by JA Huss
Contents
Mr. Mysterious
DESCRIPTION
Chapter One - Mac (Mr. Perfect) Right Now
Chapter Two - Paxton - Eight Weeks Ago
Chapter Three - Cindy
Chapter Four - Paxton
Chapter Five - Cindy
Chapter Six - Paxton
Chapter Seven - Cindy
Chapter Eight - Paxton
Chapter Nine - Cindy
Chapter Ten - Paxton
Chapter Eleven - Cindy
Chapter Twelve - Paxton
Chapter Thirteen - Cindy
Chapter Fourteen - Paxton
Chapter Fifteen - Cindy
Chapter Sixteen - Paxton
Chapter Seventeen - Cindy
Chapter Eighteen - Paxton
Chapter Nineteen - Cindy
Chapter Twenty - Paxton
Chapter Twenty-One - Cindy
Chapter Twenty-Two - Paxton
Chapter Twenty-Three - Cindy
Chapter Twenty-Four - Paxton
Chapter Twenty-Five - Cindy
Chapter Twenty-Six - Paxton
Chapter Twenty-Seven - Cindy
Chapter Twenty-Eight - Paxton
Chapter Twenty-Nine - Cindy
Chapter Thirty - Paxton
Chapter Thirty-One - Cindy
Chapter Thirty-Two - Paxton
Chapter Thirty-Three - Cindy
Chapter Thirty-Four - Paxton
Chapter Thirty-Five - Cindy
Chapter Thirty-Six - Paxton
Chapter Thirty-Seven - Cindy
Chapter Thirty-Eight - Paxton
Chapter Thirty-Nine - Cindy
Chapter Forty - Paxton
Chapter Forty-One - Cindy
Chapter Forty-Two - Paxton
Chapter Forty-Three - Cindy
Chapter Forty-Four - Paxton
Chapter Forty-Five - Cindy
Chapter Forty-Six - Cindy
Epilogue - Paxton
END OF BOOK SHIT
About the Author
By J. A. Huss
Edited by RJ Locksley
Copyright © 2016 by J. A. Huss
All rights reserved.
ISBN-978-1-944475-10-9
This is a work of fiction. Names, characters, businesses, places, events and incidents are either the products of the author’s imagination or used in a fictitious manner. Any resemblance to actual persons, living or dead, or actual events is purely coincidental.
DESCRIPTION
Paxton Vance isn’t as cryptic as he thinks. That broody nature and tough-guy exterior aren’t fooling me one bit.
I know everything about him. I listen in on his most personal phone calls. I read his mail before he does. I even know what his mother got him for Christmas last year.
You’re the man of my dreams, Paxton Vance. You just don’t know it yet.
But don’t worry, I’ll remind you. I’m here to give you everything you need, before you know you need it.
So don’t get defensive because I take a challenge seriously. You have to open up to someone, and that someone is me.
Besides, you can’t stay Mr. Mysterious forever. Why play the game if you never want to win?
ALL BOOKS IN THIS SERIES CAN BE READ AS A STANDALONE!
Mr. Perfect
Mr. Romantic
Mr. Corporate
Mr. Mysterious
Mr. Match
Chapter One - Mac (Mr. Perfect) Right Now
The sound of a helicopter outside wakes me. Rubbing my eyes, I turn over, find Ellie missing—she’s up in Idaho Springs with Ming and Ariel for a spa weekend—and sigh a little, wishing she was here.
But the helicopter sound gets louder. So loud, in fact, the walls start vibrating. Ellie has complained about this in the past when I’ve come home from a trip using the helicopter, but no one has ever come to the house in a helicopter but me, so I’ve never experienced it.
What the fuck is happening?
My mind races with all the worst-case possibilities.
Ellie fell off a cliff up in the mountains.
No, that’s stupid. They wouldn’t Life Flight her here, for fuck’s sake. They’d take her to a hospital. I’d be woken up by a phone call, not a helicopter.
Some kind of work emergency.
Equally stupid. Work is twenty minutes away by car. No one but me would fly over here from work. Hell, no one but me has a helicopter at work. We have a ton of jets over there, but only one helicopter. And it’s mine. Parked outside. On my helipad.
