Kellan Read online

  So when I graduated and could only get a job at a local flavor like The Spill, I’d been crushed. I thought my hopes and dreams would amount to nothing, that I’d spend my career reporting on the Spring Flower Festival or the latest feud between a homeowner’s association and some eccentric, old coot.

  But I couldn’t go down that way. I was Parker fucking James, and I was going to get the scoop.

  Specifically, I was going to grill Senator MacFarlane on why he hadn’t thrown his hat in the ring to support a bill that would grant preferential treatment to veterans seeking jobs in the civilian world—the world they were all forced to return to with no guarantee that they would be able to make a living in it ever again. Employers don’t like huge lapses of time between jobs, and even putting a tour of duty on a résumé sometimes wasn’t enough to change their minds. This bill would make sure that vets got a fair shot, which was something I thought every American could get behind, especially a conservative like MacFarlane—the guy who’d voted to deploy our troops every chance he got.

  As far as Republicans went, MacFarlane wasn’t too bad a guy. So why was he hemming and hawing about this? I smelled a story, maybe even a scandal, one that would draw enough attention to me as a reporter to move me up the food chain.

  Hopefully.

  I fingered the top button of my blouse. I’d already undone the first two, and I was contemplating whether or not a third would be pushing it. I had a great rack, and I knew how to use it, too, but I didn’t want to overdo it and give myself away. Most men would go braindead when I pushed my tits in their face, but a senator wasn’t in the same league as a thirty-something scrub or a frat boy. No, I had to play this very carefully, or else he’d clam up faster than I could say, “concerned constituents.”

  Still, I had a lot riding on this. And to get anywhere in life, you had to take risks. Go big, or go home. I steeled my nerves and slowly slipped that third button through the hole. My neckline fell away to reveal the twin mounds pushed up and apart by a rather expensive bustier I’d been saving for just such an occasion. God, that was totally pathetic of me. Instead of trying to reel in a man with my womanly curves, I was trying to reel in a story. I was such a nerd.

  Men can wait, I told myself, straightening up and rising from my table. My career comes first.

  Then I bumped face-first into a wall of man muscle, and instantly, I began to rethink my stance on the issue.

  I’d never seen biceps so perfect in all my life, and the broad chest bulging under his olive green t-shirt nearly knocked the breath from my lungs. In such close proximity, his scent overwhelmed me; masculine and musky, with just a hint of something dark and gritty, like a whiff of single malt scotch. Or maybe that was just the beer he’d spilled all over me in a great splash that soaked the cleavage I’d just unveiled. I’d hardly even noticed—the flash of his hazel eyes and pull of his full lips had left me utterly entranced.

  Not just because he was hot, either. In that moment, that split-second we collided, I saw something it would’ve taken most people an actual, in-depth conversation to sort out. This man, whoever he was, was hiding something behind those honey-jade eyes. He was here in this bar, drinking, to escape whatever secret was eating him up inside.

  That intrigued me on a whole other level, especially when I raked my gaze down to the faint outline of a chain beneath his shirt. Dog tags. I’d come here hoping to catch a state senator off-guard regarding veteran’s issues, and here I was, pressed up against a current or former solider. How’s that for serendipity?

  Human interest story. That was what I was thinking about as I bit my lip and forced myself to once again meet his stare. And I was thinking something else, too. Something wholly unprofessional, but a hell of a lot more fun. The kind of fun I hadn’t had in a very long time.

  Don’t get distracted.

  Easier said than done.

  “Shit. Sorry,” the guy said, setting his beer down on the bar behind him and grabbing a fistful of community-property napkins. I reached to take them from his hand but he’d already begun wiping me down, pressing the rough wad to the tops of my beer-spattered breasts.

  Then he stared at me, face contorted in horror. He must’ve realized what he was doing. “Oh.” He drew his hand back. “I…”

  I laughed. “It’s okay. No harm, no foul.” He handed me the napkins and our finger brushed. I felt my pulse pound between my thighs and tried not to squirm. “Just wasn’t prepared for there to be a wet t-shirt contest.”

  “Sorry,” he said again. “I’m not usually this clumsy. Let me buy you a beer. Make it up to you.”

