Riske and Revenge: A Second Chance, Enemies Romance (Revenge series Book 1) Page 2

  “I didn’t spray paint any horses, Deputy,” he spoke out. “I was simply admiring the view.”

  “What were you doing out there, ‘admiring the view’, Riske?” the sheriff asked.

  “Catching a few cow-tippers on tape. Mr. Hardhack on the next farm over is offering a prize to the person who finds whoever’s knocking over his precious Betsy’s.” The man held up his phone to the window. “Caught the perps red-handed, you could say.”

  I leaned in. Video of a couple of teenage boys, hauling ass across mounds of grass was plain to see. Their hands were red, alright. Literally. They laughed and whooped as they slapped hands in the field, cracking up as they marveled at the spray paint sweating down each finger. They hadn’t noticed Blondie’s camera. Or didn’t seem to.

  I smiled at the fading smirk on the young cop’s face. He stuttered.

  “But he… I saw cans of…”

  “Sheriff,” the man in the car interrupted. “I know Mister Moines here,” he pointed his cuffs in the stammering officer’s direction, “has a boner here for me, but look, if you could just tell him that I’m straight, maybe he’ll…”

  “I’ll wring your neck, Riske.”

  Dropping his hat, Moines reached for him, going for the back seat. The blond guy never moved. The sheriff stopped him, blocking his subordinate from opening the car door and throttling the smart-ass. Somehow, I had a feeling, by looking at the well-defined forearms and long fingers of the mysterious man in the back, that the deputy wouldn’t be the one doing the throttling.

  I let it all play out, watching with curious eyes.

  “Take a breather, Moines.” The elder officer pushed the young man towards the police department’s front door. Deputy Dickhead stalked off, and the sheriff removed a set of keys hung from his hip, placed them in the car door lock and popped the backseat door before I could blink.

  Blondie hopped out—well, more like slinked out, and the smooth way with which he removed himself, even handcuffed, caught every bit of my attention. Most people, cuffed, were awkward—unbalanced. The ties that restricted them made moving ungraceful, but not with him. He was like a golden lion, stretching its legs—languid. He wore a crisp white tank. Board shorts hung low on his hips, and from where I stood, I could see nothing but muscles running down the length of his ripped shoulders and arms.

  But the sheriff’s ten-gallon sized hat still blocked the entire view of his face. From what I could tell of Mr. Smart-Mouth, he was broad, blond—of course… and built to be the star of my wet dreams. The top of Sheriff Lumpkin’s cowboy hat reached the tip of Blondie’s forehead, and I stretched my neck just to get a glimpse of anything more—maybe even his eyes.

  Still, nothing.

  How could I try to get a good look at this guy without being too obvious? The answer was: I couldn’t. So, I tried to play it cool. I eavesdropped on the conversation between the normally gruff sheriff and Mr. Smart-Mouth, the golden lion—my legs practically shaking as they squeaked with sweat down the hot car.

  The sheriff started first. “You keep fucking with the bull, Riske… you’re going to get the horns.”

  Blondie’s head bobbed once. “Yes, sir.”

  “Now, I know you think that Moines is a silly son-of-a-bitch,” he commented, lowering his voice, “but he’s also a ruthless one. And I don’t want to see you keep getting tangled up with him, butting head to head. If you keep screwing around out there in town, he really is going to bust you… and there’s nothing your father’s going to be able to do to save you.”

  My ears perked up with that little side note. I stood straighter, struggling to bear the brutal stickiness in the air, that Tennessee humidity, and I wiped a wrist across my forehead, listened closer. Blondie’s tone was low. So low I almost wasn’t sure I was hearing it right.

  “He needs to stop thinking about me and worry about himself, Sheriff. The only thing getting busted around Moines are his balls. Everyone knows his wife slaps him around. I’m not going to let him feel like the Big Man on Campus just because I’m here. As far as I’m concerned, that hillbilly can go to He…”

  He stopped short, lowering his head, as the sheriff probably fixed him with the sort of stare that only old folks are capable of. The one that makes you feel guilt and shame and low self-esteem, all at once. Blondie had struck a nerve.

