more powerful. And that feeling isn’t one I commonly associate with. Ever.
Because the feeling I’m experiencing, walking with Noelle’s hand grasping my own is incredibly fierce and powerful.
A sense of rightness.
With a woman I am so completely and utterly wrong for.
* * *
Unlocking the door to my place and disarming the alarm system before Noelle and Harley enter, I kick my flip-flops off onto the mat. God knows I’ll either have to scrub the hell out of those fuckers or buy new ones since they now have a lovely array of shit on them from the mess at Noelle’s place. She’s still grasping her phone, has her purse over her shoulder as she slips off her heels. Heels she drives me fucking crazy with. They’re the type that show some of her toes with a strap at the back of her heel and make her legs look sexy as hell.
Snap out of it, Kavanaugh.
Shaking it off, I walk down the hallway to set my stuff down on the kitchen counter. Spotting what appears to be some dresses on hangers draped over a dining room chair along with a few bags from Target on the dining room table with a Post-it note on top, I silently thank my sister for helping out. I move over to pluck the note and read it, smiling as I can practically hear Laney saying it.
Dude. You owe me big time. And next time, don’t you dare say, “My hands can easily cup 36C’s so that’s probably her size.” Gross!!! But, seriously, let me know if you need me to do anything else. Love you, Goober! xoxo
<
br /> Even though Laney and I give each other shit, it’s done in love. She’s the best sister a guy could ask for, that much is certain. When I called her earlier, asking her to pick up some stuff for Noelle, giving her a very brief rundown of things, I knew Laney’d take care of things.
“Love note from one of your women, Kavanaugh?” Noelle slides up beside me, eyeing me curiously, gaze flickering to the note in my hand.
Hand clenching around the note, I ignore her question. “This stuff is for you. I had Laney pick up some things.” Gesturing to the dresses on hangers, “Guess she’s loaning these to you, if you want or need them.”
Her blue eyes dart up to mine. “You asked her to do this? For me?”
The way she’s watching me makes me uneasy so I shrug it off. “Sure.” Grabbing the bags and hooking my finger through the hangers holding the dresses, I head over to Laney’s old room, the one she stayed in when she was my roommate a few years back.
Calling over my shoulder to Noelle, I say, “There’s a double bed in this room and the bathroom is right across the hall. You should be all set.” I enter the room, setting the bags on the bed and carefully place the hanging clothes in the empty closet.
She replies with a quiet, “Okay.”
Glancing over at her in the doorway of the spare bedroom, I add, “Laney got toiletries and everything for you. Hopefully, she got what you need. Make yourself at home, get changed and comfortable. But then,” I lower my head, fixing my eyes upon her with an intensity, “we need to talk.”
She offers me a nod that comes off as reluctant, but it’s acquiescence just the same. I exit the bedroom and wait for her to cross over the threshold, and watch as she walks toward where the bags of items are lying on the bed.
“You’re safe, now, Noelle.” I wait for my words to sink in, detecting the infinitesimal relaxing of her shoulders. Closing the door quietly, standing there for a moment, it isn’t until I hear the distinct sound of the plastic crinkling that I let out a silent exhale.
Running a hand over my short hair, I hope to hell I can keep her safe. Not only from whatever she’s been running from, but also from something—someone—I fear is more of a threat to her in so many ways.
Myself.
Chapter Eight
Noelle
My life was officially out of control.
Home trashed? Check.
Person I was running from found me? Check.
Interviewed by a sheriff’s deputy? Check.
Threatened via a message written on my TV? Check.
Currently spending the night at my boss’ house? Check.
My. Life. Was. No. Longer. Normal. And I hate this feeling. After managing to make it over a year, setting up a new life, making new friends, settling into a new job, and finally feeling as though I had succeeded in leaving that part of my life behind, the reality of what happened tonight was setting in.
Why? Why now, after a year, was he doing this to me?
Closing my eyes, I hear a scratching sound at the bedroom door. Tentatively turning the doorknob to open the door a crack, I nearly laugh out loud at who’s outside my door.
“You want in, huh?” I mumble quietly. Harley cocks his head to the side. Smiling down at him, I open the door wider. “Come on. I’m about to get cleaned up and change clothes.” His nails click on the hardwood floor of the bedroom, going silent only when he steps onto the area rug the bed is set on.
I close the door again and rummage through the bags to find an array of items; toiletries, underwear and bras, comfortable sleepwear. I choose a pair of loose-fitting, gray pajama pants and a plain, feminine version of a tank top in the same color. With those in hand, I take the plastic bag filled with toiletries and exit the bedroom to head over to the unoccupied bathroom. Harley follows me as he has apparently deemed himself my bodyguard and after closing the door behind us, he sits down.
Finding a few large, fluffy bath towels set out on the vanity, I start the shower, adjusting the water temperature to make it just hot enough to stand. Stripping myself bare, I slip into the shower, allowing the water to cascade over me, fantasizing the water itself is washing all of my worry, fear, anger, and stress away.
