Laird had put the fear of God into kids for looking at India wrong. What would he do if word trickled upward to his boss that someone—his son—dared lay a finger on the Curtis princess?
Morgan would rather not know the answer.
For eighteen years, the only thing Laird had raised to him was his voice. The restraint wouldn’t be worth a plug nickel if Rance Curtis said the word. A line would be crossed, from verbal to physical abuse.
And why? Because of Laird’s misplaced loyalty to a man who used him as a human battering ram and barely paid him a living wage.
Morgan met his father’s gaze head-on and shrugged.
“Girlfriend? Don’t have one.” He told the truth. Then, lied through his teeth. “Decided to take a break from girls for a while.”
“The hell you say.” Laird’s bloodshot eyes almost bulged from their sockets. A sneer curled the side of his mouth. “Only thing I can brag about to my buddies is your way with the ladies.”
“One middle-aged drunk talking to a bunch of other middle-aged drunks about his son’s sex life? Yikes. Creepy.”
Morgan knew he walked a fine line, but he wanted to move his father along. Unfortunately, Laird didn’t hear his son’s taunt. Another side effect of too many pummels to the side of the head.
“Never should have let you go to work for those fucking hippy farmers,” Laird spat the words. “Peace, love, and organic farming? Shit. Turned you into a pansy picking music lover.”
Morgan could have pointed out that thanks to his work on the Reinhold’s farm, he was nothing but lean muscle. Unlike his father whose beer gut bulged further over the waistband of his jeans with each passing year. Laird was strong—like a bull. But a steady diet of booze and burgers were taking their toll. One day soon, he’d be more blubber than Brahma.
If Laird needed a reminder his better days were behind him, he didn’t need a mirror. All he had to do was take a good long look at his son. Younger, stronger, if push came to shove, Morgan would win a fair fight.
Both men would end up bloodied and bruised, but there wasn’t enough gas left in his old man’s tank. Beyond brawn and age, Morgan had two advantages over Laird, stamina, and brains. He was confident he could take his father down.
Just a theory—so far. One he didn’t want to prove.
So, in answer to his father’s taunts, Morgan lifted one shoulder and this time, held his tongue.
“Asshole,” Laird grumbled.
Again, when Morgan remained silent, Laird ran a hand through his thinning dark-brown hair and surged to his feet. Gulping down the last of his coffee-laced booze, he grabbed a beer from the refrigerator, popped the top, and downed the contents, all the time glowering at his son.
“And for fuck's sake, get a fucking haircut. You look like a fucking girl.”
Laird crushed the empty can, tossing it at Morgan’s feet, stormed out—staggered was a better description—and slammed his bedroom door.
“Good talk,” Morgan said to no one with a smile that didn’t reach his green eyes. “Have to clear our schedules real soon for more quality father/son time, you motherfucking son of a bitch.”
Rolling to his feet, Morgan threw the apple core into the trash, placed the empty beer can into the blue recycling bin, then washed and dried the coffee cup.
Checking his backpack, Morgan made certain he had everything he needed. Books, paper, pencil. Change of clothes. Rather than take time to throw something together, he decided to buy his lunch for a change.
Morgan stopped on the way out, his gaze darting toward his father’s bedroom. Laird would be out cold by now, dead to the world until late afternoon, as usual. Rance Curtis rarely needed someone’s bones broken until after the sun went down.
Turning off the lights, he closed the door behind him.
Just another typical day in the McCloud household, Morgan thought as he slung his pack over his shoulder and ran in the opposite direction, as fast as his legs could carry him.
♫~♫~♫
THE SOUND OF students leaving class bounced off Lake Darwell High School’s stark-white walls. The acoustics sucked, Morgan thought, his musician’s ears offended by the combined din of voices, lockers slamming, and general unfiltered noise.
Most days, he ignored the assault on his senses. Just part of the learning experience. However, today he was annoyed by everything. The three-mile run hadn’t cleared his head. Too much of Laird lingered to achieve a Zen outlook.
