Still Not Into You: An Enemies to Lovers Romance Page 2
“You need protection,” he growls. “And I’m not thinking about someone from Enguard. Even if I’m sure Riker would be happy for an easy bodyguard gig.”
My eyes narrow. “Again, I don't need a babysitter, sir. And I can knock Riker on his ass in two seconds flat.”
“Precisely the reason I’m not putting him on your detail. That, and he’s already going grey trying to raise a kid alone. Well, greyer.” Landon grins, but there’s something in it that says I’m not wiggling out of this. I'm groaning inwardly before he even says the next words. “But, you know, I think I've got just the man for the job.”
“I don’t want help.”
“Too bad, Pixie. Not an option.” He smirks. “Look at it as humoring an overprotective friend.”
“You’re an ass, is what you are.”
“Nah. Trust me, when you meet Gabe Barin, you’ll be thanking me.”
Not fucking likely.
But when Landon Strauss gets hung up on details like this, there’s no stopping him. And while I don’t think he’d fire me for refusing his help, I can’t exactly be an ungrateful brat and say no either.
There's no denying the harsh truth. Whoever tore up my car last night might do the same to me next.
I’ll just have to play along. Shake whatever loser he wants to dump on me at the first chance.
It shouldn’t be hard.
I’m better than over half the men at Enguard. I can drop anyone in two seconds flat.
If this Gabe guy wants to keep up with me, he’s got his work cut out for him.
I’ve got too much to do to babysit a bodyguard.
2
Don't Give Up (Gabe)
After two and a half solid days on the road and nights in hard, cramped hotel beds, there’s a deep and quiet pleasure in stretching my legs out on the sand and letting myself just be.
Don’t get me wrong, the drive from New Orleans to San Francisco was plenty pretty. Scenic and slow, just how I like it.
I went from long, slow roads dripping with Spanish moss to stretches of desert where the mesas looked like purpled murals and the whole damn Milky Way sprawled over me in a thousand whispers of stars. Then the bright blue waves, taking the coastal highways up the Pacific, toward Northern California.
I’ve always been a road trip kinda guy at heart.
But I’m also too damn big to be cramped into the cab of a Dodge Ram for thirty-four solid hours of driving. After that long behind the wheel, I’ve got cabin fever and possibly a few saddle sores.
That’s why, after getting to Landon’s place after midnight, I was happier than hell to ditch the beach house he’d made up for me and sleep under the stars.
The naked sand feels softer than any mattress, and there’s a difference in the dry, hot sand of San Francisco beaches versus the grayer, denser, wetter sand of the Louisiana shores I call home.
It’s always too clammy on the Louisiana waters, whether it’s on the banks of Lake Pontchartrain or the ragged edge of the Gulf – especially when it’s sweltering hot and humid and buzzing with clouds of mosquitoes. Not to mention every other goddamn thing that wants to take a bite out of your hide.
Sleeping on that Pacific Ocean shore, though...
That's something magical. Near perfection.
All hot and warm and soft and comfortable.
Probably the last comfy night I’ll have for a good long while, if this job Landon pulled me in for turns out to be as difficult as he’s hinted.
I lean forward, turning the makeshift spit I’d made over my little beach bonfire, letting my breakfast sausages crackle in the flames. Then I flop back on my blanket, and propped up on one elbow, open my journal against my thigh.
Sunrise over the ocean, I scribble. It’s every color and all one color I can’t describe, until it clears and decides it just wants to be...
Blue.
That’s what I want to remember about this morning.
Everything’s blue. The sky, the water, the soul.
I want blue to be a color for something besides melancholy, for once in my life.
Don't tell me that's too damn much to ask.
I stop, the pen’s scratch silencing.
Blue. That was the color of my old man’s suit, the day they buried him.
Open casket. I’ve never understood open casket funerals.
Morbid shit, y’all. Real morbid. Cuts the pain that much deeper, just standing there and looking down at that dead body all made up to look like he’s gonna open his eyes right then and there, when you know he’s never going to again.
And even if he does, he’s not gonna recognize you.
Fuck.
I still remember the day I came back from my last Army tour, all primed for that picture-perfect family reunion I'd imagined. The kind they broadcast on the news with a red, white, and blue banner underneath, some hokey headline. Military porn for the public, almost, but it makes people happy so who cares?
It made me plenty happy, walking up that drive with my kit hanging from one hand, and the other reaching for the door to the little bayou-front house my parents lived in ever since I was knee-high to a frog.
Only for my father to bar my way, staring at me through the latched screen door with his eyes rheumy and hazed and blank. Not an ounce of recognition. His voice harsh as he threatened to call the cops if I didn’t tell him who I was or get off his property.
Not even my mother’s sad-eyed explanations and apologies helped.
I hadn’t wanted to tell you, sug. You were dealing with enough in Iraq, too much on your plate.
I didn’t want you to worry when you couldn’t be here to help out. Gabe, please, don’t be mad...
Her words, however heartfelt, couldn't stop me from running later on. I just didn’t have the heart to tell her I hadn’t been running from Dad.
I’d been running from the fear of that ticking time bomb that might be counting down inside me right now, the same goddamn gift of genetics that ruined him. The same dagger twist of fate that could one day be me.
