Page 30 of Last Man Standing

Shame.

“How’s Nova doing, anyway? Is she enjoying her nights spent in a car and peeing in bottles while her man stalks random dudes for his sister? Is this the life she expected when she stupidly fell in love?”

“Ya know, it’s pretty sad how young and averse to love you are.” He does something on his end of the line, moving onto a seat… off of a seat… out of a car… I dunno. He grunts and exhales a breathy groan. “Twenty-six this month, and you’re already done with men?”

“Are you suggesting I reconsider? Open my eyes to the possibilities?” I glance back and firm my lips. “While I’m shacked up with Rambo’s smaller, uglier understudy?”

“Fuck no. Keep those eyes closed, at least until I get this mess cleaned up and have that asshole shipped off to Guantanamo… or the bottom of the Atlantic Ocean.”

I cough out a silly giggle and regret the way it ruins the disdain I wanted Rambo to see.

Sebastion’s brows shoot high on his forehead.

Dammit, Scarlett. Go back to being a bitch.

“Sounds like you’ve got things under control over there, anyway.” Linc definitely climbs into a car now, because the sharp squawk of birds silences, directly timed with the slam of a car door. “It’s been five days and you’re still alive. He’s got this mental deficiency where he thinks his cock is the king of mankind, so keep telling him to fuck off and shut up when he starts talking about it. In the meantime, keep doing whatever it is you’ve been doing. Draw. Cook. Relax. Stay away from the weapons.”

I pout. “You don’t want me to kill him?”

“I don’t want you to be that chick waving a knife around, then the guy who is bigger and stronger than you disarms and guts you with it.”

“Oh wow.” I roll my eyes and stomp along the aisle. “Sounds like a lovely gentleman you’ve stuck me with. Thanks, Linc.”

“Better to be stuck with him than to be stuck with the knife you handed him. Now stop whining. I gotta go.”

“Where are you going?” I plug one ear and listen carefully to the robotic drone of his GPS. “Linc?”

“Out. Don’t spend too long in the stationery section. The sooner you get back to the house, the safer you’ll be.”

“Linc—”

“Talk later.” He kills our call and tosses me mercilessly back to my reality, where supermarkets are barely bigger than my entire apartment, Savage Garden plays through the speakers, and Sebastion ‘Tank’ Jameson glares at me with fierce determination.

And scorn.

He’s the guy tasked with protecting me, but he may also become the guy who snaps my neck in the middle of the night or spills my intestines if I foolishly hand him a knife.

Goodie.

“You finished yet, Princess?” He glances down at our woefully stacked cart, with packaged sugary crap, and not a single fresh fruit or vegetable to be seen. “You spoke to your brother, snitched the way spoiled princesses snitch, and now my body is cannibalizing itself because I haven’t eaten in two hours. I’m ready to go.”

“Oh, well, in that case.” I flash a sadistic smile and go in search of the stationery section. “I might stay another couple of hours. How long do you think it’ll take until you wither away completely?”

12

SEBASTION

SHE CAN’T AFFORD FOR ME TO BE NICE

“She ate Frosted Flakes for breakfast at around eight. Had a shower and blew out her hair after. Didn’t come out of the bathroom till around nine-thirty.” I sit on the back porch, keep my voice low, and watch her through the security feed I’m not sure she knows exists in the shed.

It’s freezing out today, but in there, she’s down to yoga pants, a sports bra, and a complete waste of forty-five minutes doing her hair, because she beats the absolute shit out of a boxing bag and has long mahogany strands stuck to the sweat on her face.

The picture quality isn’t like the kind we have back at home, which means I don’t get to zoom in and study the pulse pounding in her neck, or follow the lines of sweat on her chest. It’s a damn shame. But Ryan Nichols wired this place up, which means I get to see the branding of her criss-cross-strap bra, and the furious lines of frustration fanning away from her eyes.

She’s not bad with a heavy bag. She’s no Evelyn Kincaid, and if she finds herself in an actual street fight, she’s so little that all of her practice might be for naught against a larger enemy. But she’s got a handle on good technique, and she’s been going long enough, I’ve started to predict her combos.

“She’s working out in the shed right now.”