Page 19 of Rent an Enforcer

8

TRISTAN

I’ve never brought a woman here.

It hits me as I pull onto the property and take the gravel road toward my house. The main house is lit up behind us, looking warm and inviting, while up ahead, my house sits dark and small at the edge of the tree line. I’ve lived here for years. No one’s been inside except Dorian, Quinn once or twice while dropping off food from Ms. Beaumont, and a plumber I watched the entire time regardless of how he started sweating under my gaze.

Now I’m bringing Stella into my world. Somewhere between the restaurant and here, my brain shifted into the mode it uses before I clear a room. Running scenarios, cataloguing threats. This time, the threats don’t involve armed men or rigged doors. More like a pair of kitchen scissors or a stray balloon from Lillie’s birthday that might’ve blown across the property.

I go through the list in my head while parking. There are no birds inside, certainly. No straws, because I don’t own any. Obviously, no escalators. Not a mullet in sight. No turtles.

There are scissors in the kitchen drawer, however.

“Stay here for one second,” I tell her before killing the engine.

“Why?”

“Just give me a second.” I go in ahead of her. The house is dark and cool and smells like not much of anything because I’m never here long enough for a smell to permeate the air. I open the kitchen drawer, grab the scissors, and put them in the cabinet above the refrigerator where she won’t see them. Then I do a quick pass of the rest of the house. Nothing. Clean.

She’s waiting for me when I step back outside, where the wind does seem to be picking up. I wonder if I’ll have to carry her in or anything dramatic like that. “All clear,” I tell her, opening the door.

She gives me a look that tells me she knows I did something but isn’t sure what, exactly. She takes my hand and lets me walk her inside, where I watch as she takes it all in. The large sectional sofa facing a TV mounted on the wall. The fact that the TV is the only thing hanging on any of the walls because I’m not exactly the type to waste time on interior decorating. The kitchen with its empty counters. She’s measuring it all against whatever she expected. I’m sure I’m coming up short in terms of square footage, but apparently I’ve passed inspection otherwise.

“It’s very you,” she announces with a firm nod.

“Is that a bad thing?”

“No, not at all!” Her eyes widen as she looks up at me. “It’s very clean. That’s what I meant. Like a monk lives here. A very large, dangerous monk.” She runs her hand along the kitchen counter before moving to the window above the sink, where the trees on the other side are starting to sway.

Then she stops. I follow her gaze and my stomach drops because sitting there, half hidden behind the curtain, is a small ceramic turtle Lillie gave me after a trip to the aquarium last month. I’ve never thought about it. I’ve never even looked at it after placing it on the sill. It’s been collecting dust for a month.

Now Stella is staring at it like it called her a name.

She’s gone pale. Her hands clench and unclench at her sides. I do the only thing I can think to do: reach past her, pick it up, open the window, and throw the damn thing into the yard.

She stares at the open window before looking up at me. The wind pushes in, and I close the window before she can register the gust. “You just threw it out the window,” she says.

“I’m sure it didn’t feel a thing.”

“But you just... threw it out before I could say a word.”

“You didn’t have to say a word.”

I don’t have a name for the expression she’s wearing. It’s not the look people usually give me. There’s no fear or wariness. It’s not careful respect that’s actually controlled panic. It’s something softer. Like I’ve done something she didn’t think people actually did.

“Nobody just gets rid of the thing that scares me,” she whispers in what sounds like wonder.

“I do.”

That’s when she grabs my shirt with both hands, stands on tiptoes, and kisses me hard enough that my back hits the counter before I catch up to the situation.

For about three seconds, I’m behind.

Then I catch up.

My hands grip her waist, and I lift her onto the counter. She gasps against my mouth—partly the cold granite, partly me stepping between her knees and pulling her to the edge so she can feel exactly what she’s doing to me. Her bare legs wrap around my hips like they were built for it.

“Tristan...” she moans against my mouth between kisses, breathing hard the way I am.