  Unless I was mistaken, that was the smoothest transition from apology to pick-up line I’d ever heard. And it was a flattering offer. But then I caught sight of Senator MacFarlane over my tall, dark, and handsome stranger’s shoulder and recalled my agenda.

  “It’s really not a problem,” I began, preparing to slip this guy my card and cash in on the opportunity later. He was, after all, awfully alluring as a man, and, depending on his story, potentially a damn good angle for my story—“the real cost of Senator MacFarlane’s hesitation,” I’d call him right beneath a picture of his pretty, grizzled face. Yeah, I was definitely interested in this guy. He just wasn’t my main target. I couldn’t lose focus.

  Senator MacFarlane had noticed me, and not in a good way. He glanced over with an eyebrow cocked, made a split-second appraisal, and then turned back to his conversation with his buddies in suits. Damn. No way he’d talk to me now, not with me covered in beer that had turned my silk blouse sheer.

  That guy was still looking at me, too, though. I could feel the heat of his stare. Swiping his beer bottle off the bar, he jerked his head toward a couple empty stools and said, “C’mon. I insist. Or hell, maybe you can buy me a drink, since mine ended up all over you.”

  My jaw slackened a little. He winked. Normally I didn’t like this kind of teasing from men, but something about this guy made him able to pull it off. Maybe it was the slight quirk of his lips forming into a decadent smirk, or the glimmer of mischief in his eyes that made him look like a teenage boy and a big, tough man all at once. Whatever it was, it loosened me up and took me off the edge. I kinda liked it.

  What a missed opportunity with MacFarlane, though. I’d had him right where I wanted him, minus the entourage. Would I get another opportunity to corner him before the end of the month when my deadline came up? You better sure as hell hope so.

  “All right,” I said. Maybe I could salvage this with a free drink and a few empathy-inducing quotes from this guy. “I guess a drink can’t hurt. As long as it ends up in my mouth this time.”

  He almost looked like he wanted to say something then, but stopped himself. That smirk was back, too. I narrowed my eyes a little, but couldn’t help smiling back. So, he’s got a nose for innuendo.

  He pulled out my stool and I sat, still dabbing at myself with some napkins while my gentleman caller ordered a beer for me. I was impressed. Usually guys thought I wanted some fruity drink or a glass of wine, or something. Not that I minded either of those, but I was a beer girl at heart—had been ever since my dad introduced me to the stuff at a baseball game when I was a teenager. The smell, the taste, even the texture brought back fond memories. And it was nice to have a guy not underestimate me for once, too.

  “I’m Kellan,” he said as I set my frosty bottle on a coaster, “by the way.”

  “Parker Jones,” I replied with a smile. Force of habit on the last name—it was a reporter thing. Like Pavlov’s dog, I was conditioned to spout off my full name whenever someone called on me. I was lucky I didn’t throw in “from The Spill” while I was at it. I didn’t want Kellan to know I was a journalist. Not just yet. “Thanks for the drink.”

  “Thanks for letting me cop a feel,” Kellan said, raising his bottle. I grinned and raised mine back, and we both drank. “You look familiar. Maybe I’ve seen you around?”

  I shrugged. “Maybe. Don’t think I’ve seen you,
though.” Where the hell have you been hiding? I gestured to his hidden dog tags with my bottle. “Just get back from a tour of duty?”

  Kellan touched his free hand to his dog tags beneath his shirt. “Good eye,” he murmured. “But no. I’ve been back for a while now. Just moved here a few months ago, though.”

  “Army? Navy?” I asked.

  A glow of pride overtook his face. “Marines.”

  I nodded slowly. Soldiers always wanted to talk—or brag—about their experiences in the military. Even the ones who came back a little scarred or not quite whole had a few tall tales to tell. All they ever needed was a little encouragement, and they were only too happy to tell you about the time they caught a terrorist that was this big, I swear. This was especially true for Marines. They had a reputation to uphold.

  “That must’ve been somethin’,” I said, leading him toward the inevitable conclusion. “Iraq or Afghanistan?”

  Kellan shrugged. “Afghanistan, mostly. But I don’t like to talk about it.”

  Huh. Now that was something. Most guys who said that were full of shit, and I could tell. But Kellan said it like he actually meant it. Okay. So no heroic war stories here. I took another swig of beer while I thought.

