Riske and Revenge: A Second Chance, Enemies Romance (Revenge series Book 1) Page 7

  Griff perched on the edge of my desk, beginning to lean in. My less-eager friend Chris stood in the center of the carpet, arms crossed, simply watching. They were hoping, waiting for me to confirm their fantasies. And somehow I couldn’t do it.

  I’d told them about plenty of escapades, a million and one romps. But this one was undoubtedly different. I opened my mouth to speak, to make an excuse, but nothing seemed to come out, and I met their curious stares with a hard one of my own, my gaze flitting from one friend’s face to another.

  I straightened my back, picking up my pen. I placed it on the paper in front of me.

  “No.” And then I started writing a note—a reminder to myself not to drink Bourbon to excess any more—no matter how fucking good it was. I didn’t need another repeat of last night. I stuck the note in my leather-bound binder, closing it.

  “Holy Christ, Foxx,” Chris piped up. “When are you going to move into the digital age? You know we have software for that kind of thing. If you want to write a note to yourself, there are plenty of ways to do it. Lots of automated workflow stuff. Nobody writes in a notebook style binder anymore. Join the twentieth century.”

  I looked at the binder and then him. My voice was flat. “I like my throwback luxuries, thank you very much. It’s worked for me so far, and I stick with what works. Nothing wrong with a little nostalgia for memory’s sake… It keeps my juices going—reminds me of who I was, where I came from… what it took to get here.” I stared at his face. “Know what I’m saying?”

  “No,” Griff cut in, his green eyes glowing. “There’s no use in sticking with the old. Personally, I’m a fan of the new. We’ve got our new office; I’ve got my new car and God willing,” he pounded a fist on the face of my desk, “I’ll have some new pussy tonight to cap it off. The universe invented ‘new’ to keep us from being bored.”

  “And we see how well that works out for you,” I commented, turning back to my leafy ledger. “You’re always bored. Burying yourself knee-deep in some random vagina is never enough for you, Griff. And yet you try every weekend and, hell, some weekdays to break the monotony of bedding yet another mouth-breather. When does it all become enough?”

  Griff swiped a hand through his dark hair, shrugging. “Until my dick falls off.”

  Chris punched his arm, and I shook my head, wondering why I couldn’t take my own spontaneous advice, examining the reasons I went from woman to woman in my life—never settling down, never staying put. Fact was… my “after-hours” exploits were almost as bad as Griff’s. I justified them by offering my overnight guests butler-served breakfast, but that was the extent of my niceties.

  Once they made it past the sheets, I made sure I never heard from them again. Never extended my number. Placed their names on the “Do not disturb” lists so that they never made it past the doorman should they decide to show up for a pop-up surprise visit.

  I was careful… if not uncaring as fuck.

  It was the one thought that reined over all others as I worked, unbothered in the half-built office that I shouldn’t have even been in yet. I should have been back in the rental office with Chris and Griff. I should have been at home in bed…

  I should have been thinking of anyone but the beautiful brunette from my past, but instead I put the volume in my headphones as loud as it would go and allowed myself to be lost, to become a slave to my mind’s rage and purge everything I have onto the piece of paper.

  I wrote until my fingers tired. I wrote until my hand overheated, the sweat dripping down my wrist and onto the desk. I wiped the back of my knuckles across my forehead, marveling at the change in temperature of the room.

  The sudden overwhelming change in temperature… and the faint smell of smoke drifting its way into my office.

  I stood suddenly, knocking over my chair. My wooden door felt warm as I flung it open, my feet stomping as I made my way into the hall. And then I saw it. The unusual bright light. It glowed like an unnatural nebula, plucked right out of the sky and inserted into the air, a shiny beacon come to call me into the next world.

  Except this wasn’t Heaven; it was Hell.

  And yet there seemed to be someone amidst the Hellfire… An angel mistakenly placed in the midst of the rising inferno. I thought I was losing it—hallucinating. Until l saw the fear in the angel’s eyes.

