Still Not Into You: An Enemies to Lovers Romance Page 3

  She’s sharp, as if she’s fresh off the battlefield.

  Her mouth thins. “It’s Skylar. Don’t you ‘Miss’ me, Barin. I know who you are. Since I’m stuck with a glorified babysitter for the next few weeks, let's skip the formalities, m'kay?”

  I let my hand drop, trying not to grin.

  Maybe I should be offended, but you gotta understand I’m used to Southern charm, where people say bless your heart when what they really mean is go fuck yourself.

  Her bluntness is refreshing. “Sure thing,” I tell her.

  She folds her arms over her chest, pushing her tits up till they make the button over her chest strain. This time, the way she’s eyeing me isn’t tactical.

  It’s just raw and skeptical, a complete once-over that says I don’t measure up.

  “Just so you're aware, this is a favor to my boss,” she points out sharply. “One I don’t really need. So let’s keep this simple and minimal. You’ll drive me home, then get lost. You can come back later for scheduled overnight patrols. Check off whatever report you're turning in. I'll sign what I have to saying I was a good girl. After I’m asleep, in the morning, so I don’t have to deal with you more than I need to. You’ll follow Landon’s orders to the letter of the law, and no more. Got it, Barin?”

  It's like I'm holding burning napalm in my guts, trying not to laugh.

  I’d worked with drill sergeants less demanding. I’m keeping my grin inside, but good goddamn. This girl’s a human razor blade.

  Small, but cuts real deep.

  This is gonna be fun.

  “We’re in the same boat,” I say. “We’re both here as favors to Landon. So, let’s do what we’re gonna, sugar, and when it’s over, you can put my ass out on the street.”

  Her eyelid twitches. “Never call me sugar.”

  “Sorry. Southern thing.”

  “I can tell from the accent, but we’re not in Alabama anymore.”

  “Louisiana,” I interject.

  “Same difference.”

  “Nah, darlin’. No way, no how. In Alabama, they marry pigs. In Louisiana, we just eat them. Feet and all. I like ‘em pickled myself.”

  I love Alabama, actually. Lost my virginity to a pretty little thing in Mobile half a lifetime ago, but she doesn't need to know the truth behind the shit-talk that goes down in Dixie.

  Her nose scrunches. “That’s disgusting. And don’t call me darling, either.”

  “You got it.”

  She says nothing, just flashes me one of those looks like I just crapped in her shoe.

  Then, with a lift of her chin, she breezes past me – and storms right into my truck without even waiting, pulling the door open and hefting herself up on the footboard before sliding into the passenger seat.

  I move to close the door for her, but she slams it shut with a baleful look before I can.

  Okay then. Little lady wants to do things for her lonesome, she can.

  I'm not her butler. I’m not here to wait on her hand and foot or make her feel like an overgrown baby. I’m just here to keep her safe.

  But goddamn, she’s meaner than an alligator and prettier than a peacock.

  That makes her a hard one to figure out. And it's even harder to fight the urge not to shake my head and let my dick stand on end simultaneously as I climb into the driver's seat.

  If only I'd had some honest warning.

  Landon didn’t warn me just how interesting this was gonna be.

  * * *

  I’m starting to think this woman never sleeps.

  I’m supposed to be the night watch, but from where I'm looking, the sun never goes down on Skylar Szabo.

  My truck's parked on the road leading up to this adorable little run-down fishing shack you’d never expect to find in gentrified San Francisco. Looks more like the kind of thing you’d see perched on a float out in the Atchafalaya Basin back home.

  It suits her, I decide. It’s charming, the wood slats painted a dusty dark blue that’s been weathered down to bare wood in the cracks.

  From this distance I can see her silhouette through the blinds, shadows and bits of color moving through the spaces between the Venetian slats, backlit by a lamp that hasn’t shut off since I dropped her off on the sand-littered path. She’s wearing an overly large shirt, and when she moves it catches the light till she’s like a naked silhouette through a screen, backlit by fire.

