by Naima Simone
He opened his eyes.
Nope. Still hard as hell.
Giving in to the need, he greedily studied her skin like liquid gold. Her ridiculously gorgeous honey-and-chocolate curls. Dove-gray eyes. Delicate facial bones. A wide, bordering-on-lascivious mouth that might inspire heavenly sonnets, but a body men wrote Cinemax skin flicks about, not poems. And she kissed…fuck. She kissed like a sinner, not a saint. A sinner who enjoyed it. Just one crush of lips and tangle of tongues seven years ago, and he still remembered her taste. Sunshine and sex. The way she’d licked his lips, sucked hard and hungry on his tongue… Only his mother and sister in the next room had prevented him from shoving Fallon to her knees and discovering if she could curl her tongue around his cock just as prettily.
Well, his family’s presence, and the fact that she was Fallon.
Impulsive, cheeky, whimsical Fallon. His little sister’s best friend and a female Peter Pan, forever young, never growing up. And totally wrong for him. He’d recognized it the night of her eighteenth birthday when she’d ambushed him with a kiss in his mother’s kitchen, and nothing in the time since had changed his mind.
His cock might be all on board the damn-the-consequences-and-fuck-her train, but his brain still retained enough working cells to register that becoming involved with her would only lead to catastrophe. He harbored no doubt that sex with Fallon would be something like tossing a match in a bucket of gasoline, but when it eventually burned out—and it would; it always did—what then? When lust could no longer cloak the dissimilarities that marked them as different as oil and water. There would be hurt and bad feelings—even more than existed between them now. And he would hate for Fallon and Addisyn’s relationship to be affected by the fallout.
Yeah, Fallon had to remain hands off.
Clenching said hands around the steering wheel, he strong-armed his thoughts back to Fallon’s protection and away from all things naked. She finally opened her door and entered the car. He waited until another vehicle pulled behind her before easing away from the curb and following. The drive from the diner to her Allston apartment was short—ten minutes. As she slid into a spot on the side of the three-story brick building, he parked across the street with a direct, unhindered view of the entrance.
Glass door with double panes on each side.
Flimsy green, wire fence that ran from the entrance and edged the sidewalk.
While Shane had finished up outstanding items on his desk earlier that day, Khalil Jordan, one of his three business partners in their security firm GDG Security Solutions, had conducted reconnaissance on Fallon’s apartment building. His report had relayed that the security camera over the door was just for show, and the tenants didn’t require a key or code to unlock the front door. It was a free-for-all for whoever wanted to enter the dwelling.
Why the hell was she living in such a dump? When Addisyn had called three days ago to inform him about Fallon witnessing a gangland hit, she hadn’t mentioned her friend’s living situation. His sister had told him about Fallon being fired from her job at an event-planning company after the murder, but she couldn’t have found better employment than that eyesore of a diner? Something that paid well enough so she could afford better than this place? Surely, her father was helping her financially. Or better yet, with a sociopathic murderer on her ass, why hadn’t she moved in with her father at his Beacon Hill brownstone? Nothing added up.
But then again, this was Fallon. The same logic that would prevent her from asking her very wealthy parent for help was the same that had her insistent about depending on the overworked and underpaid Boston PD for protection for the last three months instead of calling on him. Him, who handled private security for a living.
He snorted, more than a little irritated. Thank God his sister had finally wised up and ignored her best friend’s insane demands for secrecy. Of course it’d taken her noticing a suspicious car sitting outside Fallon’s apartment for two nights in a row for her to make that call to him.
In the two days and nights he and his team had been trailing Fallon, he hadn’t noticed anyone watching her or him, but that little fact did nothing to lessen his frustration at Fallon or his sister.
Fallon exited her car, slinging her purse over her shoulder. The gesture struck him as…weary. No. He studied the slight droop of her shoulders, the customary buoyancy and energy missing from her step as she rounded the corner of the parking lot.
Not weary.
Defeated.
Something inside him leaped and snarled. In the eleven years he’d known Fallon, he’d experienced the full gamut of her emotional range. Defiant. Mischievous. Jovial. Angry. Even sorrowful. But never defeated. On her it was…blasphemous.