  “Well, must be nice to be back,” I said at length. “Stateside, I mean.” He nodded. “You move here for a job?”

  “Sorta. Kinda made a bad rap for myself back home. Here’s as clean a start as I’m gonna get, I think.” He eyed me. “What about you? What do you do for a living?”

  “I’m a writer,” I said without missing a beat. It wasn’t a lie. I did write; it was just the nature of my writing that complicated things. “I was in here looking for… inspiration for a story, and I found you.”

  Kellan lifted his beer to his lips and stared at me over the rim. “Glad I can be inspiring.”

  Although he hadn’t said anything untoward, anything at all, there was this… tone he took that made it seem so dirty. Kellan hadn’t ogled me too hard, even with my third button undone, or even made an overt pass at me. So why did I feel so hot and bothered? Why did just looking into his eyes get me so flustered?

  I dropped my gaze when the heat in my face got to be too much, and that was when I saw it: Kellan’s knuckles were all raw and bruised. He’d scraped the skin off more than a couple of them and his fingers all looked a little swollen, too. Those were the kinds of injuries a man got from fighting. I sank my teeth into my bottom lip. “You… work with your hands, I guess?”

  Kellan regarded his knuckles coolly. “Yeah, I’ve gotten pretty good with them, too.”

  “Really?” I snorted. “Wouldn’t know it, just by looking at them. What kind of job gives you cuts like that on a good day?”

  He winked at me again. “The kind that ain’t exactly legal, I’d wager, which is exactly the kind of work a guy like me can actually get.”

  Something other than lust finally bloomed in my chest. My story-sense was tingling, and Kellan was the reason why. It had all the potential makings of an insanely good human interest piece. Here he was, a vet with a past, but who had defended our country bravely nonetheless. He’d come home from the war unable to find any kind of job except one that utilized his fists, and the training he’d received in the Corps. Shit, it practically wrote itself.

  And it would look fantastic interwoven with my Senator MacFarlane piece. I could hardly believe my luck. I’d come to this bar looking for a compelling piece on a veterans’ job bill, and now I was going to walk out with an exposé on just how fucked up our nation was when it came to taking care of those who’d taken care of us.

  Sexy ex-Marine that is forced to now break the law using his fists to earn a living. And better yet, he’s a lead I probably wouldn’t have to stalk. What more could a girl have asked for?

  Probably some subtlety, because when I leaned over and purred, “Tell me more,” Kellan’s eyes darkened and his little grin turned into a very definitive snarl.

  Shit. I’d overplayed my hand. And judging by the growl that rumbled in Kellan’s throat, my good luck had just run out.

  ~ THREE ~

  Kellan

  “I’m sorry,” Parker said, immediately adjusting her posture. Gone was the girl with stars in her eyes and her tits hanging out of her blouse. Now she was scared, putting distance between us. I always scared them, even when I wasn’t trying. “I didn’t mean…”

  Bullshit. I knew what she’d meant. She was just a little too interested me, in my story—especially when I’d brought up that maybe it wasn’t exactly on the up-and-up. That was stupid of me, but I’d expected her to drop it, not get all intrigued. Who the hell did this girl think she was, anyway? She couldn’t handle the truth she was searching for; the reality.

  I sized her up again. Slim, average height, with delicate features and slender fingers that definitely made her look like the writer type. And those glasses. Okay, so they were hot—I liked the whole “hot librarian” thing—but still, they were a dead giveaway for what she was.

  She was one of them. The girls who’d get destroyed by a guy like me. Who were all curious and cute and eager to learn my secrets, but once they got up close and personal with the kind of life I led, it always spelled trouble. I couldn’t tell Parker any more about who, or what, I was. She wouldn’t be able to handle it.

  But I’d opened the floodgates with my big, dumb mouth. Shit. I had to get her off my scent—for her sake, if nothing else.

  “Lookin’ for a thrill, sweetheart?” I asked, taking a long swallow of beer to make the venom on my tongue more palatable. “Is that why you’re slummin’ it down here instead of hangin’ out at some bistro on your side of town?”

  “My side?” Parker wrinkled her nose and her glasses slipped down a little. Damn, it was cute. “I don’t know who you think I am, but this is my side.”

