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One summer, I broke down and told Gigi where I was headed once I left her house. That was the same year I learned my parents were worse than any monster I’d ever imagined hiding under my bed. They not only threatened to completely cut her out of my life, they brought in some quack doctor who was prepared to tell a judge my grandmother was mentally unstable and needed to be institutionalized.
I was eight years old and scared out of my mind at the thought of losing the one person in the world who showed me an ounce of love. At their urging, I ended up telling her I lied. She, of course, didn’t believe me, so she showed up at our house. But she must have understood the desperation on my face when I walked into my father’s office in the middle of her giving him holy hell. Her demeanor switched from bold and brassy to timid and weak in the blink of an eye as she apologized for barging in. She quickly turned on her heel and walked out the door without another word.
It wasn’t until the next summer when she introduced me to Mr. Lawrence, her private detective, did I realize my Gigi had a set of brass balls bigger than the state of Texas. What I’d mistakenly assumed as her giving up that day was an act. A ruse.
For the next year and every year after, she kept tabs on dear old dad. He didn’t take a shit without her knowing how many sheets of toilet paper it took to wipe his ass. My father thought he’d won that day, but the only thing he’d managed to do was piss off Imogene Stiles. She never told me what she did with all the information she’d gathered and I never asked.
I ran my hand down my face and sighed when I pulled into my parking space. Out of the corner of my eye, I watched as Luc drove passed slowly, then saw his taillights disappear down the quickly darkening street.
It was just after five in the evening, and between my job, tutoring Sophia, and then the service for River’s mom, the last few weeks had been a blur. So much so, I’d neglected to do any sort of grocery shopping, meaning my dinner options were limited to whatever was in my freezer.
Turning to the back seat, I gathered my bags, which held mounds of tests in need of final grades, before exiting the car. My feet were on fire and screaming for relief, courtesy of the ridiculous high heels I forced them into on a daily basis, but pretty shoes were my weakness. Even so, the second the front door closed behind me, I kicked them off and headed for the kitchen.
My apartment was my sanctuary; the one place which was truly my own, even if it was a rental. Thankfully my landlord, Mrs. Potts, was a sweet older lady who didn’t seem to mind if I painted the walls or made small repairs as long as I paid on time.
I’d been searching for weeks when I came across the ad in the paper for a one-bedroom apartment above her bakery. Everything else I’d looked at had been far outside my price range, so when I called to inquire, I ended up in a verbal agreement for the place…sight unseen. The only downfall was the delicious smells which wafted up through the ventilation system every morning when Mrs. Potts and her employees were baking fresh bread and cakes. For a girl who’d struggled with weight issues her whole life, it was pure torture. But what a way to go.
Leaning against the freezer door, I studied my choices as if either the bag of frozen broccoli or the tiny beef pot pie had any appeal whatsoever. Deciding the pastry filled with meat and veggies would taste better with the glass of wine I was itching to drink; I opened the box and tossed the contents in the microwave for five minutes.
While I waited, I changed into a comfy pair of sleep pants and my favorite NYU sweatshirt, my usual attire when lounging around the house. The next thing to go was the clip in my hair. The space behind my eyes had already begun to throb with the telltale signs of an oncoming migraine, but I felt immediate relief when my heavy locks were freed from the contraption.
I’d been dealing with migraines since puberty, but thanks to Gigi, I had a routine which worked well with my medication, as long as I didn’t ignore those first signs. I snagged a small vial of peppermint oil; dabbing a little along the back of my neck and behind my ears before setting the bottle back in its place.
The microwave beeped, indicating my half-ass dinner was ready, as I made my way down the short hallway. After filling a glass with my favorite moscato, I sat at the small kitchen table and devoured the less-than-tasty meal. I vowed, then and there, to make the grocery store a priority the next day.
Considering I’d had world-class chefs at my disposal to prepare every meal or snack when I lived at home, I was actually a decent cook. The issue was my lack of time and motivation. Plus, cooking for one was downright depressing. It reminded me of the few times I’d tried to impress a boyfriend with my culinary skills.
Unfortunately for me, they’d all been looking for a one-way ticket into my father’s back pocket rather than a relationship with the “fat girl.” Their words, not mine. I’d learned that particular lesson the hard way when I overheard one such asshole on the phone with his friends; prattling on about how he hoped he didn’t have to fuck me before he finally met my dad.
Nelson Bishop learned a valuable lesson that night, right after I kicked him in the balls so hard he sang soprano for a week. Big girls had feelings too and they also had incredible aim. He’d been the third man with ulterior motives to ever ask me out, and he’d also been the last one I’d agreed to date.
That was two years ago. I wasn’t a virgin, since man number one took care of popping my cherry during a drunken night filled with regrets—on both our parts. But I refused to allow another man to touch my body until I was certain there were feelings involved. Not just any feelings either. Until I found a man who loved me for me and not my last name, I’d continue to keep the Energizer Bunny busy powering my favorite battery-operated boyfriend.
Chapter 3
Luciano
BUSINESS HAD PICKED up over the last couple weeks, meaning I’d had less and less opportunity to indulge in my new favorite pastime: spying on one Emory Daubson.
Quattro Security had earned the reputation of being one of the best in the private sector as far as intelligence gathering, but we’d also amassed quite a large client list of both local and government agencies, who paid a pretty penny to send their people to Mountain Grove to train with us.
While Alec’s niche was hand-to-hand combat, my body sang on the gun range. Put a gun—any gun—in my hand and I could hit whatever target was in my sights, whether it was moving at a fast clip or standing perfectly still.
Every couple of weeks, a new group of law enforcement personnel would descend upon our small town. Most took their opportunity in our facility seriously, soaking up everything my brothers and I had to offer. On occasion, some hotshot thought they could come intoourhouse, puff out their chests, and take down the legendary del Toro four.
I’d just finished a class on the outdoor range when I stumbled upon Alec handing one such “hotshot” his ass on the mats. There was a crowd gathered around the edges, but the only sounds in the vast warehouse were the grunts and groans of the man currently attempting to knock my brother off his feet.
A smile lit my face as I watched Alec defend himself as if he were flicking away an unwanted bug. He hadn’t even broken a sweat, meanwhile the idiot, which I recognized as a government recruit one of the alphabet agencies had sent, was growing increasingly agitated with every takedown.
“That fucker needs to be taught a lesson,” Gabe said as he approached my side, crossing his arms over his chest.
“I’m pretty sure Alec is serving up a memorable lesson to him right now,” I quipped.
“Nah. Guys like him will see this as a personal attack rather than a teaching moment.”
Thwack
I winced as the recruit flew ass over heels, landing square on his back.