  “Well, why don’t we hillbillies just try to stay out of your way, huh, Mr. Riske?” He took his key and loosened Blondie’s cuffs, letting them drop. “And you’ll do the same.” The sheriff turned quickly. “Miss Lexington!” he called out.

  I jumped at the sound of my name. “Yeah?”

  “You’re the next to go.” He walked towards me so quickly I hadn’t any time to recover. He took my wrists in his hands. “I don’t want to see you in any more trouble, either. Avoid Mrs. Wentworth. Stay out of trouble. And whatever you do,” he brought his face closer to mine, whispering, “stay away from this one.” He nodded discreetly over his shoulder. I gaped as the heavy handcuffs dropped into the sheriff’s hand with a resounding clink.

  He gave me a pointed look and then headed inside, presumably to ream the hotheaded Moines for taking him on a wild goose chase for suspects. Again. Moines was always fucking up. The dummy deputy was the reason I was here, fingering me for something I hadn’t done… though I suddenly wished that I had. Mrs. Wentworth had deserved it.

  But I couldn’t think about it. I couldn’t think anything at the moment.

  Because Blondie was looking at me. Directly at me. Brown eyes, deep-set below a bed-headed array of blond waves and curls, blazed at me, hotter than the summer heat. He wasn’t a man—not fully one yet, anyway; he was still a boy, though barely. His jaw was clean-cut—strong. His hands hung at his sides in a way that was simultaneously loose and tense, and when I met his stare, curious and sweltering, I felt a bead of sweat trickling down my collar, tinging the edge of my own blue tank-top.

  Suddenly hyper-aware of my body, I pushed away from the sheriff’s car, correcting my slouch. I continued gazing into Blondie’s eyes for what felt like forever until his attention abruptly shifted from mine. He looked past me as another car rolled in to the other side of the sheriff’s, idling. I hadn’t even heard the vehicle approaching. I turned around.

  It was a fellow camp counselor, Laney Brigham. She hung her head out of her window, letting her red hair fall down the side of the door.

  “Get in, Bonnie. I’m breaking you out.” She smiled, looking over my shoulder. “I’m guessing that’s Clyde…” Her normally throaty voice went high.

  I looked back at him. Mr. Smart-Mouth’s eyes were serious. There was no humor left in his face—not even the sarcastic kind that he had used with Deputy Dimwitted. He said nothing as he gazed back into my eyes. I felt rejected… but couldn’t understand why. I spun back to face Laney, walking to her passenger side door.

  “He’s no one. Just another innocent victim caught up in Moines’ bullshit.”

  I rounded the car, hopping in. I closed the door behind me and felt the car shudder. Or was it me? I could feel Mr. Smart-Mouth’s eyes still on me, and though he seemed as intrigued as I was, he hadn’t opened that mouth of his to say one word. I dared to glance back at his face. Laney started to pull off, and as she drove quietly out of the dirt parking lot, A/C on blast, I felt a breeze blow suddenly into my face. It carried with it the sound of Blondie’s voice.

  He had finally smiled.

  In the side mirrors of Laney’s laid-back Cadillac, I could see him grinning back there, his lips broad, his large hands cupped conspicuously around his full mouth. He called out to me from the center of the barely-paved, dust-filled field.

  “Who said that I was innocent?”

  I couldn’t see his eyes from this distance, but I assumed they were sparkling. All tanned muscle and golden hair, Blondie stood in the empty parking lot, staring at Laney’s taillights, his head on a slight tilt as, I swear, his eyes met mine in the mirror.

  I had never felt my h
eart beat so hard…

  Right then, I fell a little in love with the mysterious man-boy they called Ethan Riske.

  You’ve Got Mail

  Honesty is the first chapter in the book of wisdom.

  - Thomas Jefferson

  KAT

  “Laney!” I called out to my secretary. “Can you get in here, please?”

  “Yeah, sure,” she shouted back. Our office space was so small it was as if she had yelled it in my ear.

  Casual was too strict a word for our laid-back office environment, and though we’d made a few changes in personnel—fired a fast-talking typist with no real experience and brought in a few new journalists, our ten-person team was a small publishing titan. Two years had brought us a series of ups and downs, and around year three we were on our way up in the world, making waves in the little publishing pond that was Tampa, Florida.