Nolan. He’s my next guess.
But no. I just talked to Nolan a few hours ago. He called to ask me if he should threaten or bribe Ivy’s OBGYN into telling him the sex of the baby. They just had an appointment the other day and Nolan emailed me some ridiculous blobby-thing picture of their bun in the oven. Ivy has taken the surprise route as far as the baby’s sex goes.
Nolan isn’t handling that well.
I told him bribery is probably better than threats. So it can’t be Nolan outside. He wouldn’t leave Ivy alone. Besides, he’s too far away for a helicopter ride. He’s out at that desert hotel they run.
It’s not Oliver. I know he’s in New York trying to close some deal.
Pax is the only guess left.
And he makes sense, so I throw the covers off and jog down the hallway towards the front door. Scout barks excitedly, following full speed behind me, ever the faithful farm dog. I don’t even know where Pax lives right now. He says he has an office in LA, but I’ve never seen it. And he’s always out here in Colorado with Oliver.
But Oliver called me just this morning wondering if I’d seen or talked to Paxton, and I had to tell him no. Pax never bothers with me unless one of us has called a Mister meeting.
Scout crashes into me as I slide on the smooth polished floors in my socks. The house is chilly now that fall is in full swing. And Ellie likes to keep the thermostat in the in-floor heating turned up, but she’s not here to regulate the temperature. So I slip my feet into the boots I wear out to the barn and grab the first thing my fingers come in contact with from the foyer closet, and pull the navy-blue pea coat on as I step out into the frigid darkness.
I try to close the door before Scout can get through, but she’s way ahead of me in the escape plan. She wiggles through and starts running towards the helipad, her long silver-blue sheepdog fur waving and bouncing with her short, quick strides.
She runs circles around the new arrival, which is off to the left of my own helicopter, like she can herd this thing into submission. Her bark fills the night and I look around nervously, still not quite accustomed to living in the middle of nowhere with the closest neighbors a mile away.
The helicopter has landed and the engine suddenly stops. The propellers start to slow down, that womp womp womp sound fading as two men get out. One stumbles while the other one helps him walk.
I stand there watching.
It is Pax. The stumbling one. I can tell by his gait. But I’m more surprised about who he’s with than I am about the midnight helicopter appearance.
Five.
Hmmm.
Paxton is loud as they walk towards the large farmhouse-style front porch. I forgot to flip the light on, so everything is dark and still. Scout follows them, circling them like she does the geese we keep in the barn.
Paxton is slurring his words when he stumbles again. Five has a hold of his coat, so he doesn’t go down.
“Come on, asshole,” Five growls. “Get your shit together.”
“My shit?” Paxton laughs, obviously drunk. “My shit is so to
gether, you Aston motherfucker. And just wait!” Pax yells, pointing up at the sky like he’s crying Eureka! Loud enough to make an echo off the house. “Just wait! He will blame you too!” He laughs loud and uproariously. “He will blame you toooooooooo!”
“What the fuck is going on here?” I ask Five when he approaches the porch. Pax stumbles on the front stoop, almost smashing his nose on the concrete steps, but stops the catastrophe by slamming one hand, palm down, on the smooth stone. The other hand holds a drink.
I squint at it. A small tumbler glass with ice and something that looks like… mint leaves sticking out.
He didn’t spill a drop. It’s still three quarters full.
Five sighs, but says nothing.
“What’s going on here?” Pax bellows, grabbing the railing with the drinkless hand while the other tries to get the rim of the glass to his lips. He takes a long slurp and then waves his hand in the air. A splash of alcohol pops out of the glass and falls in a stream, right into the open mouth of my dog.
“Scout,” I say sternly. But she’s beyond excited right now. Her little nub of a tail is wagging and bobbing furiously as she hops around Paxton like he’s the best thing ever. “What the fuck are you doing here, Pax?”
Ellie would not like this one bit. She barely tolerates Mysterious. He’s way too much for her. He’s way too much for me, to be honest.
“Tell him.” Pax laughs. “You tell him,” he says again.