When an unsuspecting underclassman rammed into his back.
Morgan turned, bloodlust in his green eyes. The fear he saw behind a pair of black-rimmed glasses—palpable and understandable—calmed his anger from simmering to a mild hum of annoyance.
Poor kid, Morgan thought. Skinny as a rail and scared of his own shadow, the boy looked ready to jump out of his skin.
“Freshman?” he asked.
“Yes, sir,” the boy stuttered, keeping his gaze on the ground.
A wave of sympathy washed over Morgan. Had he ever been so young, so unsure? So scared shitless? Hard to imagine. His father taught him weakness was a liability. In a world of sharks, little guppies didn’t last long.
Morgan placed his hand on the boy’s shoulder. When the kid flinched, he swallowed a sigh. Other students pushed past with little regard to who they trampled.
Turning, he used his body as a shield. Otherwise, he worried the boy would be roadkill—not a good look for the first week of school
“What’s your name?”
“Kenny,” the boy said, his voice cracking.
“I’m Morgan.”
“Yes, sir. I know, sir.
“The name’s Morgan, okay?”
“Yes, sir.”
Morgan sighed. The kid needed a guiding hand. Fast.
“Keep your eyes up and your wits about you, Kenny. Understand?”
“I… But…” Kenny swallowed, then nodded.
“If anyone gives you trouble? Anyone?” Morgan glanced at a group of jerks who always lingered in the hall until the last possible second. The usual suspects of known bullies. “Give me a shout out. Between us, we’ll set them straight. Okay?”
“Yes, sir. Um, Morgan.”
“Good. Now, get to class.”
The last bell rang as Kenny hustled down the hall. The final stragglers, some dragged their feet, others showed a bit more enthusiasm, cleared the area. Someone brushed past Morgan, almost touching, but not quite.
Expecting another freshman, he looked around just in time to catch a glimpse of long, curly, dark hair. The owner disappeared into Mrs. Lawrence’s first-period advanced English class.
India. Taking a deep breath, Morgan caught her scent—elusive and uniquely hers.
Get your head in the game, he warned himself. He and India shared so many classes, someone was bound to notice if he spent every second of every period staring, hoping she might turn his way for just a second.
A kiss could be a heady experience, one Morgan had enjoyed, often, with many partners. Convinced the supply was never ending, one girl’s lips the same as the next, he took his fill, then moved to the next.
Until India. Her luscious kisses were finite. Hard not to obsess a bit when he wasn’t allowed another taste and never would be.
Unbidden, Morgan heard his father’s voice in his head.
Life is unfair, boy. Learn to deal or get off the fucking carousel.
Laird wasn’t the brightest penny in the pile—intellectually, he swam toward the shallow end of the pool, not the deep. Still, Morgan had to give his father credit. Now and then, he managed to hit the nail smack center on the head.
“Waiting for an invitation, Mr. McCloud?”
Mrs. Lawrence stood by the door to her classroom, arms crossed, one sensible shoe tapping the floor.
“Well?” she asked. “Please join us. Now.”
“Sorry, Mrs. Lawrence.”
With a sigh, Morgan shoved his hands in his
pockets. As he walked past the teacher, his fingers closed around a piece of paper he was certain hadn’t been there when he left for school.
Morgan’s mind raced and came to a screeching halt on one conclusion. The note had to be from India, slipped to him as she brushed past in the hall. But why? And what did she have to say?
No chance he would risk looking, not here with so many witnesses. When he was alone, away from nosy classmates, and sharp-eyed teachers, he’d read the contents. Until then, Morgan waited. Patient on the outside, suffering on the inside, counting every tick of the clock.
At one point, Morgan swore time moved backward. But finally, the bell rang, and he was free.
Like a kid on Christmas morning with a special present waiting under the tree, Morgan pushed his way through a throng of bodies. In the boy’s room, he found the stall farthest from down the line and slammed the latch shut.
