Page 8

8

Ronan

W hy don’t drugs hit the same way they used to?

The marijuana I’ve been pulling into my lungs is barely giving me anything more than a light headache. I’ll have to tell Ken he’s losing his touch, though maybe it’s more of a me problem than the substance. I also can’t deny I’m a bit distracted.

It’s almost midnight and Calista still hasn’t returned to the cabin. I’m not keeping tabs on her, but it’s hard to imagine she’d be working this late. She never has when she’s working from home.

Ever since she installed cameras around the house, I’ve half-considered putting a tracker in her car. Not that I’m worried about her; it’s more morbid curiosity. Why would she need security in a supposedly ‘gated’ area? There’s a single, monitored entrance, and short of trekking several acres on foot, no one could get here without serious determination.

Maybe it’s for me? Maybe she finally googled my name.

“Guilty,” I mutter, tossing back the rest of the beer in my hand.

I’ve got the garage door open, lights off, keeping myself hidden as I sit here on one of the couches that once filled the living room. She’s thinking of selling it, but I’m tempted to have her keep it. After a workout, it’s nice to sit on something that isn’t a bench.

Leaning my head back, I slouch as the blunt in my hand burns down to my fingers. I haven’t taken a hit in a while, just letting it smolder past the butt.

Calista is an intriguing person. She’s got a lot going on in that head of hers. I’m pretty sure she struggles with ADHD; it shows in her habits. The kitchen has been her main focus, but she can’t seem to stick with it for more than thirty minutes before jumping to something else.

And there’s that little stutter when she talks to me. It can’t be because she finds me attractive; she must know she looks just as damn good. If I weren’t the person I am, I’d have tied her wrists to any of the beams inside this cabin and fucked the soul right out of her.

I’m not gentle in any aspect of my life. Violence is my security, my protection. Whether it’s slamming my cock into someone or punching them in the face, nothing about me is soft.

Calista’s curiosity is obvious. Her eyes often linger on the scars across my abdomen or drift up to the “SIT” tattoo over my eyebrow. I think she wants to know what made the ‘Ronan’ standing in front of her. Maybe that’s why she’s so hesitant to ask about me. She’d rather fumble over a question like “How tall are you?” than ask, “Where’d you get the knife scars?”

The low rumble of tires on gravel pulls me out of my thoughts. Her Mustang rolls up the driveway, headlights cutting out as she nears the house.

Once she’s parked, I crush the blunt in my hand, letting it die out before dropping what’s left onto the couch. I walk right out of the garage, not taking any precautions to hide myself.

She’s getting out of the car, looking a little unsteady. For a second, I think back to her innocent demeanor. There’s no way she drove home drunk, is there? Part of me doesn’t even want to know, because if she did, I might not be able to stop myself from bending her over and spanking the sense back into her. How reckless would she have to be to drive drunk out here? One wrong turn and she could end up in the lake or wrapped around a tree.

Steadying herself on the car, she leans over, slips off one heel, then the other, before making her way to the cabin.

You don’t care, Ronan… A low groan escapes my throat. Is she so inebriated that she can’t see the garage open? She doesn’t even mutter about it.

I stay quiet, because now I want to just observe, and move to the house door, opening it just a crack as she steps through the front door.

From here, I watch her move toward the half-demolished kitchen that leads to the garage. With all the lights disconnected, she can’t make out my face in the shadows, and I can only trace her silhouette as she quietly shuts the front door and heads down the hall toward the bedrooms. I slip in behind her, closing the door softly and nudging off my shoes with a silent push.

Prison taught me that silence is my best weapon. I’m a big guy, but I found the motivation to master quiet pretty quickly. So it doesn’t surprise me that she hasn’t noticed me watching her—whether she’s working during the day or asleep when I enter her room at night. I haven’t touched her, but like I told Ken, she’s a nice piece of eye candy. Her sleeping is probably the prettiest time of day for her.

I peek down the hall and see her in the tiny half bath, just a sink and a toilet. The water’s running, and I hear the bristles of her toothbrush scraping against her teeth. Then the faint pop of a bottle, and another. Probably taking Tylenol.

Anger stirs in my chest.

Did she really drink and drive? What a fucking idiot.