  Home of the Buccaneers… and some of the most back-stabbing businesses in the country.

  It was one of those back-stabbers that had me shouting for my secretary, who also played personal assistant and doubled as the most loyal friend on the entire East Coast. She flounced in, folders in hand, her red bob bouncing as she strutted towards my desk, her blue eyes bright.

  “You rang?”

  I sighed. “I’d like to say I did, but neither of us have used our phones in months, have we? I’m still paying the phone bill and yet no one in here uses one. Not the ones on their desks anyway.”

  “That’s because it’s so much easier to yell.”

  “And so much harder on my ears,” I noted. “I’ll be deaf by fifty… and when I am, I’ll have no one to blame but you. You, and that wide mouth of yours. I know we scream at each other across the office, but every time you shout, a tsunami is born.”

  “Speaking of wide mouths and tsunamis,” Laney diverted, “I met up with Justin Harrington last night. You were right about him. He is a prick… and for some reason, it totally turned me on. The only tsunami happening at dinner yesterday evening was in my pants. I took Justin home and made use of what you like to call ‘my wide mouth.’”

  She smirked knowingly.

  “God, Laney,” I scoffed, slapping her with a file. “The man’s a dickhead, a miscreant…”

  “And has the biggest cock I’ve ever seen,” she finished.

  I sighed. “You sure you don’t have severe Tourette’s? Every word out of your mouth today has been ’cock’ or ‘fuck’.” I searched through my files. “And it’s distracting. I’m actually trying to talk business right now and all I can think about are tsunami-sized cocks.”

  She leaned in. “Jealous?”

  “Sure…” I stood. “I’m just dying to be in a relationship again after dating a coworker, having him steal some of my best articles and take them to a corporate competitor.” I smiled sweetly. “Aren’t relationships just swell?”

  “Who said anything about a relationship?” Laney shrugged. “I’m talking about good old-fashioned fucking here, Pussy Kat. No fuss. None of the muss…unless we’re talking about ’freshly screwed’-sex hair.”

  “Yeah, well, if mussed hair were the test of a true phenomenal screwing, then there’s a reason I haven’t seen my hairstylist since dating Greg. Didn’t have to…” Laney nudged me. “Now, I’d love to get a blow-by-blow for every dirty Justin Harrington detail… but for now, we need to talk shop. Serious shop.”

  I appreciated Laney’s sense of urgency. With those few words, she shut up, taking the seat in front of my desk and whipping out a notepad. She touched a pen to the tip of her tongue and then to the page. She looked up at me.

  “I’ll take some meeting minutes. Okay…” she nodded. “Go.”

  I started. “Foxxhole Publishing is back in town again… and they’re coming for A Whole New World’s customers again. Greg’s breaking his non-compete, going through with his bastardized clone of a company, TravelTalk. Foxxhole is behind him, bought him out. I don’t care if his travel magazine is under new management.” I stood. “It makes no difference. A contract is a contract. Greg worked for this company, traveled for this company—used our ideas. He can’t take them, smear some bullshit all over it and call it different.”

  I walked behind my desk, shutting my slightly cracked door tightly. “I won’t allow it. He’s going to honor the terms of his agreement, and so will Foxxhole. I don’t care how deep Greg has been in bed with that bastard, Victor Foxx…”

  “Or how far he’s crawled up Victor’s ass,” Laney muttered.

  I nodded my head, knowing that that was exactly what Greg had done: Brown-nosed his way into a business deal. Greg had once used his old money and clout to help me get my small publishing business off the ground. Combined with everything I ever fucking owned, A Whole New World Literary Press was off to a fantastic start when we started three short years ago… but then we’d hit a rough spot about twelve months back.

  And Greg had jumped ship. Taken off at the first sign of trouble.

  He had always been that way. When the going got tough, Greg got going. He never stuck anything out past its use, and still, he laid claims to things that no longer belonged to him.

  Things like me.

  Though he seemed perfectly content, crushing my business. He probably thought that when I failed, I’d run back into his underdeveloped arms, begging for a chance. The only person who’d be begging if this “non-compete” deal didn’t work out the way I wanted would be him… pleading for Laney not to kick his lanky ass, as she had threatened so many times before.