  “Just ‘cause you come down here sometimes doesn’t make it your side,” I hissed, setting my glass down hard. She jumped. “You’re pretty. You’re a writer. You dress nice when you’re not covered in beer and you’ve got French tips and salon hair. That purse looks like it cost more than I make in a month and I saw you looking at that suit at the end of the bar. I watched you unbutton your shirt for him, Parker. So don’t tell me you’re not the kind of daddy’s girl who’s lookin’ to climb a few ladders to stay in the lap of luxury, because I know your type, and in a place like this, baby, you stand out like a sore thumb.”

  Parker was silent for a moment, her jaw sagging the way I’d known it would. I’d practically accused her of scanning the bar for a sugar daddy, which didn’t make a whole lot of sense, now that I thought about it. If she’d been looking for some rich dude to keep her happy, there were better places in the city than this dive. Which raised the question of what the hell those suits were doing here, anyway, and why had Parker been interested in them.

  Not that I needed to know that right now. Especially not when I was getting so distracted by the heaving of Parker’s breasts as she breathed hard through her nose.

  “These nails?” she said, holding up her hand. Then, before I could stop her, she started ripping her fingernails off one by one. I thought I’d seen it all in Afghanistan, but holy hell, my stomach rolled until I realized they were fake, right around the time she threw them at me. “They’re glorified press-ons. This bag?” She held up her purse and then slammed it down on the bar. “A knock-off from the last time I went to visit my dad in New York. My clothes are nice because I’m a savvy thrifter and my hair is the one damn thing I spend some actual money on that’s for me, and you will not make me feel guilty about it, Mr. I Can Fight a War, But Can’t Carry a Beer. I take it you weren’t the one they sent out on stealth missions?”

  Without thinking, I grabbed Parker’s wrist and pulled her to me, her stool screeching noisily across the barroom floor. She inhaled sharply, lips parted just enough that I could smell the mix of pale ale and sweetness on her breath. She stared up at me, her big, baby blues losing some of their fire as I
pressed my fingertips into her soft, pliant skin. I might’ve been leaving bruises, but if I was, Parker didn’t even flinch. She just set her jaw and held my gaze, and for a second I couldn’t tell which I wanted more: to kiss her, or to shake some goddamn sense into her.

  This close to her, looking into her eyes, I could tell a few things about her. The first was that she wasn’t the good girl I thought she was—or at least, she wasn’t in bed. I could tell from the way she looked at me, from the fire in her eyes, that there was more to her than met the eye. I bet she was the kind of girl who’d scream and beg for it, once she saw how big it was. Part of me wanted to take the hand I was holding and put it down my pants, let her get a feel for what she was dealing with.

  Hell, maybe I didn’t need to shake her. Maybe I needed to fuck some sense into her, instead. But I was accustomed to fucking a girl’s brains out, not in, and despite the wicked flash of intrigue that passed over her face too quickly for most people to see, I knew it was a bad fucking idea to give her a taste of me, even if it was what we both wanted.

  Like she actually knew what she wanted, anyway. Most women didn’t. Not when it came to men like me. They always thought they could handle the bad boy, change him, make him see things their way. Parker would be no different. She’d walk into this thinking she was safe ‘cause I had the muscles to protect her, but she wouldn’t realize until it was too late that she needed protection from me.

  Didn’t she see who I was—what I was? Didn’t she see my scarred and bloody knuckles and know how fucking dangerous I was? If she did, she didn’t understand. She was just like the others, looking for a thrill without paying heed to the cost. I couldn’t let her get close to me. Not a pretty little thing like her. I’d ruin her. Destroy her. She didn’t deserve that, no matter how naïve she was.

  Goddamn do-gooders. Always lookin’ for a charity case.

  “No,” I told her, my voice a low snarl, “the Corps didn’t send me on any stealth missions. That wasn’t the kind of shit they taught me, or the kind of shit I wanted to learn. They taught me how to kill a man without blinking, how to survive and succeed by whatever means necessary. They taught me to be a hunter, a murderer, if need be. They made me into a weapon, and I’m a damn good one, too. In fact, you might say it’s the only damn thing I’m good at, or good for, at all.