Calm, he told himself. But his hands shook as he reached into his pocket. Nothing special, the paper was ripped from a spiral notebook with hand-printed letters neatly spaced on college rule lines. Generic in every way.
Smart, Morgan thought. If he’d dropped the note, no would guess the author. But he knew. Each word came from India.
I saw what you did. A few words to a lost boy. He’ll remember long after you forget. Morgan McCloud—superhero.
Him? A hero? Morgan let out a muffled snort at the idea.
A small drawing, expertly rendered, showed a tall man with a broad chest and muscular arms. The character could have been anyone, but for the blond hair and bright green eyes.
To his mortification, Morgan felt a burst of heat rise in his cheeks. The next words she wrote made the rest of him grow warmer.
Friday night. You know where. You know when.
Taking a deep, calming breath, Morgan tucked the note back into his pocket. Smart move would be to tear the paper into bits and flush them down the toilet. The stupid thing would be to follow India’s directions.
Licking his lips, he smiled.
Of course, he would be there. What choice did he have? Damn the consequences. After eighteen years of making all the right moves, he was about to swerve from the straight and narrow. A second time.
India was the ultimate forbidden fruit. And Morgan planned to enjoy every delicious bite.
CHAPTER NINE
♫~♫~♫
“DON’T TURN ON the lights.”
“India?” Morgan closed the door to the music room and peered into the darkness.
“Did you expect someone else?”
No, but he worried every minute since he received her note, she wouldn’t show.
As Morgan’s eyes adjusted to the darkness, shapes became clearer. Near the piano, one shape with all the curves in the right places stood out from the others. India.
“How’d you get in?” he asked.
“I have my ways.”
Morgan couldn’t see her expression, but he heard the teasing note in India’s voice. His lips curved upward into an answering smile.
“Tell me,” he urged.
If he expected her to admit she flirted with the janitorial staff or hid behind the bass drum until everyone had left, Morgan was about to discover India Curtis was full of all kinds of surprises.
“I lifted an extra key from the school secretary’s office.”
“You did not,” Morgan scoffed. When India remained silent, her shoulders moving in a slight shrug, he laughed. Well, damn. “You did. Have you always been a thief or is the vice a new one?”
“When necessary, I find a way,” India said without a trace of irony. “Shocked? Appalled?”
“No and no.”
“Ready to run for the hills?”
“Not yet.” Not ever. Morgan wisely kept the thought to himself. “But I am surprised. And intrigued.”
“Good,” she said. “I always wanted to be a woman of mystery.”
As far as Morgan was concerned, India had her wish. He spent years crushing on the girl. Sweet and beautiful. An open book. In a few short days, she’d blown his preconceived ideas about her out of the water—in a good way. He couldn’t wait to learn more.
Before, India was a goddess sitting high on the pedestal built by his fantasies of perfection. The princess behind an unbreachable fortress. Too good for the likes of him.
Now? Honestly, Morgan didn’t know what to think. India was still too good for him. Yet, here they were. Alone. At her request.
“What’s going on, India?”
“How do you mean?”
“You’re the big leagues, the show.”
“A baseball analogy? Great game, but…” She paused. “I have no idea what you mean. If I’m the big leagues, what are you?”
“An undrafted hack who isn’t fit to oil your glove.
Oil her glove? Morgan groaned. Sounded like the punch line to a dirty joke. Apparently, India agreed. She found his unintentional pun hilarious. After she stopped laughing, she wiped her eyes.
“Oh, Morgan,” she sighed.
“I didn’t mean—” Flustered, he didn’t know what he meant.
“Are you blushing?”
“No,” he scoffed. Lord, he hoped not.
“A lot of guys do,” India said.
“I’m not a lot of guys.”
“Amen to that,” she said.
“Why, India?” Morgan needed answers. “Why are we here?”
“I’ve thought about the other night, our kiss—kisses—a lot. Have you?”
A hint of vulnerability entered her voice, and Morgan’s heart flipped over in his chest. If she could put her feelings on the line, so could he.
“I think about you—a lot.”