I look at Five, who rolls his eyes and cops a seat on my porch railing, leaning back a little, like this is going to be a long story and he needs to get comfortable. “Oliver is going to kill him.”
“What?” I ask, scanning the road, hoping none of my neighbors across that cow field can hear what’s happening over here. “Why?”
“Tell him,” Pax bellows again. “Telllllllll hiiiiiiiim.”
“No,” Five says, checking his fingernails. “I’m not telling him shit. I’m not telling anyone anything. You wanted this to happen tonight, so here we are. You tell him.”
Pax smiles, his glassy eyes gleaming in the starlight. “I’m fucking Cindy Shrike.”
I shake my head a little, trying to wrap my brain around his words. “What?”
“Have been”—Pax laughs, taking a sip of his drink—“for eight weeks now.”
“What the fuck?” I look at Five. “You knew about this?”
“He showed up at my house tonight. Said he needed to borrow my helicopter. But he was drunk on those stupid Kentucky Derby drinks.”
I stare hard at the drink in Pax’s hand. He downs the entire thing, then slams it on the porch railing so hard, I think he might break the glass.
“I’m gonna need another,” Pax says, pushing past me to open the front door. “Where’s that ball and chain, Perfect? She here? Because she’s not gonna like this, my friend. Not one bit.”
And then he lets himself in my house. Scout, who is caught up in his blustering, follows eagerly after.
“Is Ellie home?” Five asks. “Because if she tells Arial what’s happening—”
“She’s not here,” I say. “Is he fucking serious? Who the hell fucks a guy’s baby sister?”
“He refuses to tell me the story,” Five says. “He said you’re the only one who will understand.”
“Me? I thought he was an asshole before he messed with Oliver’s sister. Now? Fuck that. Oliver is not going to like this.”
“Oliver is going to flip his fucking lid.”
Then I remember who I’m talking to. Oliver and Five go way back. I don’t know the whole story, but I know they grew up together.
“Oliver is going to show up at Pax’s house—wherever the fuck that might be—with a goddamned shotgun. Oliver’s father will be there too. And since you’ve never met Spencer Shrike, I’ll just tell you right now, you do not fuck with that guy. He comes off all sweet and charming, but don’t let him fool you. Mr. Shrike knows his way around a gun.” Five looks at me from the corner of his eye. “And a murder charge.”
I let out a breath. I think I was holding it. “What the fuck does that mean?” Jesus Christ.
“It’s not important. But you get the idea of where this is heading?”
I nod and we look at each other for a few seconds. “So… why are you guys here?”
Five shrugs. “He says you’re the only one we can tell. Nolan and Weston kind of hate Pax, in case you haven't noticed.”
Oh, I’ve noticed. “Why tell anybody?” I ask. “Why doesn’t he just shut the fuck up about it? Chalk it up to a bad mistake and move on?”
“Well,” Five says, heading for the open front door to my home, “he says he loves her and he’s not giving her up. So… we need to deal with this. And you, Mr. Perfect, are the perfect man for the job.”
“What job?”
“Telling Oliver, of course. It’s all you, buddy. That’s what happens when you’re the calm, level-headed one on the team. You get to break all the bad news. So let’s go. He said he’d tell us the entire story from start to finish.” Five looks at his watch. “And we’ve only got a couple hours before people notice I’m gone and start asking questions.”
“What people?” I ask, following him in. But Five doesn’t answer. And I’m not sure if it’s because he’s hiding things—which he is. No one really knows anything about Five. Except Oliver. And Pax, probably. More than me, anyway—or if it’s because Paxton Vance is commanding Five’s attention as he pours ice cubes on top of a dish towel in my kitchen and starts hammering it with a can of soup.
“What the fuck are you doing?” I ask, walking over. Five is leaning against the bar, looking bored. Scout is doing that little wiggle leap she does when she can’t contain her energy for one more second.
“Crushed ice,” Pax says, as if that explains everything. “You want a margarita?” he asks us. “Or a mint julep?”