  And I couldn’t think. I just… ran. Right for her. Circumventing the circle of fire, I dashed across the space between us, closing it within an instant. I wrapped my arms around the angel, pulling her towards an open doorway, and she seemed to come to life in that moment, her legs finally moving as I led her out of the hall and towards the open office space, her formerly leaden feet starting to run with mine. A third set of feet joined us, following in step, and I looked to my right to find another ethereal beauty, hauling ass beside us, her face covered in a thickening layer of terror—a silent scream emanating from her wide eyes.

  I understood the terror. I could feel traces of it in my bones.

  Black smoke billowed into the air, staining it the color of coal, and I coughed, my mouth instantly dry from the choking flavor of the room. The sound of the dancing flames was the deadliest noise I’d ever heard, and as my eyes searched for the exit, I could feel everything. The sweat on my brow. The trembling of the two other-worldly women at my sides who had appeared in my office almost as if out of thin air.

  We hit the stairs with a shuddering force. Or, more like, I hit the stairwell door. With one shoulder, I barreled past the wood, breaking the lock that kept it clasped shut.

  We nearly tumbled down the stairs and yet somehow we stayed on our toes, still running—descending rapidly, down forty-seven floors. Thirteen before we would make it to the ground, the red-haired woman collapsed first, and with one arm I scooped her up, half-carrying her. Until the brunette went tumbling on the fortieth floor down, buckling at the knee, her body folding onto itself as it hit the last landing, falling into a heap.

  And I knew I had no choice. I had to get them out—and myself, in the process.

  I grabbed the two women at my sides, wrapping them close to my body. Down five agonizing, air-restricted floors, I shouldered the weight of the two spent strangers, and by the time I made it to the ground floor, I couldn’t process anything at all. I was running on pure adrenaline. Carting the women had sapped me of energy; smoke had stolen the air from my lungs. Every body part I owned was aching, and through the pain, I managed to make it to the relative safety of the sidewalk where I sat them down, my legs almost too tired to stay upright as I searched for my cell in the pockets of my pants.

  “Wait here!” I yelled to the women, sliding my fingers away from their bodies. My fingers sweating over the screen, my vision blurred to the point of semi-blindness, I somehow managed to dial 9-1-1. Screaming a few dozen words that I’m not even sure made sense, I cut the call with the operator, reeling as a sudden realization sent me running back into the building. I didn’t even hesitate. I couldn’t…

  In my haste, I’d forgotten something—something I wasn’t leaving without saving… I wiped a line of sweat from my forehead and went in.

  Blue is the Warmest Color

  There are no Hallmark cards that define the next chapter, or the value of a history together.

  - Brad Pitt

  KAT

  We were out. We were finally out.

  My hands gripped the steering wheel hard. Drops of sweat dripped from my neck to my bare shoulders and I could feel every single sliver of perspiration running a path across my body, could sense every bead. I was sure I could taste the salt on my skin, and I was breathing so hard in the confines of the now mud-stained car that I thought I might pass out from the exhaustion, but we did it.

  We made it out.

  I was alive in every sense of the word, and if it wasn’t for the tight grip of my fingers around the leather, the aching feeling of anxiety pulsating in my knuckles, I’d think I was dreaming. I knew I wasn’t because of that pain… and I knew I
wasn’t because of the boy who caused it—the madman sitting a mere two feet from my face, smiling from ear-to-ear, whooping in the black and tan passenger seat. I could see his grin in the dim moonlight, could feel his excited breaths on my face as he slammed an open hand on the dashboard, sending the rest of my crazed senses soaring.

  He beamed at me.

  “You were fucking phenomenal.”

  I shrugged, looking at the road. “I did all right.”

  “No, I really mean it. I mean… I thought I was a crazy son-of-a-bitch, but you, Kat. You might be more fucked in the head than even me…”

  My hands tightened around the steering wheel even more. “Gee, thanks.”

  He laughed, long and hard. “No, I mean it as a compliment. Fuck…” He rubbed a hand down the side of his face. “I don’t think I’ve seen anything as bold as what you just did. And I’ve seen my best friend, Griff, do lots of crazy dumb shit…” He got silent suddenly. “It’s nice… to meet a girl who’s not afraid to get down and dirty.”

