Kellan (2 page)

“Let me clean you
off, baby,” she said, voice sweet and husky. “C’mon. It’s the least I can do
after you fucked me so right.”

Would that really
make it better, though? Would letting Jasmine lick the leftover spunk on my
cock make me feel whole again? Or was putting my fist through some guy’s face
in the ring the closest I was ever gonna get to that?

Whatever—it didn’t
matter. Feelings were bullshit, anyway. They’d just fuck you up and slow you
down. The only thing that mattered was action. You sure as hell couldn’t trust
a man’s feelings, or his words, but you
could
trust what he did, and for
me, that was fucking and fighting. I could put my faith in that.

But even with
Jasmine’s plump, swollen lips wrapped around my twitching shaft, her eyes fixed
on mine as she lapped at my tip like a kitty with a saucer of cream, I wondered
how long it’d be until all this came crashing down around me, too. I was a
weapon; I was only of use if someone found use for me. What would happen when
everyone around me gave up?

I closed my eyes
and let Jasmine’s sinful tongue drown out those thoughts for now. I’d cross
that bridge when I came to it. Hell, like all the others I’d come to in my
life, I’d probably burn it to the ground.

~
TWO
~

Parker

Man, I really needed this drink.

State Senator John
MacFarlane was sitting just a few feet away from me at the bar, embroiled in
what appeared to be a private, friendly conversation with a couple of other
suits. This didn’t strike me as the kind of place people of his caliber usually
hung out. I would’ve expected to see him in some fancy, five-star restaurant,
but here he was, slumming it in The Sly Fox with the rest of us. Which was
great for me, because I was stalking him, and I wasn’t sure I’d have been able
to make that work if he’d chosen fine dining for tonight’s venue.

Not that I
couldn’t have passed for some society girl—at least as far as looks went. I was
pretty and had the requisite blonde hair to lend credibility to my claims.
Unfortunately, I didn’t have society girl funds, and strutting into some
exclusive French restaurant without being able to afford even an appetizer
would’ve made it next to impossible to get this close to Senator MacFarlane.

It must have been
my lucky day, and I wasn’t going to waste it.  Good luck was something I was in
short supply of, these days.

As I’m sure all
journalism students do, I dreamed of being the star reporter of some big news
source, the kind of hard-hitting, investigative journalist people would respect
and admire. I wanted to be a household name, right up there with Nellie Bly,
the woman who’d exposed the corruption and ineptitude of the American mental
healthcare industry.

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.