  There’s a laptop, I think. Something she’s bent over, focusing furiously.

  Occasionally, there are hints of jerky motion, probably typing. I shouldn’t be watching her this closely like a creepy lunk, but I can’t help myself.

  She has this energy about her that’s fascinating, all raw rough edges and bleeding fury and this knife-edged grace. She’s a tempest, and it’s damnably easy to get swept up in her even when you’re standing on the edges of her storm, trying to stare into the eye.

  Skylar Szabo is a hurricane. I’m just wondering if there’s a calm at heart, hidden somewhere in all this chaos.

  I make myself tear my gaze away from her and focus on my phone.

  She looks back at me again from the screen, a photo. It's one of those brutal, offhand photographs.

  Her gaze looks like she'd enjoy gutting the photographer, even though her face is streaked with tears, her eyes not cold like they are inside that house, but burning with hate, pain, loss, grief, determination.

  It’s a news story from months ago, one of many I’ve been skimming all night. Easier to get the scoop this way than to expect her to spill the beans, when she clearly resents me for breathing.

  Looks like her niece, Joannie Szabo, got snatched up right under Skylar’s nose while she was out with the girl and the kid's mother, Monika.

  Fuck. That’d eat me up inside, too. It must be tearing Skylar to bits, chewing her up like the devil's own dentures. No wonder she’s so focused.

  I remember being like that, too, once upon a time.

  Like when Mama called in a panic, pulled me back from wherever I’d been roaming and trying to remember as much as trying to forget, and told me Dad was missing.

  It’s fucking weird seeing myself in her, this tiny, warped, beautiful Pixie mirror.

  Even stranger, wanting to save her from the mess I fell into, the one that brought me to the brink of no return.

  Drinking, gambling, fucking around, doing some work for some people I ain’t really proud of. Despair can chase you into some mad, dark places, and I can’t help wanting to shine a little light for Skylar Szabo. Make the blue of those eyes one of my memories that turns blue into something I never want to forget.

  Except, I can’t let myself get caught up in this.

  Can’t make her present about my past. It ain’t supposed to get personal.

  I’m just here to do a job.

  It ain’t that deep. Ain't that real. Ain't that crazy.

  Though I can at least do that job right. I couldn’t save my Dad. I couldn’t save anyone, even myself.

  But I can try my damnedest to pull Skylar back from the bitter edge and protect her as best I know how for as long as that furious, cold, beautiful, viciously independent little woman will let me.

  3

  Don't Get Too Close (Skylar)

  When I was a little girl, my sister Monika and I used to play chicken in the dark bedroom we shared in Grandma Eva’s house.

  Only, we didn’t play chicken by running at each other and daring the other girl to veer off first.

  We played chicken with the scary, jagged shadows that filtered through the window blinds. We danced in our own childhood imaginations, challenging the nightmare shapes against the walls.

  Deep down, we knew the shadows were just the street lamps.

  We grew up in an old, run-down neighborhood, the type that still had ancient post-style streetlamps with glass globes on top of skinny poles. When headlights swept down the road, the globes became heads and the poles turned into bodies, dancing and writhing over our walls like these black
shadow-demons coming to eat our souls.

  Depending on the time of night and just how many cars cruised down our street, the angle of the blinds had to be adjusted a certain way to block these scary shadow ghosties.

  We knew there was nothing to be afraid of.

  We knew.

  And our grandmother raised us to be tough; too tough to be afraid of the dark. Or any nonsense.

  But underneath the tough little soldiers we’d made ourselves, we were still just little girls.

  Little girls missing their mommy and daddy.

  Little girls huddling together in the dark, unsure what was worse: being the chicken, or being the one who got up to adjust the blinds and risked peeking outside to see a pair of staring, inhuman eyes leering back in at us.

  Even though Monika’s the older one, I was always the one who got up first.

  Because Monika might be older, bigger, but she was always the softer sister. The sweeter one.

  And even back then, I had to protect her.

  So every night, I braced myself and marched over to the window and stared defiantly out into the night with my mouth dry and my heart thumping and my knees weak and trembling.