  “Well,” I commented, concentrating on the dirt street in the distance, “I’m not like any other girls.”

  He nodded. “You sure the hell aren’t.”

  The conversation in the car fell into a lull. Basking in the glow of our excited escape, Ethan and I chose to let the quiet stretch all the way back into town. It wasn’t until we hit our first street light that I remembered I was still sitting in his seat, in his car, strapped in place next to the sexiest guy I’d ever met. I felt fine when we were fucking up things, getting into some much-needed trouble, but now I felt acutely aware of his profile in the dark, his smell.

  The entire dusty Corvette convertible of his was subtly saturated, and though his scent was faint, it rocked something deep within my core. I had never laughed so hard, felt as free and been as naughty as I had been tonight. I was stepping into unchartered territory… and I liked it.

  I tapped my fingers on the wheel. “I guess I’d better take myself back to camp.”

  “Camp Okafee?” he questioned, glancing my way.

  “Yeah.” I crossed my arms, suddenly feeling cold. “My parents…” I shook my head, clearing it. “I need the tuition cash, if I ever want to go to school. My mom found this place on the internet. Said I should see it as a mini-vacation… and a way to make some money.” I shook my head. “Besides, the kids at my school just don’t fucking get it… The guys don’t know what to say to me because I’d rather play flag football than cheer for it on the sidelines. I’d rather write stories than read them, and when my guidance counselor asked what I wanted to do with my life, I responded, ‘Not sit behind my desk and evaluate others’ lives when my own is a mess.’ They think I’m being impertinent when really…” I gazed over at Ethan. “I’m just being honest.”

  I bit my lip. “I mean, my older sister, Elena, is totally worse than me. She’s rebellious, rambunctious. She once slapped a guy in her Econ class for implying that blondes were hotter than brunettes… and she’s a blonde.” I expelled a breath. “Elena’s tough… but people have her figured out. She’s the ballsy blonde ballerina… and I’m the girl with the messy brown hair who likes to hang with the boys. For a while, most people at my school thought I was gay…”

  Ethan shifted in his seat. “Are you?”

  “No,” I snapped. “Not that there’s anything wrong with it, but why do I have to vie for the attention of every guy that walks by to be considered a proper girl? I wear mascara. Hell, I even like the color pink… But because I’d rather own my own business than be a secretary in one doesn’t mean I’m looking to trade sexualities. It’s the twenty-first century, and most of the neighbors I have still live by the same old southern rules. And my mom and dad…” I grit my teeth. “I get it. We have to help the family, but honestly? I’m sick of it. Sometimes, it’s too much. What they need, what others want. Seriously. Why do I have to live up to anybody’s expectations but my own?”

  “You don’t.” It was an answer that came faster than I expected. “But some children don’t have the luxury of being free from other people’s choices. Some children are stuck before they are even born. Especially when it comes to their parents. It’s not like they can choose them. I should know…”

  “Yeah, well, some children should just say ‘Fuck what my parents say.’ That’s just my opinion…”

  He chuckled, a low sound that rumbled like the car engine. “An opinion I happen to share. Along with others of yours…”

  I squeezed the steering wheel again. Lost in my own thoughts, I found myself not paying much attention as Ethan directed me past downtown, to a neighborhood just outside the city limits. I was nowhere near Camp Okafee, and as I cruised down the quiet street, I noticed the streets get brighter and the houses get bigger. I squinted at the street signs as Ethan pointed to an elegant two-story brick house that would have put regular shacks in Dayton to shame.

  I held my breath.

  “Where are we?” I pulled up to the curb outside the tiny brick abode.

  “Home.” Ethan threw over his shoulder at me. “At least the home I’m in for the summer. My mom lives here. My dad remarried, and I… Well, I couldn’t stay with him for another second, let alone the summer. My mom’s always gone. Bingo or something or other… At least she stocks the place up with food.”