“Since when do you drink that kind of shit?” I ask, pushing him away from the counter and grabbing the soup can from his hand. “You’re gonna crack my fucking granite, asshole. Stop pounding.” I look over at Five, confused. “Can people get drunk off mint juleps?” It’s such a ridiculous drink, right? The only people who drink these things are old ladies on Derby Day.
“Exhibit A,” Five says, motioning to Pax. Who has left the kitchen and is rummaging around at the bar in the adjoining room.
He finds what he’s looking for—a bottle of bourbon and a bottle of tequila—and returns to the kitchen, pulling mint leaves out of his pockets.
“Cindy,” Pax says, rubbing a hand through his wild dark hair. “Cinderella likes these two drinks. They’re our drinks.”
Our drinks? I mouth the words to Five, who stands up straight and takes his coat off, draping it over a barstool at the kitchen island.
“She’s so goddamned perfect, Perfect. You’d love her.”
“You cannot date Oliver’s sister,” I say, snapping out of it. “No. No. This is not happening. If you even looked at my sister—”
“You don’t have a sister,” Five says.
“Camille counts,” I say, defensive. “I’d fucking kill him if he even looked at Camille. You need to break this off, Pax. Like now. You can’t date a guy’s sister. It’s like the number one Bro Rule. How’d you like it if Oliver was dating your sister?”
“He doesn’t have a sister,” Five says.
“It’s fucking hypothetical,” I snap. Fucking Five. “Do you want me to handle this or not?”
Five opens his hands, as if to say, Handle away.
“Pax,” I say, trying to be calm. “Look, man. You gotta just come to terms with this. You have to drop this idea of…” God, I can’t even say the words. What kind of guy dates his friend’s baby sister?
“I can’t,” Pax says, suddenly sober and serious. “I can’t. I fucking fell for her, man. I fucking fell for her. She’s my fucking soulmate. That’s it,” he says. “That’s the end of the discussion. I love her.”
“How could you possibly love her? H
ow long have you been dating, for fuck’s sake?”
Paxton sneers at me. “You don’t understand,” he says. “And you, of all people, should.”
I deserve that. I fell in love with Ellie in the span of a week. Sure, it took us a while to get our shit together, but we basically had a few weeks of serious dating before I proposed.
And now look at us. House—farm, really—dog, planning a wedding.
Pax goes back to his drinks and while the blender is whirring and he’s dumping salt onto a small dish for his margarita, Five and I exchange looks.
We can’t afford to have this kind of discontent between the Misters right now, Five’s look says.
I got this, my look says back.
Then Pax is done making his drinks and he takes them both, one in each hand, and slumps down on the living room couch. Scout jumps up next to him, settling with her head on his lap like he’s got her full support and sympathy.
“Maybe I should start from the beginning?” Pax says, slurping once from his margarita, then next from his mint julep.
“Maybe you should,” I say, as Five and I follow him into the living room and take seats in opposite-facing chairs. “But you need to know, Pax, there is no way you can have this relationship right now. Not while all this shit is happening. Not when people are out to get us again. Because we need everyone to be cool. Your love life needs to take a back seat to Mister business.”
Pax sighs, like we might finally be getting through to him. Sighs like he just might walk out of here tonight and take my advice.
“One day,” he says. “You’re like… doing great.” He looks up at me with glassy eyes. They are bloodshot. Lids sagging like he’s been up forever. Like he forgot what sleep is and hasn’t rested in lifetimes. “You know who you are. What you’re doing. Where you’re going. And then a girl named Cinderella sends your whole world spinning. She’s got blonde hair, and blue eyes, and a body a nineteen-fifties starlet would kill for.”
He stops talking to smile at me. I smile back. I’ve never seen Pax like this.
“And she starts talking about motorcycles, and guns, and bands you have wanted to listen to again for a decade or more. She wears black leather whenever possible. On her feet, on her back, in her hair. She likes strawberry ice cream and books by Stephen King. Her fingers have silver rings on them. She likes anything with a feather on it. A hat, a hair clip, earrings. And she surfs, you guys. Like, for real. She surfs. And she fucking cooks. Tacos and spaghetti. Food I love now but never ate in the Limitless Farms dining room back in the bluegrass.”