A minute later she steps out of the bathroom, turns left, and heads straight into the guest room, closing the door behind her. I wait, then move in to see what she took.

I open the cabinets in the half bath she’d mentioned gutting during the renovations. Just two bottles: Tylenol, like I figured, and Melatonin.

Sleeping pills…

I hum and pick them up. The bottle is pretty full, whereas the Tylenol I can see from the clear bottle, is halfway gone.

Setting the bottle back, I close the mirrored cabinet, step out of the bathroom, and make my way to her room. I press my ear to the door, listening for the soft shuffling of her blankets. I think I catch a sigh, maybe a few mumbled words, but otherwise it’s silent. No music, no TV. The only place she wanted a television was in the living room, and that's exactly what she got.

I’m not sure how long I stand here, but I know from experience that sleeping pills take a minute to kick in. Only when I hear nothing but her breathing do I reach for the doorknob and slowly turn it. The door opens with a faint crack, and I pause, listening for any sign of surprise—a gasp, a shift in the bed.

Nothing.

I step inside, my gaze locking onto her form in the bed. With the curtains drawn open, the nearly full moon casts enough light for me to make out her face. I approach slowly, taking in her side profile as she lays on her side. Her lips are slightly parted, and the urge to touch them is incredibly hard to ignore.

Instead of giving into that idiotic idea, I lift the edge of the blanket, seeing she’s still in her work clothes.

Her shirt’s dirty, a thin layer of dust on her chest, though I see no tears. It reminds me of the gritty buildup on a parked car—I’ve scrubbed enough of them to know the look. The faint, heavy scent of exhaust and concrete clings to her, like the smell of a parking garage.

“Hmm…”

Moving my hand up to her face, I brush aside her hair, my fingers caressing across her skin. She’s soft, not something I’ve felt in a very long time. The last person to feel this way to me was my mother: gentle, soft, and safe.

I can’t let her sleep in her dirty clothes.

I shift onto one knee on the bed, unbuttoning her blouse and carefully tugging it free from her pencil skirt. Her white bra comes into view, and while desire threatens to cloud my judgment, I keep control. As much as I might want to see her pierced nipples, that’s a line I refuse to cross. Consent is as firm to me as my fists: unbreakable and unwavering.

The sleeping pills mixed with her alcohol consumption, I assume keep her knocked out cold while I pull her shirt off, then her skirt. I don’t miss that her toes look bruised and swollen.

Honestly, I never saw Calista as the type to be reckless with her safety. Curiosity is one thing, but actually putting herself in a life-threatening situation is something else entirely.

You don’t care, Ronan.

Putting the blanket back up at her shoulder, I roll her back over onto her side and take one last draw of my hand across her skin. I do so right at her neck, feeling her pulse under it. It’s now, just as I’m about to step away, that I see a hint of black and blue.

I narrow my eyes and brush her hair further away from her neck, but it’s difficult to see anything.

You don’t care...

Goddamn it.

I grab my phone and click the screen on, casting just enough light to reveal the bruising across the back of her neck.

My brows pinch and I slip my phone back into my pocket.

She could have met up with someone and had a nice rough fuck on her car. I’ve caused bruising to the back of a neck like that without thought, so entranced in fucking some ass that I lost myself to my grip. It’s possible that’s the case, and I should leave it at that.

I don’t know this girl and really don’t want to. But the knot in my stomach won’t ease with the thought that I might be wrong.

Before I do something reckless, like wake her up and demand an explanation, I slip silently out of her room, leaving the door slightly open. I head to the garage, secure it, and set the alarm before checking on her one last time. I tell myself I’m probably overthinking. We’ll see how she is in the morning.

My phone buzzes in the pocket of my sweats. I didn’t sleep well, but that’s not unusual. Drugs and alcohol don’t give me the slumber I desperately desire. Maybe I should try something stronger, but that wouldn’t be wise with Calista around.

I pull out my cell and see a text from Ken.

KEN

Hey, sorry I didn’t respond last night. Hilt-deep in some sweet ass. There is nothing wrong with the shit I gave you, you are used to that illegal-illegal shit from prison. It’ll take a bit, but it will start hitting again.

