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I find myself staring at the phone, unable to kick this feeling that everything is getting ready to change—and not for the better.
A storm is coming. I feel it with everything inside of me. You could call it a sixth sense, but I’m almost positive I’m going to get swept up in it. I stare at the folder on my desk. I open it up to see a picture of the man I’m supposed to hire for extra muscle. On paper, he looks like he would be perfect for the job. If you ignore the fact that he’s being recommended by Donovan Tate, a caddie—or driver—for the family, it should be fine.
So, why in the hell does it all feel wrong?
I drum my fingers on my desk. I need to see Donovan. He took today off, however. He, supposedly, is feeling under the weather. I have a suspicion that he’s just hung over. I want to see him and quiz him about Bones. More than that, I want to see if Donovan is using drugs or staying drunk. I haven’t trusted him for a while. Still, he got his job because he saved Ryan’s life once long ago. I can’t go to him with my suspicions without proof.
No, it’s time I visit Donovan and figure this shit out. Hiring this extra muscle may be what Ryan wants, and he’s the leader of the family. Still, I just need to know why everything is just feeling off.
CHAPTER 4
BELLE
When you only get one day off a week, it feels like there’s a mountain of work to do and definitely not enough time to get it done. I got up at seven this morning in hopes of getting the majority of things crossed off my list. It’s now almost noon and the only thing I’ve done is get groceries. The prices in the store ate through most of my tip money I’d been putting back for emergencies. I did manage to get Dad some chicken and pork. He will just have to live without the steak. I push my hair out of my face and grab my bags as the bus nears my stop. Someday, I’ll be rich and have my own car. I feel the cold wind hit my threadbare jacket and make a mental note that said car will be located somewhere much warmer. I guess it’s a pipe dream, but it’s good to dream. Reality is depressing enough.
I trudge through the people, making a mental note that I’d rather my new place not be in a city either. A small cottage out in the country where my only company is a pet dog named Biscuit and maybe some chickens. I mean, who doesn’t like free eggs? My pocketbook would sure love it about now. I make it to my door, and just as I’m about to punch in the code to open the apartment complex’s door, one of the plastic bags from the store rips down the middle. Canned goods splatter on the concrete and roll everywhere.
“Fudge-nuggets,” I hiss, bending down to try and catch the rolling cans. At this point, I’m wondering if going back to bed wouldn’t be a better option.
“Fudge-nuggets?” a deep voice asks. I straighten to my full height. My skin tingling from the obviously male voice. There’s something about it that sets every nerve ending I have on fire.
I turn slowly. Now, in my head, I’m thinking there’s no way the man himself can live up to that voice. That voice evokes a naked Jason Momoa standing in a forest, dick waving proudly, the morning sun glistening off it like a beacon, saying come let me pleasure you. When I turn, I realize I’m wrong. What I see is even better. He’s got dark, wavy hair that only has hints of lighter brown running through it. It’s not done in a salon either—as a hairdresser I could tell that. No, this guy’s hair was kissed by the angels. He’s fit, too. I doubt there’s an ounce of excess fat anywhere. I’m not sure how that’s possible, but obviously, this guy found a way. I take him in for a second before I realize that I was just bent over with my ass—which does have more than an ounce of excess fat—pushed up in the air in front of this guy. If you could die of mortification, then I probably die on the spot.
“I…uh…cheap bags,” I mumble, holding up the ripped object in question like a dummy.
He stares at me and grins. He has these full lips that some girls would kill to have, with eyes that are inky black and sparkle. His dimples make my fingers itch to touch them. Thankfully, I manage to resist that urge.
“I hate that,” he says, bending down to collect my cans. I doubt he ever does his own grocery shopping. His suit probably costs more than I spend on groceries for the entire year. I hurry to help him collect my cans. Then, I realize that I don’t exactly have anywhere to put them when I’m finished. The other two bags I have contain items that can be squished like eggs and bread. “I’ll carry them,” he volunteers, apparently having seen my dilemma.