  I groaned into my hands, wishing I could dial back time and “un-date” him. I pressed forward.

  “Set up a meeting with TravelTalk’s new CEO. Tell him that the current CEO, and founder, of A Whole New World would like to have a chat with him. Maybe some coffee… I’d like to meet this, uh…” I looked down at my own notes on the desk. “What’s his name?”

  “Foxx,” Laney glanced at my face. “Brendon Foxx.”

  “Yes, Brendon. Brendon Foxx.” I thought for a moment. “What kind of name is Brendon? It’s not Brent. It’s not Brendon. More like some weird ass combo of the two. Bet Victor Foxx thought he was being really unique with that one.”

  “He thinks everything he does is unique…” Laney rolled her eyes.

  I stood at the window to my office overlooking the Bay. The day was clear, cloud-less. The view was breathtaking, the water shocking me every time with its bold blue hues. I swept my gaze over the other high-rises, wondering if Foxxhole Publishing could feel me looking out at them, could feel my presence. I certainly felt theirs.

  I thought of Greg. I thought of Victor Foxx. And then I thought of Victor’s prodigal son returned—the new CEO. He was in for a rude awakening. Come back under his father’s thumb just to get moved to the side by mine.

  He was a peculiar guy, picture-less on the internet, which was impossible these days, and yet I found the revelation somewhat charming. I envied him. In a time and age where anyone could be found, Victor’s Foxx’s youngest son had maintained some mystery. I briefly wondered what he looked like. This… Brendon Foxx.

  I would meet him before the next week was out. I’d make damned sure. I said his name again just to get used to it. Mister Foxx. Mister TravelTalk. Mister CEO.

  Brendon. I smiled to myself. What an interesting name…

  I liked it. But why did it feel so familiar to me?

  ***

  RISKE

  “She has an interesting name,” my assistant commented off-handedly. “The CEO of A Whole New World, a ‘small potatoes’ publishing press local to Tampa. Her name is Katarina Khvostova.”

  He tried to hand me an envelope. “This is the fourth letter delivered this week. That makes fifteen phone calls, twenty e-mails and four snail mail cards she’s sent to you since she started. I know her reputation. I’d heard she was persistent. Some would even say ‘dogmatic’.” He shrugged in front of me.

  “And some would say,” I kept my eyes on the notes I was writing in
my leather-bound planner, “a pain-in-the-fucking-ass. And by ‘some,’ I mean me. What does the Whole New World woman want? Does she even know about the acquisition?”

  My assistant, David, cleared his throat. “I don’t think so, Mr. Foxx, but she does want a meeting. More so, she wants a meeting with you…”

  I said nothing as I finished the note in my planner, setting it aside. The note-taking was a habit I couldn’t get out of—a sort of journaling. I’d developed it nine years ago from the girl I’d known then, and even as a new C-suite executive, I couldn’t break it. I grabbed my phone from the edge of my desk. Perching at the corner of the tabletop, fanning my thumbs over the phone’s surface like a certified pro, I answered a few e-mails, confirmed three meetings and all the while, David, was standing there, practically pissing in his pants with anxiety.

  He didn’t know if he should speak or shut up. Normally, I liked that, but the boy made me nervous. He was one giant ball of angst, wrapped in a tiny suit. I sniffed. You could smell the desperation on all these recent grads.

  I looked at him, locking him with a quick stare.

  “David, tell her I’m out of town. Tell her I’m unavailable. Or dead. Tell her anything… But get rid of her,” I snapped softly. “I don’t have time for some of our own advertising clients, let alone cranky competitors. I just got into this position, and it seems the entire world thinks they can make demands of my time. The only person who can do that is me…” I turned back to my phone. “And Natalie Portman, if she ever decides to leave her goddamned husband.” I glanced back at David. “Understood?”

  “Yes, sir. Understood.” His tiny brown head bobbed up and down like a buoy. “It’s just… well, I spoke to her secretary. A Miss Brigham. And basically… she threatened me. Said I’d better made sure you read at least one of Ms. Khvostova’s letters or emails… or she would put her high heel so far up my ass, I’d be spitting Red Bottoms for weeks.”