India moved, her shadowed figure heading left. Morgan chose right. Slowly, they circled each other.
“I was determined to be good. No contact, as we agreed. Then you helped that boy. How can I resist when you go all sweet and sensitive?”
“He was like a freshman lamb among upperclassmen wolves.” Morgan shrugged. “Would you rather I let the kid get eviscerated?”
“Of course not. But I thought you were one kind of guy.”
One kind of guy? What the hell did that mean?
“I’m me. Nothing more, nothing less.”
“Your kind aren’t a dime a dozen. Ask any girl. She’ll give you an earful on the ratio of good guys to jerk-wads. You’re outnumbered, by a wide margin.
“I’m nice to small boys?” he asked. “That’s it?”
“The blond hair and green eyes don’t hurt. Yummy.”
Flattered, but not convinced there wasn’t more, Morgan crossed his arms and waited.
“Girls talk, you know. About boys.”
Morgan wasn’t surprised. Guys talked up girls to each other all the time. Made sense girls would do the same. Truth was, he hadn’t given the idea any thought. Until now.
He wanted to ask, but damn. How could he and not sound needy?
“You have quite the reputation. All good,” she rushed to assure him.
The circle they walked grew smaller. Closer, bit by bit. As Morgan passed a desk lamp positioned near a pile of sheet music, he flicked the switch. Low and concentrated, there wasn’t a lot of light, but enough for him to see India’s face. Her eyes widened, but she didn’t protest.
“They said you’re a good kisser. True.” India smiled. “More important, word is you don’t brag about your conquests.”
“See no reason.”
“Most guys don’t agree.” She stopped and met his gaze. “I waited for the talk to start. Whispers about you and me. Imagine my surprise—and delight—when there wasn’t a peep.”
“Won’t be any,” Morgan said. “Unless you do the bragging.”
“I could. Lord knows you lived up to the hype. But, no. My lips are sealed. Unless…”
“Unless what,” he prompted.
“You kiss me again. I wondered about the appeal
of swapping spit with someone. Now I know. Wouldn’t be nearly as much fun with a closed mouth.”
“You learn fast.”
“Always have,” she said.
“Duly noted.”
“Just so there aren’t any misunderstandings on why I picked you. Number one. Your reputation as a great kisser. Two. You don’t brag. Both true. Three, a major bonus, you’re easy on the eyes. I have a weakness for blond hair. And muscles.” India fanned herself with her hand. “You’re solid as a rock but much warmer.”
Morgan’s lips twitched. Damn, she was adorable. But she hadn’t answered all his questions.
“Why risk coming back for more?”
“Reference all of the above.”
“And?” Morgan needed to know what had changed. “Has to be more than what I did for one freshman.”
A frown formed between India’s brows. Her shoulders sagging ever so slightly, she sighed.
“Every move I make is calculated not to stir the pot. I don’t argue with my parents. I don’t take chances.”
“Because…?”
“Maybe someday I’ll tell you.”
“When you trust me?”
“If.” India’s lips formed a small smile. “Let’s not get ahead of ourselves.”
Morgan leaned against the piano. Until now, she’d called the shots. He let her. Hell, he’d chase India all she wanted—if the ends justified the means.
“What’s the point? More kissing? More secret meetings?” he asked.
“I don’t want a boyfriend. If I did, you’d be—”
“Bottom of the list?”
“Right at the top.” India raised an eyebrow. “You look surprised.”
Even as Morgan’s heart raced, he reminded himself she said if she wanted a boyfriend. Obviously, she didn’t. No point in tying himself into knots he couldn’t untangle.
“Shocked. I’m floored you’d even consider me.”
“You shouldn’t be.”
Slowly, India wove through a pile of stacked chairs. She moved like a panther, grace and power and beauty wrapped into one irresistible package. The closer she came, the faster his blood raced.
India was less than a foot away, and he could see every detail. The rich amber of her eyes. Creamy skin framed by dark curls. She wore jeans and a leather jacket the color of ripe plums—the same shade as her lips.
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