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But now, I’m inhisterritory. I’m onhisdoorstep with my cat. I’m an intruder. A trespasser. I clearly don’t belong here.
He starts to close the door in my face, but my foot kicks out, stopping it with my shoe. Funky hisses again.
I should leave.
I really should.
But I can’t. I can’t go back to that apartment. I can’t keep hunting for job after job, only to have it taken away the second I get comfortable. This job was supposed to be my way out. And I’ll be damned if I let some Halloween freakshow send me packing.
I lift my chin, giving the beast before me as much attitude as I can muster. “Your dad hired me. I’m not going anywhere.”
He’s silent for a beat and then he leans down, bringing his masked face close to mine. I’m forced to stare into his icy blue eyes that peer out beyond the eyeholes. His eyes are cracking open my head and raping my thoughts against my will.
I feel exposed.
Seen.
Fileted and molested.
“You’re fired,” he snarls through his mask. “Now go before I break your foot.”
I squeak in horror, jerking my foot back. As promised, he slams the door hard in my face. If I’d left my foot there, I’d probably be missing a few toes by now.
“What now, Funky?” I ask, voice shaking and heart beating a million miles a minute. “What do we do now?”
Funky meows.
It’s kitty-speak for, “Whatever it takes, Tate, because we’re quickly running out of options.”
The walk back to my vehicle—a severely scarred Ford Explorer—feels like a walk of shame. Like I did something wrong despite being completely faultless. It’s so reminiscent of each shameful walk out of my places of employment after getting canned each time.
Is this my life now?
Will it always be like this?
I slide Funky’s carrier into the back seat once more, trying to ignore the way my hand trembles. Sometimes my fear and anger are so perfectly woven together, it’s hard to discern which one is getting the best of me. Maybe, moments ago, it was fear, but it’s quickly transforming into anger.
Maybe it’s for the best if I quit now, pack up my meager belongings that weren’t a casualty of my never-ending war, and disappear into another state.
He’d find you there too, dummy. He always does.
Ignoring those thoughts, I back the vehicle out of the driveway and slowly creep toward the other homes on the otherwise empty street. I should turn my phone on and call Nathan, but I don’t want to risk it. The longer I can remain hidden, the better.
Figuring I have to start somewhere, I pull into the first driveway I come up to. I’m not sure if this is Nathan’s house, but it likely belongs to someone in this family. Apparently, they all need my help.
“I’ll be right back,” I tell Funky. “Be a good kitty.”
Steeling my spine, I climb out and stride toward the house. This home, unlike the last, is modern, clean, and perfect. Despite it being mid-November, the grass is still green and trimmed neatly. I walk up the porch and knock on the door, hoping this encounter goes better than the last.
When the door opens, my breath catches. The man standing before me is a god. Tall, muscular, donning an expensive three-piece navy suit. His tousled hair gives him a slightly boyish look, but his stern features are all business. Sharp blue eyes—much like the ones that split me in two moments ago—burn into me.
“No soliciting,” the man says icily. “This is a private drive.”
Is everyone in this family cold and rude?
I clear my throat, ready to answer, when a deep voice chuckles behind me. The fact someone easily snuck up on me doesn’t bode well, sending a fierce shiver down my spine. Whipping around, I’m met by another god-like man who resembles this one.
“Nathan Park,” the older of the two greets, smiling at me. “We spoke on the phone. Mr. Prince, right?”