As I brace both palms against the tiled shower wall, hot water pelting me from the showerhead above, I give in. I allow it to happen. Once more and that’s it, I promise myself. Then, I have to pull up my big girl panties and get back to the business of not letting this shit mess up my life.
Only once more will I give in to the overwhelming emotions of the day.
Silently crying in my boss’ shower as his dog sits on the other side of the shower door, listening to me, I let it out. I cry for what I allowed to happen to me from the start. I cry, mourning the sweet, naïve woman I used to be. I cry, the anger rushing through my veins at the audacity of him doing this to me—past and present. I cry thinking of the road ahead of me, as I consider the challenge of dealing with this situation yet again. I cry, fearing what he might try and do to me. And that fear isn’t just for me, but now I have people I know will see through the lies he might try to deliver—people I care deeply for. And the last thing I want is for them to be hurt or harmed in any way.
I cry in anger because I let a man do this to me. But, God willing, it will end once and for all. It will end here, in Fernandina Beach.
It will end here … or I will die trying to end it.
* * *
Foster’s sister is up to no good. I repeat, Laney Kavanaugh-Mayson is up to no good. At all.
This becomes clear when I realize that in my haste to get cleaned up and change out the day’s clothing, I had not checked the sizes of the pants and tank top. The thing about Foster’s sister? She’s no dummy. And I know she’s been chomping at the bit, dying for her brother and I to have some freaking love connection. Regardless of how many times I repeatedly tell her it isn’t going to happen.
Ever.
So this lovely tank top? It’s a bit too snug across my chest and the material of the bra is thin. So any slight, cool breeze that might come by and perk up my nipples? They’re going to be on display. Firmly. In front of my boss.
Joyous.
Sliding my hands up beneath the front of the tank top, in between it and my bra, I attempt to stretch out the fabric. But I only succeed in making it appear wrinkled and messy. So now I look frumpy.
Super.
“Screw it,” I mumble. I’ve combed out the tangles in my hair, leaving it down to air dry, and brushed my teeth. I cringe at the prospect of Foster seeing me without makeup, but then I remind myself that he’s my boss and nothing more. It doesn’t matter if I step outside the bathroom and he sees my freshly scrubbed face and cringes in horror.
I’m lying. But, hey, a girl’s gotta do what a girl’s gotta do.
Glancing down at Harley who’s casually lying on the super soft, plush mat on the bathroom floor, I eye him. “You ready to head out, buddy?” Lowering myself to crouch in front of him, I rub him behind his ears, which I’ve already discovered he loves.
“Ready to help me brave the interrogation I’m pretty sure is about to happen?” I whisper. He nudges the bottom of my chin with his nose as if to say, Chin up, kiddo.
“Yeah, I hear ya.” Straightening, I open the door and turn off the lights as we exit. “Let’s do this.”
Approaching the kitchen and living room areas, I find them empty. Looking over to the large sliding glass doors leading out to the back deck, I notice a few large pots of lit citronella candles. Catching the sight of Foster’s side profile as he gazes out at the ocean waves, the partial moonlight casts a glow over him.
That crease between his brows has been more pronounced lately, ever since that initial news report had been broadcast, feeding into his worries about his friend. And now, today, he had to hear the worst news. On top of that, I had to go and be a freaking nuisance. Bother him with my own shitty drama. Way to go, Noelle.
Sliding the door open, I step out, closing it behind me. Wi
th nervousness and insecurity swirling in the pit of my stomach, when I step around to take a seat in the chair to his left, Foster turns my way.
And promptly freezes. Then, he lets out a long, muttering of “Fuuuuuuck.”
Exactly the response every woman with no makeup, damp hair, and sloppy pajama pants wants to hear.
Not.
Chapter Nine
Foster
My sister is trying to kill me.
That’s the only thing running through my mind right now as I stare at the sight of Noelle wearing that tank top.
So thin. So tight.
Her breasts are showcased in it, the fabric pulled taut over her luscious curves. As if that wasn’t bad enough, the breeze off the ocean paired with her hair still damp from the shower must send a chill through her. Because those nipples of hers harden right before my eyes.
Fuck. Me.
No, really. Fuck me. Please, an inner voice pleads. God, I’m a sick bastard.
“Foster?” she asks, hesitance in her tone. It alerts me to the fact that I just swore and she’s probably thinking the worst. Let’s face it; she’s a female. Not that I pretend to understand the inner workings of women’s minds, but even I know my response likely sent her into the He must think I’m heinous looking scenario, or some shit like that.
Noelle takes a seat in the chair to my left, tentatively settling into it, regarding me carefully. And my eyes slip down. Again. To those damn nipples.
My eyes fall closed on a silent groan, and I hastily reach behind my head, grabbing the collar of my T-shirt to pull it over my head.
“Arms up.”
“What?” The crease between her brows pops up, and I would give anything to reach out and smooth it with my thumb. Just to feel how soft I’m certain her skin is.