The first time he’d seen a man die, Shane had almost lost the burger and fries he’d eaten at the chow hall earlier that evening. The crimson stain of spilled blood. The unnatural stillness. The sick, soul-staining knowledge that he’d taken a life. A taint—a memory—that couldn’t be washed away by years of service and sacrifice.
But he’d been a soldier, charged with defending his country on foreign soil. Weapons, facing attacks, and yes, death, were expected parts of his time in the military. Fallon had just been starting another workday, buying coffee… She never should’ve been brushed by the ugliness of this world. Never should’ve had to witness the cruelty men could inflict on one another. Never should have to be forever tainted with the memory of murder.
If he could, he would steal that knowledge from her, lock it away so it couldn’t touch her. But while he was three months too late to do that, he could still protect her.
As Fallon neared the short walk to the entrance, he noticed two shadows separating from the darkness surrounding the neighboring apartment building. Between one moment and the next, he eased from the vehicle, the disabled interior light not betraying his presence to the pair stealing up the sidewalk. Jerking the short brim of his knit cap lower, he circled the back end, soundlessly keeping pace with them across the street.
Two males. Caucasian. Average height. Both about 160-170 pounds. Dark-colored hoodies, jeans. Light from the streetlamp they passed under bounced off a black gun. 9mm in the right hand of the male on the left. Shane lifted his hand to his shoulder holster, his thumb grazing the brake. No. It would be safer to defuse the situation rather than adding another weapon to the mix.
He blanked his mind. Shut out everything but disarming and neutralizing the two men closing in on Fallon. A calm descended, leveling his pulse, steadying his heartbeat. He stalked across the street, sticking to the black pockets outside the streetlamp’s exposing glare.
In seconds he stood behind the unarmed punk. Barely pausing, Shane slammed his booted heel into the back of the asshole’s knee. With a shocked and agonized scream, the male crumbled toward the ground. The back of Shane’s fist to the guy’s jaw accelerated the fall.
As the satisfying thud of skull meeting pavement echoed in the night, the armed assailant whirled around, gun outstretched in his right hand.
Shane was already moving.
He snapped out his left hand, shoving the gun aside even as he shifted to the right and out of the line of fire. Simultaneously, he rotated closer, gripped the weapon with both hands. In one sinuous motion, he forced the barrel toward the kid, wrist-locking the hand clutching the gun. The scarred, tight muscles in his back spasmed, protesting at the abrupt, fluid motion. He ground his teeth against the twinge of pain and maintained his steady hold.
“Fuck, man!” the guy wailed as his knees buckled, and he strained against Shane’s hold. The cry broke off sharply when the barrel nudged his chin. His eyes widened until the whites nearly eclipsed the dark centers. “Okay, man, okay…”
“Get down on your face, motherfucker,” Shane ordered, voice cold. The gun didn’t waver as he stood over the man who’d intended to snatch Fallon’s life so remorselessly.
Gritting his teeth, he eclipsed the rising anger before it could engulf him. He couldn’t afford
that right now. Not with two dangerous thugs stretched out at his feet. Because he didn’t doubt their identity. Even before the cuff of the guy’s sleeve rode up the arms extended above his head, revealing the L and W tattooed on his skin.
The Lords of War.
Compared to the Bloods, the Avenue King Crips, and Gangsta Disciples, the Lords of War were a relatively young gang. But in the last five years, they’d grown fast—over two thousand members strong—and were responsible for a good part of the drug and firearms trafficking in Boston. As far as brutality, mercilessness, and greed were concerned, the Lords were right up there with the Crips and Bloods.
And Fallon had witnessed their leader, Jonah Michaels, carry out a hit.
“You don’t know who I run with do you, bitch? This ain’t over. You don’t know who you just fucked with,” the Lords of War gang member snarled from the ground, having recouped his balls since the gun no longer kissed his face. “You and the bitch—”
“Shut the fuck up,” Shane growled, pressing a knee into the asshole’s spine. Tapping his Bluetooth earpiece, he slid the weapon into his waistband, then removed a zip tie from his coat pocket, and quickly secured the still-cursing male’s wrists at the small of his back. When Shane finished repeating the action with his ankles, Ciaran Ross’s deep greeting resounded in his ear.