  He expelled a breath, brushing his own explanation off. He brought me into the kitchen and while he fixed me a snack, he told me about his love for animals, and I happened to mention my allergy to anything with fur. We debated sweet versus salty snacks, raided his mother’s pantry and talked everything nineties, from Ferris Bueller to Friends, until we nearly came to blows when the subject of the movie, Die Hard, was finally broached—a film I’d loved since I was a kid and could barely even pronounce the name “Bruce Willis.”

  I snagged another potato chip from one of the many bags we placed on the counter. I munched loudly, arguing between bites.

  “It isn’t!” I screamed.

  “Totally is.” Ethan grabbed a soda from the fridge, handing it to me. “Die Hard is a Christmas movie.”

  “What ‘Christmas movie’ has guns blazing and men dying left and right?”

  He snatched his own can of soda, slouching against the kitchen counter. He grinned. “The best kind.”

  “But that’s not what Christmas is about…” I popped my can open, listening to it fizz. “It’s about gingerbread man cookies and gifts. It’s about little kids getting their tongues stuck to frozen poles like in a ‘A Christmas Story’ and learning lessons about sharing and giving that they’ll totally forget the second they hit high school. That’s what Christmas is about.”

  “Really?” Ethan’s brown eyes darkened. “My Christmases were a little different than that as a kid…”

  I didn’t catch the change in his tone. I stared up at the ceiling. “Clearly… You must have been that kid that runs up to the others to tell them that Santa isn’t real. A dream-dasher. Next, you’ll be telling me that Jean Claude Van Damme was a better actor than Arnold Schwarzenegger.”

  He shrugged, one muscular shoulder going chin-high. “Well…”

  “That’s it.” I finished my last potato chip, dusting off my hands. “We’re fighting.” I reached into another bag of snacks. Hurling a Barbecued pork rind at his head, I laughed as he deftly ducked it, reaching into his own box of goodies to toss a chocolate-covered raisin in my direction. I laughed as I tried to catch it in my mouth and got slammed in the nose. I winced as another one came.

  “That’s not fair. Your snacks are less aerodynamic than mine. They have less hang-time in the air.”

  Ethan chuckled. “That’s what you get for choosing salty over sweet snacks. Next time you’ll rethink your choices.”

  “If you really knew me, you’d know that I’d rather chew off my left arm than waste a piece of candy.”

  “I see.” Ethan pointed. “And you’re going to crack a tooth with all the sugar you’re stuffing in your mouth tonight.”

>   I mumbled around a chocolate-covered pretzel. “At least I’ll die happy.”

  “Yeah,” Ethan snorted, staring. “And with cavities the size of my fist. Only God knows how you stay so goddamned thin…”

  I winked, barely stopping to swallow. “Been watching my figure, have you?”

  He smiled, glancing over at me. “I’ve taken a peek or two…”

  I rolled my eyes, moaning between chews. “I guess you could say I get it from my mom—this metabolism. My sisters and I all do. We inherited her sweet tooth along with her iron stomach. She’s slowed down on the baking a bit, but her cookies are the best thing you’ll ever taste.”

  Ethan stood straighter. “Oh yeah…? And what about your cookies?”

  I scowled. “I suck at cooking. My cookies aren’t for tasting…”

  I watched as he pushed off the counter. “Maybe… or maybe you just haven’t found the right sampler. Hate to get all Hunger Games on you, but if you’re looking for one, then I volunteer as tribute…”

  I reached over, slapping him with a hand towel. “Shut up.”

  But the look he was giving me was dead serious. He sauntered away from his side of the kitchen and started to come closer. My heart was beating a million reps per minute and when Ethan came within arms’ reach, I decided to let him have it.

  My cookie. Every inch of it… All the creamy goodness inside… smeared right into his face. I ran as he recovered, scooping slobs of icing and cream off his own handsome face. He spoke—or more like spit—through the frosting.

  “That’s it… I was going to share my extended version of ‘Pulp Fiction.’ But now? No classic nineties films for you. You only get the straight-to-TV joints.”

  “I’d rather die. Hard,” I shot back at him, pelting him with a piece of beef jerky.

  He ducked when the second one came his way. “You really do want to be Bruce, don’t you?”