A hollow wreck drowning in Alzheimer’s and alcohol, every day losing a bit more of who I am and who I love.
That’s why I write. Every day, every moment, every bit of life I want to remember.
So even when it’s gone, it’ll still be with me. Long as I can read, or have these words recited back.
And I promise the impossible: I’ll never look at anybody I love like they’re a stranger, the place in my mind and heart where they belong just a hole where they used to be.
But I’m not gonna lie. I’ve been drifting around this old world ever since Dad died.
Sure, I was a bit of a roamer even before, odd jobs here and there, then the military, maybe a few things I never shoulda gotten mixed up in. But after he died, I just got by working construction. Easy, mindless work meant for straining my muscles and putting my brain to sleep. And I do mean easy for a man my size, the harshest days are more like a good workout, rather than backbreaking.
For a while, that was all I needed. Now?
I don’t want easy. I don’t want mindless.
After the hell I left behind in Iraq – both during my tour and during my short-lived, disastrous stint in private security contracting overseas – I feel like my life could use a little purpose. A little goodness.
A little anything that’d make it worthwhile again, as if I can atone for the shadows in my past by building a brighter tomorrow.
“You know,” Landon drawls over my shoulder, “I know you Southern boys aren’t up on the latest modern conveniences, but the kitchen can’t be that hard to work.”
I’m flipping him off before I even look back. It only lasts a second before he’s clasping my wrist and pulling me to my feet, into a thumping bear hug.
Old Landon looks the same as he did last time I saw him, even with years between us...but there’s a difference, too. He looks calmer. Settled. Peaceful, with that shiny new wedding ring on his finger.
Happy,
instead of tortured by whatever demons haunted him during our time in the service, making him wild and reckless and dangerous as hell.
I grin real wide. It’s good to see somebody happy. I envy him that, I think.
Don’t know if I’ll ever settle down. But I almost get knocked down right on my country ass when the two cats twining around Landon’s ankles decide to investigate me, and get tangled right up in my legs.
“Hey!” I lean down to stroke their soft, velvety blue-grey fur. “Y’all gonna kill me if you ain’t careful.”
“Velvet and Mews are harmless. Just very, very spoiled.” Landon chuckles, folding his arms over his chest. “You slept out here, didn’t you?”
“Guilty as charged.”
“Guess it’s no worse than the bivouac tents in Fallujah.” He jerks his chin toward the bonfire. “Be careful with that, will you? I just rebuilt this damn beach house after fucking Dallas burned it down. I don’t need another house fire.”
“Sorry.” I retrieve my crisped sausages, then kick sand over the fire. “That whole mess settled yet?”
“Sentencing was handed down not too long ago. Seventy to life for the murder, another life sentence for attempted double homicide, extra ten tacked on for arson. They’re still processing additional charges against his daddy, Reg.”
He's been through the wringer, all right, a knock down drag out fight to save his company and his woman that almost cost him everything.
I tilt my head, studying him. “How you feel about that?”
He grins. It’s fierce, wolfish, familiar. “Feel like I didn’t get enough of a chance to draw blood, but I’ll take it. Justice, you know.”
I can’t help laughing. Landon and I understand each other in more ways than one; we’re almost brothers, both of us running away from our lives far too young to join the military. Both of us losing our fathers.
I just wish the demons that took mine away had a name and a face like his.
Something I could fight.
But I keep my thoughts to myself and hunker down on the sand again, scraping my sausages onto a plate and then offering it to him for first pick. He waves it off, dropping down next to me, propping his elbows on his spread knees.
“I already made breakfast. Just waiting for Kenna to drag herself out of bed.” He sighs, looking out over the waves. He’s another point of blue, those bright eyes that have always meant friendship and solidarity to me. Another way to change that color into something that matters more than loss, sadness, and death. “So, you up for this job?”
“Sure. Better be. Came all the way here, didn't I?” I pick up a breakfast sausage with my fingers, blow on it to cool, and then take an alligator bite. “What’s so tough about this little lady that you had to call me, though?”
Landon snorts. “You’re the only one patient enough to deal with her.”
I quirk a brow. “C’mon. She can’t be that bad.”
“She’s hard as nails – and all those nails are pointed sharp end out, aiming right at you. Saying Sky’s prickly is like saying water’s wet.”
That draws a snort. “C’mon. She’s probably like a possum. All teeth and scary eyes, curls up and plays dead the second you holler.”
“You think that, you’ll be the one playing dead just to get her to stop kicking your ass.” There’s affection in Landon’s voice, though. Like he’s talking about a sister. “Skylar’s tough. No-nonsense. This pint-sized terror who’s got men three times her size terrified of her.”
“...and she needs me why?”
“Because it’s impossible to watch your own back twenty-four seven, and someone’s out to get her.” He sighs. “Look, Gabe, this may not be war, but she needs backup anyway. She’s just too proud to admit it. The more she runs herself into the ground on this case, the more vulnerable she’s going to be. She thinks I can’t see it, but she’s ragged and falling apart at the seams. She’s been looking for her niece for almost a year.”