“I need a cleanup. The front of Fallon’s building.” Shane moved to the unconscious male on the ground and flipped him over. “Come in black,” Shane ordered the ex-DEA agent-turned-security-specialist, using their code to approach in stealth mode.
“Copy that. ETA three minutes,” Ciaran confirmed.
With another press to his earpiece, Shane ended the call and made short work of binding the other man’s arms and legs.
Only then did he allow himself to glance toward the apartment complex’s entrance. Only then did he permit the ice encasing his emotions to thaw. Only then did he admit that for the first time since a bullet had ripped through his flesh, leaving him staring up at a dark, star-scattered night as his blood pumped onto a foreign street, he was afraid.
If Addisyn hadn’t called him. If he hadn’t followed Fallon home. If he’d been seconds slower…
A shiver rippled through him.
Fallon emerged from her crouch in the corner of the small porch, making herself as small a target as possible during the fight. She lifted her gaze from the sidewalk where her two would-be assassins lay. Shock darkened her gray eyes until they appeared black. A soft, weak sound escaped her as she wrapped her arms around herself.
Her lips trembled.
Parted.
“Umm…hi?”
Chapter Three
Fallon blinked.
Blinked again.
Nope. Shane Roarke still stood at her living room window.
His tall frame and wide shoulders nearly swamped the pane and glass. Hard muscle strained at the black cotton of his long-sleeved shirt. And as he edged the curtain aside to peer outside, a delicious display of strength shifted beneath his shirt. She focused on that subtle show of lethal grace, latched onto it with a desperation that had panic attack scrawled all over it. In bright red Crayola crayons.
Oh Jesus. She squeezed her eyes shut, but immediately that big, ugly gun in Shane’s hands flashed across the backs of her lids. No! Her eyes popped open. Bad move, bad move.
She returned her gaze to Shane’s back. As long as she fixated on the prime example of badassery in front of her, she could shove aside the fact that she’d been seconds away from becoming a tear on some gangbanger’s cheek. Did they still do that? She clasped her hands together on her lap, the grip so tight her fingers throbbed in protest. Wow, she had to cut back on the Lockup marathons.
“I take it the guys who arrived after your phone call were friends of yours?” Three figures dressed in all black and wearing ski masks had seemingly materialized out of the darkness bare minutes after Shane had put the two men on the ground. Like silent wraiths, the eerie trio had soundlessly hauled the assailants to their feet, threw them over their shoulders, and disappeared as quietly as they’d appeared. If she hadn’t peeped it with her own eyes, she wouldn’t have believed they’d been there at all.
“Yes,” Shane replied without turning away from the window.
“What will they do with those two?” She swallowed, trepidation suddenly necklacing her throat. Which was crazy since they obviously hadn’t cared about her well-being. “Will they kill them?”
This gained his attention. He slowly pivoted, his eyes zeroing in on her. She should’ve braced herself for the impact of it. Even with the stress of the last hour stretching her tighter than a taut guitar string, she should’ve been more prepared for the powerful impact of that intent stare.
He and Addy shared the same astonishing turquoise eyes that belonged only in those over-the-top contact-lens ads or in teen vampire movies. But while her friend’s gentle, blue-green shade reminded Fallon of sparkling Caribbean seas, Shane’s sharper, incisive stare called to mind the gem with the same color. Even the thick, ridiculously long lashes couldn’t soften the hardness in that gaze. But then everything about him was hard.
Close-cut black hair emphasized the angular planes that kept his face from verging into way-too-pretty-for-a-man land. The stern line of his full, sinfully curved mouth. The strong chest and solid thighs that whispered of power and unshakable control. The black long-sleeved shirt, cargo pants, and boots in no way concealed the animal magnetism of a body that was sculpted for a Spartan cape and loincloth. They enhanced it.
“No, they won’t kill them. The two men who tried to execute you tonight will be interrogated and then turned over to the police.”