  Every night, I dared the shadow men to reach through the glass and get me.

  And every night, there was nothing there.

  Until one night, I just wasn’t afraid anymore.

  * * *

  I wouldn’t call what I’m feeling right now fear. Sure, it’s definitely a close cousin to dread, and I feel like I’m playing chicken all over again as I stretch the sleep out of my body, rub at my eyes, and just barely lift one slat of the Venetian blinds to peek outside.

  If he’s there, I don’t want him to see me.

  I don’t want him to know I’m up, and I sure as hell don’t want him to try to interact with me.

  Gabe goddamn Barin.

  What was Landon thinking? Shoving this massive bear of a man onto me?

  He’s so big, I swear he could step on me and not even notice until he was scraping me off his shoe.

  I can’t stand men like that. They like to loom, and they think just by being the biggest, they’re also the strongest, the most imposing, the most right.

  Last night, I wasn’t giving him a chance to even try his macho crap, where he puts the shaken little woman in her place and tells her to sit tight while the big man protects her.

  I don’t need protecting.

  I’m just doing this to humor Landon. A favor between friends. Company rules.

  Although right now, as I peer through the blinds, I’m ready to skin Landon right along with Harmon Ketchum.

  Yep. Gabe’s still there, parked in his battered, old pickup truck.

  I'll bet he even slept there. Loyal freaking guard dog. Ready to greet me with his tail wagging – or if I'm super unlucky, maybe something else.

  Great.

  I’d tried to be surreptitious, stealthy, but he glances up from whatever he’s gnawing on, hazel eyes locking on me, then lifts a hand in a casual wave.

  I can almost hear that slow, deep molasses Southern drawl groaning out “Mornin’, darlin’’ with the gritty texture of dark brown sugar.

  Ugh.

  And yet again, his lips are moving. He’s mouthing something, and I'm pretty sure I'm going to murder someone if he’s going to be this attentive every hour of every day.

  Grinding my teeth, I jerk back from the window.

  Okay. Deep breath.

  He’s going to get in the way. No doubt about it, and I don’t have time to waste handling him.

  I fell asleep at the computer last night, but not before turning up a few good leads. Including the fact that Harmon may be back in town after running away to L.A. to lay low for a while.

  I know a few guys who hang out as informal bouncers at a strip club Harmon likes to sleaze around. The Grizzlies Motorcycle Club kind of treats me as an informal little cousin since my dear departed Dad was in their ranks, and late last night, I got a text tipping me off that one of the guys may have spotted Harmon getting thrown out for getting drunk and grabby.

  Typical Harmon. Asshole.

  You’d think he’d have the sense to keep a low profile, but I'm not mad. The sloppier he gets, the easier it is for me.

  If I can just pin him down where he can’t wiggle free, I can squeeze Joannie out of him, and get her home safe where she belongs.

  Assuming I don’t beat the holy hell out of him first.

  I can’t stand the thought of Joannie alone with that man, living in whatever hellish, slovenly conditions he’s keeping her in. My throat tightens with a barely-contained rage, boiling through me like building steam ready to break.

  Who the shit was looking after her while he was busy chasing strippers?

  He probably left her alone, expecting her to sleep through the night. I can just see her propped up in the corner of a filthy, stained couch, not even a crib with safety rails, surrounded by empty beer cans and bottles, the floor covered in grunge and probably old needles and a million other things that could hurt her if she fell –

  Stop.

  I’m working myself up into a fury, fists shaking at my sides. That won't help, especially if it makes me lose my cool on someone pretty soon. I’ve got to keep it together.

  Harmon can be sloppy, but I can’t. Anger makes me careless. Makes me rash.

  I’ve got to control myself and focus, or he’ll slip through my fingers. Again.

  I may already have screwed up somewhere, enough to tip him off, if he’s coming after me and slashing up my car.

  Frick, it’s his fault I’m stuck with Gabe in the first place.

  I’m gonna punch him extra hard for that.

