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LAURA
THREE MONTHS AGO
I was working really hard not to sing along with the tune playing obnoxiously loud over the speaker system. I loved Hozier, and whenever “Take Me to Church” came on, I took it as my imaginary opportunity to try out for The Voice.
My best friend Callie was a few feet ahead of me, talking to some woman with white hair, looking like she had just stepped out of some pin-up magazine from the forties. Pretty sure Callie had said her name was Red.
As in the color.
We’d arrived today to settle her father’s estate, which was all left to my girl in the will. But when we got here, the local, and apparently only motel, turned us away, saying a private party had booked the whole thing. Turned out, according to Callie—her ex had called and told the owner not to help us.
And what sort of batshit crazy was that?
I’d never heard of such antics outside of a television show.
We were now standing inside her childhood home, which I guess had been converted into some sleek garage club, surrounded by men and women wearing denim and black leather. There were pool tables to the left, motorcycles being worked on off to the right and all sorts of mayhem happening in the middle.
More people came over and started hugging Callie. It made my heart melt a tiny bit because in DC she was all alone. She had her dog Max, and her chair in the tattoo studio that treated her like shit, but otherwise, that was it. She had me, and she’d become the most important person in my life.
I was busy people-watching, silently mouthing the lyrics to a David Kushner song when Callie’s ex walked up. Callie had told me he was the president of the club, and his leather vest had that title sewn in white along the left of his breast. The man next to him shifted, then suddenly pulled my best friend into a tight hug, and something in my chest seemed to perk up like a sleepy flower finding the sun.
My eyes landed on his ink first, considering it stretched up from his chest and covered most of his neck. Then his jaw because it was one of those clichés that belonged in one of my smutty romance books, with its jagged edge—sharp enough to cut glass. I was ogling the man, no question about it, and my staring only intensified when I settled on the twin emeralds he had for eyes, which were crowded by thick, dark lashes.
Callie had called him Killian, and he had called her Little Fox.
When his cold stare seemed to soak me up like a sponge, I nearly stopped breathing.
His gaze held weight, as if he were sizing me up, and something itched inside my veins to prove that I was worthy.
Internally, I scolded myself, this sort of thinking was stupid. Archaic. I didn’t attempt to get men’s attention, or strive for their affection, but my fingers skimmed the tattoo along my rib cage that Callie had given me, all on their own. Her work had come up in their conversation, and suddenly, I was a walking canvas, showing this gorgeous man all the ink I owned by lifting my shirt.
Killian’s finger traced the mermaid scales, and my stupid fucking hormones perked up.
It had been so long since there was anyone who had the power to make me act like a girl with a crush. Silly and ridiculous, showing off, and standing taller. I practically begged him to look at me.
Then he opened his mouth, and it all went to hell.
Because while Killian was gorgeous in a way that made my thighs slick, and my heart race. He was mean.
The sort of mean that carried venom; he’d lure you in with a smile and take you out with whispered cruelty. Once Callie had walked away, I was thrust into the spotlight, and Killian Quinn took full advantage of making sure I knew where I stood inside his world.
“You ever been told you look like a cartoon character?”
Confused, I stupidly tipped my head back to catch the glint of those green eyes. Surely this was his way of flirting. Drawing closer to me, I nearly melted into his broad chest, but I certainly didn’t step back or move. His presence was like air. Everywhere, and as though I’d need it to survive in this town.
His lips curved upward as he watched me squirm.
“Not the cute kind,” his eyes moved from my face to my chest, “the kind of cartoon you’d find on a dirty picture crumpled up in some teen’s garbage can. One you draw on the cusp of puberty when you’re still too chicken shit to look up porn. So one of your good friends in art class takes his colored pencils and draws a woman with big tits, nice rosy nipples, makes sure she’s got a tiny waist with over—the—top thick thighs, and of course, that ass. It’s round and mouthwatering…but completely fake.”
How was it possible that ice had slicked over my veins, all while heat engulfed my face? Anger surged through my chest like a battering ram, needing to get out and show this person, whoever he was, that he couldn’t speak to me like that. No one had ever spoken to me like that.
“You know what? Fuck you.”
Clicking his tongue, his eyes wandered over my shoulder. “Nah, I’m not into cartoon characters, never knew what everyone saw in Jessica Rabbit. You got all that plastic shit keeping your tits up, and it ain’t attractive. Now, that girl,” he pointed and gently turned my shoulder, so I could track who he was talking about, “see the one eyeing me right now with tits that don’t look like a fucking AI generator popped ‘em out? I think I’ll go fuck her.”
With one last smirk in my direction, he sauntered off, and I hated the fact that my eyes followed. The woman he went for had short black hair, with tattoos, and she was tall. So freaking tall, and the complete opposite of me.
Trying to come back to myself, I attempted to shake off his comments, but it wasn’t easy. Confidence was my favorite accessory, and there hadn’t been a single person to make me feel like folding in on myself since I moved away from home.