“Shouldn’t we have called the cops first? Isn’t it their job to ‘interrogate’?” She stressed the term, bristling at his tone and reminder of her near miss of starring on an episode of 48 Hours: Hard Evidence.
Shane snorted. “You have such faith in the police—such faith you didn’t immediately call me when all this went down. When it was the same cops who obviously leaked your name to the Lords of War and didn’t even have the courtesy to call and give you a heads-up that your identity had been compromised.” He crossed his arms. “As for your question, no, I’m not calling them first. Their hands are tied by rules that don’t apply to me.”
A gleam entered his eyes, and a pit big enough for her heart to plummet through yawned wide in her stomach. She wasn’t an idiot. The thought that tonight had been somehow connected to the murder she’d witnessed had occurred to her. Yet, denial and fear had her shaking her head. “You don’t know for certain tonight had anything to do with Jonah Michaels. It could’ve been a mugging, and I was in the wrong place at the wrong time.”
A dark eyebrow winged high. “In a semi-lighted place where anyone could either be leaving the apartment or arriving? They didn’t even try to accost or rip you off. Their purpose was to take you out. It wasn’t a mugging, Fallon. It was a failed assassination attempt. And only two reasons why come to mind. You are the only eyewitness to a hit. And they want to make damn sure you’re not alive to testify.”
She shot to her feet, crossing her arms and rubbing her skin through her white shirt. Three months ago, she’d never heard of Jonah Michaels or the Lords of War. She’d had no clue that a daily stop in a coffee shop would end up in her witnessing a turf-war execution. Terrified but resolved to perform her civic duty even in spite of Michaels’s threat the day of the shooting, she’d picked the hit man, Jonah Michaels, out of a lineup and agreed to testify with the promise from the Boston PD and district attorney that her name and personal information would be kept under wraps.
“I don’t get it. Three months have passed and no sign of trouble. Why wouldn’t the cops contact me?”
“It’s possible it took Jonah Michaels and his crew that long to find out your name. Or it’s possible the detective on your case and the DA don’t know your identity has been compromised. But damn it, Fallon, the police force is known for l
eaking like a sieve.” His eyes narrowed. “Which brings me to my next question. Why did I have to hear about your witnessing a murder that happened three months ago from my sister instead of you? Why didn’t you come to me? Three months ago.”
Really? She fought not to laugh in his face. Oh, it could be the fact that if Shane could help it, he didn’t remain in the same room with her for any length of time. Ever since The Kiss, he’d avoided her like Montezuma’s revenge.
The kiss.
Their relationship could be separated into two eras: BK and AK. Before Kiss and After Kiss. High on turning eighteen and officially emerging out of the jailbait category, she’d cornered Shane in his family’s kitchen, fisted his shirt, plastered her breasts to his chest, and crushed her mouth to his. With him home on leave, she’d refused to pass up the opportunity to find out how her girlhood crush kissed. For one blissful moment, his firm mouth had softened, parted. His tongue had breached her lips, sweeping inside, and taking control of a kiss that segued from fumbling sweetness to blistering hot in under a nanosecond. God, even now she could feel those blunt fingertips digging into her hips, dragging her close as he ground the steely, freaking huge length of his cock against the pad of her pussy, directly over her clit. Like then, she shuddered. He’d been hot and hard for her. Her. Delighted and breathless, she’d pressed closer, moaned, then—nothing.
One moment she’d been drowning in her first real taste of sensual pleasure, and the next she’d been left standing alone, stunned, aching, and trembling with his terse “Not interested” ringing in her ears. He’d crushed her that night. If not in words, then definitely with actions. Her parents had told her they weren’t interested her entire life. With Addy, Shane, and their mother, Trudy, she’d believed she’d finally found people who were. Especially Shane, who’d become her knight in shining armor, her fairy-tale prince whom she’d been in love with for years. His rejection in such blunt terms—it’d cauterized a hope and dream that had been fragile but so sweet. From that night forward, her head and heart had registered Shane’s dismissal. But her body had yet to get on the same he’s-just-not-that-into-you program.