Page 7 of Puck
I filed away that little tidbit about Puck as I pulled into the alley, passing what looked like an auto garage on one side and an abandoned warehouse on the other. Beyond the abandoned warehouse was a rickety, toppling wooden fence separating the alley from a row of dilapidated houses. I drove slowly down the alley, the flat tireflap—flap—flapping, and the rim grating against the ground. A bit farther down, the wooden fence gave way to an abandoned lot, overgrown with shrubs and trees, the ground covered in the ruins of a building long since torn down, now nothing but crumbled cinder blocks and rusted rebar, the lot now used as a local dumping ground, overflowing with trash. Opposite was another fence, this one green metal and shoulder height, topped with coils of barbed wire, tin roofing visible above it. After about a hundred yards, the alley dead-ended at a flat, gray metal gate.
I halted the bus a dozen feet from the gate and glanced at Puck. “Now what?”
Puck opened the door and exited the bus, letting out a sigh. “No fuckin’ idea. This whole running from bad guys thing ain’t exactly my area of expertise—usually it’s the other away around.”
He trotted off, the AK-47 slung around behind his back, pistol in one hand.
Layla went out after him, and so I followed—a few seconds later the other women who seemed to be part of this particular group joined us.
Two of the other women were blondes and the third was a woman with dark skin and black hair—she could have been a sister to Layla, based on looks alone.
Layla pointed at the first blonde woman. “This is my best friend, Kyrie St. Claire. The other gorgeous blonde lady you might recognize . . . she’s Temple Kennedy. The one with the curly black hair and killer body is Lola Reed. Everybody, this is Colbie Danvers.”
I said hi to everyone, my mind racing. Kyrie St. Claire . . . the name rang a bell. There’d been a recent article inPeopleor one of those celebrity gossip magazines about the reclusive billionaire playboy, Valentine Roth—apparently he’d gotten married and had a baby . . . the woman in the photographs had been named Kyrie St. Claire. Then there was Temple Kennedy, star of a reality TV show and the daughter of a famous actress and equally famous rock star.
“How do you ladies all know each other?” I asked.
Layla answered. “Well, Kyrie and I have been friends for years. She’s married to Valentine Roth, and I’m married to Roth’s head of security, Nick Harris. Lola and Temple are both involved with employees of my husband, which makes them kind of like sisters to Kyrie and me.”
“Welcome to the Alpha One Security Sisterhood, Colbie,” Kyrie added.
Kyrie was on the short side but stunning all the same. Her hair was golden, her eyes blue, and her voice soft and unassuming; she didn’t seem any more fazed by recent events than Layla did . . . none of these women did, for that matter.
“The what?” I blinked at Kyrie as I tried to process her words.
Kyrie gestured at Puck, who was standing beside me. “You and Puck . . . it seemed like you guys were—”
I held up my hands palms out. “Um . . . no.”
Puck returned then. “So this is a good spot to hide out for a couple minutes,” he said. “Away from the freeway and other main roads, trees and abandoned buildings for cover. Should give us a chance to figure out a plan.” He eyed me and then Layla. “Did I miss something?”
Layla smirked. “I was just welcoming Colbie to the Alpha One Security fam, since she and you seem to hit it off pretty well.”
“And I said nobody is hitting anything off,” I put in.
Puck just grinned at me and winked yet again. “Not yet, at least.”
“How about not ever?” I snapped.
Puck sidled closer, and the closer he got the more on edge I became. I could feel his proximity so keenly it set the fine hairs on the back of my neck on end, and then he got closer yet and I could smell him. He was a little more than an inch shorter than me, but somehow seemed able to make it feel like he was surrounding me, staring down at me with his chocolate brown eyes. I wasn’t breathing, I realized, and sucked in a breath.
What the hell? What was he doing to me? Why was I reacting to him like this? Men didn’t affect me. No man had ever affected me like this; no man had ever made me forget to breathe, made me feel small and delicate and yet somehow safe. He was dangerous, I knew that, I’d seen him kill only moments ago—dangerous men were a known quantity to me. The only way to survive on the streets was to join a gang, so I was well-versed in the language of macho, swaggering, alpha males, well-acquainted with guys who could and would shoot you as soon as shake your hand. Puck was different; he had that same machismo, the same cockiness and swagger, the same hardened, lethal air, but Puck was something new, a kind of man I’d never encountered before.
I was searching his eyes, trying to figure him out, trying to figure out my own reaction to him—when he reached up, his hand moving slowly, deliberately, and his palm cupped around my waist, his fingers dimpling in my back just above the waistband of my skirt. He tugged me up against him, and my breath caught. He was a hard mass of muscle, immovable and powerful and masculine, his eyes glittering and bright, his lips quirked in a sly smirk. And goddamn, that beard. I’d never been a fan of big beards, but somehow, on Puck, it was just . . . perfect.
I could bury my fingers in the thick black mass of his beard and yank him in for a kiss—
Gah—what? Who put that ridiculous thought in my head? Sorcery, I tell you.
His hand was huge and strong, his fingers spread across my back, the span so wide his thumb brushed near my shoulder blades while his pinky was teasing flesh in the tiny gap where my blouse had risen above my skirt. The touch of his hand was making me crazy. There was shirt material between his hand and my skin—except his pinky—and yet I felt his touch like fire.
And I stopped breathing again.
“You feel that too, don’t you?” he murmured.
I stepped backward out of his touch. “Nope.”
I’d momentarily forgotten there were other people around us—Layla, Kyrie, Temple, and Lola, not to mention a bus full of women. And sirens howling somewhere.