  I can feel the ticking clock in my escalating pulse, counting down how much time I have before Harmon cuts and runs with Joannie, but right now my clock might as well be at a standstill when my day’s already set in stone.

  Once a week I drop by Grandma Eva’s place to check in with her and Monika, to try to remind Monika that she’s got family looking out for her. She’s been in a funk since Joannie disappeared, alternating between blaming herself, fatalism, and a sort of fragile, frightened hope.

  I don’t think she’s even left Grandma’s house unless she's forced to.

  That's not the sister I know. Old Monika used to be up and out all the time. Joannie’s first birthday was christened in a papoose sack while Monika went rock-climbing. With the goddamned baby.

  Yeah, I know. Safety ropes, crazy, yadda, yadda, yadda.

  I’m just a little on edge right now.

  Knowing that Gabe’s going to be tagging along into private family time doesn’t help.

  Plus, it's not like I can tell my sis or Grandma what happened, so there’s no reason for him to be there. I hope he’ll just stay outside and avoid notice – if that’s even possible.

  Trouble is, Grandma's a bloodhound by nature. She’ll sniff him out like she’s caught the scent of fresh blood.

  I groan, dropping my face into my palm, and fish out my phone, firing off a short text.

  Grandma’s today. I’ll be out in a minute.

  A few moments later my phone hums in my hand. Sure thing, Sunbeam.

  A vein above my eyelid twitches, and a tic jumps in my jaw. Sunbeam?

  He's a dead man walking. Honest.

  Hissing and swearing under my breath, I stalk into the shower, scrub away until my skin goes red, and toss on jeans and a tank top. When I sling my bag over my shoulder and step outside, Gabe is waiting.

  He’s stepped out of his truck and leans against the side, slouched with far too much casual grace for someone so huge, his hazel eyes distant and dreamy, expression annoyingly relaxed.

  The Gentle Giant trope to a neatly crossed T.

  He’s got this kind of quiet pensiveness around him that’s equally calm and just a touch sad, like something happened in his life to kick the fire right out of him and leave him kind of weary and patient. Not weakness, no, but something
considered and quiet and steady as stone.

  And I don’t want to know what that thing is.

  I don’t want to know a damn thing about him.

  I don't have the time or the will or the desire to find out.

  Really.

  His gaze focuses as I approach and lands square on me. He’s got a smile like sunrise, and it turns his eyes the color of hazy sunlight, this deep tawny afternoon gold.

  I bite my tongue, blaming the sudden sharp jump of my pulse on tension, stress, and situational awareness.

  I don’t like being looked at directly. Usually means someone’s about to start some shit.

  But all he does is lean back, stretching one powerful arm back to reach into the truck, shoulders bunching as he retrieves a greasy paper bag from the driver’s seat and offers it to me with those lazy, slow movements that make him seem like a coiled lion dozing on a branch.

  All strength and heat contained behind sleepy languor.

  “Breakfast,” he drawls. “You look like the type who’ll forget to eat if I don’t remind you, Sunbeam.”

  That nickname. What is it with people giving me cutesy names, even if he’s obviously being a sarcastic ass with his Southern 'charm?'

  I scowl, snatching the bag from him. “My name isn’t Sunbeam. You call me that one more time, I’ll kick you where the sun doesn’t shine.”

  He chuckles, a slow-rolling thing of shivering, darkly breathy sounds. “Duly noted, Drill Sergeant.”

  “I will kill you. Totally serious.”

  “Don’t doubt it for a hot second, ma’am.”

  “Can't you just use my name? Just once?”

  He tilts his head, black hair falling across his face in a shaggy mess.

  Damn. He’s got starkly Roman features, that mixture of refinement and blue-collar roughness that can’t seem to settle on handsome or pretty, rugged or princely.

  He considers my request, pursing his full-lipped mouth, then shrugs.

  “Can if it’s all right with you. Ain’t right to use a lady’s name without her permission.”

  I stare at him, then roll my eyes. “Another 'Southern thing?'”