If you say so

KEN

Whatever. You fuck that sweet step-pussy of yours yet?

No, and I don’t plan to

KEN

Uh huh, I saw the way you looked at that guy talking to her

I don’t blame you. She’s fucking hot and forbidden fruit is the sweetest

I’ve had enough forbidden

KEN

Never enough, Ro

For me there is such a thing

I’m in the garage, propping the door to the house open so I can hear Calista when she ventures out. It’s nearly noon, and while I expected her to sleep for a while, this feels excessive. Over the past two weeks she’s been up by eight, coffee in hand within the first fifteen minutes, then straight back to work.

Maybe she skipped her shot of espresso and went right to work.

That’s unlikely though. She threatened to stab me if I moved it or broke it, which I found quite cute. Such a violent little thing. Though, it does have me curious if she would worship something else like she does her cup of coffee every morning.

For a moment I actually consider waking her up. My curiosity about what happened last night is stronger than it should be, and I know I need to rein it in.

Just then, I see her in the doorway, hair piled into a thick, messy bun on top of her head. She rubs her eyes, seemingly unaware of my presence as she stumbles into the garage.

“Left the fucking door open… Asshole…” she mutters, and I can feel a nerve in my temple twitch. I know she isn’t directing that at me.

She’s wearing a long nightgown—more like an oversized shirt, really. I wonder if it belongs to someone else.

That thought has an irrational pit of anger forming right in my chest and I need to rein it in quickly.

I’m not far from sight, sitting on the couch facing the open garage doors. I turn my head fully over my shoulder, watching as she groggily walks to the coffee machine, preparing her Colombian blend with steamed half-and-half and two teaspoons of sugar.

Why do I know that?

My audible groan makes her shoulders tense as she slowly turns her head in my direction. The caution in her demeanor—like a hare caught in a snare, wary of the fox approaching its meal—brings a grin to my face.

The instant her eyes lock onto mine, she jumps, yelping and slamming her back against the workbench where the coffee machine sits.

“Holy fuck, Ronan!”

I’ll admit, hearing her say my name has a nice ring to it. Her West Coast accent is nothing out of the ordinary, but there’s a soft quality to it. If I had to describe it, I’d say it’s like a summer breeze: light, soothing, and refreshing. It carries a warmth that lingers, even when she’s angry.

“I think you owe me an apology,” I croon, drawing my arm across the back of the sofa. My head tilts, and instinctively, hers follows suit.

It dawns on her that just moments ago she called me an asshole while I was sitting here.

“Uh, s-sorry,” she stumbles. “I had a few too many last night.”

Her hand goes to rub the back of her neck but pulls away quickly, as if reminded of something. She then scratches her head, loosening her hair from the tie, and letting it cascade down her shoulders and back. She has a lot of hair, and if someone were to ask me what the sexiest part of a woman’s body is, I’d say it’s that. It doesn’t matter the color; it’s all about the texture, thickness, and firmness.

The thought of her hair braided and wrapped around my fist jolts me, and I find myself asking more harshly than intended, “You drove drunk last night?”

She swallows hard and begins to shift away from the worktable. “It was stupid… but I fell asleep in my car for a bit… you know, to let the alcohol wear off.”

Narrowing my eyes, I wet my bottom lip. “Why are you lying?”

Her breath hitches. “I’m not! Why are you drilling me? You aren’t my father.”

“You’ve called me daddy before.” My smile widens while my dick grows just thinking about it. “Close enough.”

“Ew, no. I do not want to think about you as my dad.”

“Why not? What do you want to think of me as?” I’m getting sidetracked but teasing her is so fucking fun. She has no idea just how cruel I can be.

“My roommate. Unwilling roommate.”

I hate that word: unwilling. She had plenty of chances to leave. There’s no doubt in my mind that if she told her mother I was here, she’d help her find a studio apartment somewhere for the time being.

My tone shifts, losing its playful edge. “I know you’re fucking lying, baby girl.” I start to stand, and that’s when I hear the soft, cautious tip-toeing of her feet heading back toward the house. “And if you’re not, you need a lesson on how to get a designated driver—hey, get your ass back here!”

She’s running from me. What the hell?!