“So, she’s been getting tangled up with some rough types.” I nod, leaning forward to retrieve the insulated metal thermos I’d stuck in the sand near the fire, and screw the cap off. “I get to play Santa, then. Sounds fun.”
“Santa?” Landon's eyebrows crunch together.
“I see you when you’re sleeping, I know when you’re awake.” I grin. “I'll leave it there because actually, I always thought that red-nosed old bastard was a bit of a creepy peeping tom. But it’s not that different from taking second shift. Watching out for her when she’s got her guard down.”
Landon lets out a rough bark of laughter. “This one never lets her guard down. But sure. Play Santa. Just no dandling her in your lap.”
“She already got someone?”
“She’ll take your nuts off if you try.” His eyes sharpen. “And so will I.”
I chuckle. “Duly noted.”
He starts to say something else, but then a soft call of his name comes drifting down the beach from up in the main house. I glance over my shoulder. A petite figure with a tumble of chestnut hair stands in the doorway, waving across the distance.
“There's Kenna,” Landon says, and levers himself up, dusting sand off his jeans. “Girl sleeps like a damn grizzly bear after she’s finished a book. Didn’t think she’d come out of hibernation for another week.”
I hide my grin against the mug. “Awful small for a bear.”
“Say that again when she’s pissed at you. She’s larger than life, then.” But there’s nothing but love, real affection, when he says that, and it’s not hard to see how his eyes gravitate toward her and stay there. “You want to come up to the house? Eat something more than a box of Jimmy Dean sausages?”
“Nah.” I take a long, lingering sip of thick black coffee. I make it like mud. Trucker coffee, my Ma used to call it. “I’m good. Got everything I need right here.”
“You sure?”
“I’m sure. I’m a man of simple needs, Landon. You know that.” I raise my mug in a salute. “So, let’s keep things simple. You set things up with Skylar, and I’ll take care of the rest.”
Landon chuckles. “If you think it’s going to be that easy, my friend, you’ve got another thing coming. I'm paying you so well because it's work.”
I'm still smiling as he looks back over his shoulder one last time, making his way back to the house.
A little hard labor never hurt these bones. And neither did no little girl.
* * *
Apparently, Landon’s idea of 'setting things up' is giving me an address, a time, and a basic physical description before leaving me to fend for myself against the legendary She-Demon of NoCal.
I’m not sure what I’m expecting when I park my truck outside Enguard to wait and watch the sun go down in a rush of pinks and purples and oranges, noting down the colors in my book while the hours pass.
Short hair, pint-sized, blue eyes, last one out of the office. That's what Landon told me I'm looking for.
Since there’s only one car left in the lot – a Buick even more beat-up than my Dodge, the front seat and dashboard all slashed up – I guess that door opening must be her.
I glance in the rear-view mirror – and then look again. A classic double take.
For a split second, I think I’m looking at someone’s eighteen year old daughter, she’s so tiny.
Talk about knee-high to a frog; I could pick her up with one hand, but one look in those flinty, pale blue eyes says I’d die trying.
She’s got eyes like the shadows in glacier caves, so pale and cold it’s impossible to see anything but ice. Her hair’s a sort of sandy dark brunette, no-nonsense and cropped in a cute little pixie bob falling in messy strands from a bun spilling around her face, bringing out pert features and a stubbornly pointed chin.
Her lips are pink, the remnants of a day’s worn-off lipstick, and her mouth is too full and soft for the hard line she makes of it. Her uniform shirt and slacks are perfectly pressed and fitted like a second skin, all square edges.
“Damn,” I whisper to myself, doing a slow blink.
I’d expected a stubby little battle-axe. Not this tiny, fairy creature.
But there’s nothing fey about the way she moves. I recognize that stride; it’s ex-military.
You get to know certain things about people like you, and this woman knows what it’s like to shine boots before dawn and tuck every corner of your bedsheets in till they’re so tight they sing.
She knows what it’s like to always have one ear open for trouble, and knows what it’s like to have people you can rely on through blood and death and fire and pain, only to be shipped back home as a changed thing that doesn’t quite fit into the normal world anymore.
She’s like me.
She’s like me, and my heart already aches for her, when I know damn well the kind of things you have to go through to have that hard, empty look in your eyes, to wall off everything, both good and bad.
Because if you don’t feel the nice things, then you can’t feel the painful ones, either. Dualism is a bitch, and it's making me think real crazy right now.
It feels like I’ve been needled, cut, exposed. Shown this place inside me that recognizes her even though we’re total strangers. Cut and bleeding with this powerful need to protect her.
Maybe it’s that brotherhood ingrained in old soldiers, the same brotherhood that makes me so loyal to Landon, that feeling of comforting sameness.
Or maybe it’s just something about her, this Pixie, and the wary way she holds herself as if even before the military, she’d never known what it was like to have anyone shelter her and keep her safe.
I’m staggering out of my truck before I even realize it, smoothing my hair back, straightening my shirt before stepping forward and offering my hand. “Miss Szabo –”
Her eyes snap to me: quick, assessing.
Taking in my threat potential in an instant. She bristles subtly, a certain stillness settling over her that says if I make any sudden moves, I’m in deep shit.