Outrageous Proposal Part 32

"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 h.e.l.l 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 s.h.i.t, 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 b.u.t.ton undone, or even made an overt pa.s.s at me. So why did I feel so hot and bothered? Why did just looking into his eyes get me so fl.u.s.tered?

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 sc.r.a.ped 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 l.u.s.t 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. s.h.i.t, 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 expose on just how f.u.c.ked up our nation was when it came to taking care of those who'd taken care of us.

s.e.xy 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.

s.h.i.t. 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 t.i.ts 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..."

Bulls.h.i.t. 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 h.e.l.l 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 gla.s.ses. 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. s.h.i.t. 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 gla.s.ses slipped down a little. d.a.m.n, 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 gla.s.s 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 unb.u.t.ton 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 h.e.l.l 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 b.r.e.a.s.t.s 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 h.e.l.l, 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 d.a.m.n 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 G.o.dd.a.m.n 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.

h.e.l.l, maybe I didn't need to shake her. Maybe I needed to f.u.c.k some sense into her, instead. But I was accustomed to f.u.c.king a girl's brains out, not in, and despite the wicked flash of intrigue that pa.s.sed over her face too quickly for most people to see, I knew it was a bad f.u.c.king 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 b.l.o.o.d.y knuckles and know how f.u.c.king 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 nave she was.

G.o.dd.a.m.n 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 s.h.i.t they taught me, or the kind of s.h.i.t 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 d.a.m.n good one, too. In fact, you might say it's the only d.a.m.n thing I'm good at, or good for, at all.

"Now, if you want me to f.u.c.k you so you can feel like some kind of bad b.i.t.c.h, I'll happily oblige. I don't mind getting my d.i.c.k wet, especially not in a p.u.s.s.y as pretty as yours. But if you're looking to get close to me, to fix me, then sweetheart, we're gonna have a problem."

I thought for sure she'd slap me. The look on her face told me she wanted to. Her lip was curled back so far I could see her teeth and the glint of disgust in her eyes was like the edge of a blade gleaming in the sun. But Parker only pulled free of me and set her jaw, smoldering with defiance.

"You're acting like a d.i.c.k," she said. "Is that how you treat people when they start getting too close?"

I shook my head. "Sweetheart, I'm like this all the time."

"No, you're not," Parker insisted. "You weren't just a minute ago. A minute ago, you were charming and sincere. I was interested."

I threw up my hands. "Yeah, well, maybe this is the real me. s.h.i.t, don't you know anything about men? We're all pigs at heart."

Parker watched me as I fished my wallet out of my jeans. "I don't believe that."

"Doesn't matter what you believe," I said, leaving enough cash for our drinks on the bar. "The reality is you and me wouldn't work anywhere but between the sheets. So go back to your old men in fancy suits and leave me the f.u.c.k alone before you get hurt. Because that's who I am: the guy who hurts people."

I stood up and left her behind, never once risking looking back. I knew that if I did, I'd stop and apologize for acting like such an a.s.s. I couldn't do that. Not when it was for her own good.

The chill in the air hit me like a slap as I stepped out onto the sidewalk. Finally, I felt like I could breathe, like the world wasn't closing in on me from all sides. Sitting there with Parker made me feel like there wasn't enough oxygen for the two of us. She took my breath away. No woman had done that since... well, ever.

The h.e.l.l is wrong with me? I wondered as I hailed a cab. I can't put a girl like her in the middle of all this. She wouldn't last two seconds. I can't be responsible for ruining her. I'd never forgive myself.

I didn't deserve her.

A cab pulled up to the curb, splashing my boots with gutter water. I paused to shake them off before getting in, and that's when Parker's fingers closed around my wrist.

"Kellan, wait..."

I whirled on her. Before I could read her the riot act again, she said, "I know we don't know each other. Not very well, anyway. But I've known a lot of soldiers, and I know what it's like to come home and feel like you don't have a place here anymore. So if you ever want to talk..."

I pulled away hard, making her almost lose her balance in those cute little heels. "You don't know a G.o.dd.a.m.n thing," I snapped as I flung open the door to the cab and got in, slamming it shut to block out the sound of Parker's repeated protests.

Doesn't she get it? I thought as we pulled away. f.u.c.k, doesn't she see how messed up I am?

"Rose Street," I told the driver, but my thoughts were still on Parker, on those big, puppy dog eyes of hers and the softness in her voice. Why the h.e.l.l is she trying so hard, anyway? Why does she care so much?

I ran my fingers through my hair. It didn't matter. Everything I touched turned to s.h.i.t, and if she got too close, she was at risk of getting hurt. Seemed like it was in my nature: first I'd hurt my sister and our parents by turning into a drug addict. Then I'd hurt people for a living in the Marines. And now I was here, hurting people all over again. All I knew how to do, all I was actually good for, was causing people pain.

I slumped in my seat and shoved my hands into my jacket pockets. The cabbie wasn't a fan of turning on the heat, apparently. My fingers unexpectedly touched paper and I pulled it out, unfurling the napkin that I definitely hadn't put in there myself.

It was Parker's name and phone number. She must have scribbled it down when I walked out and snuck it into my jacket when she grabbed me. There were a few beer stains on it. Was this one of the ones she'd used to wipe up the drink I'd spilled all down the front of her blouse?

I lifted the napkin to my nose and inhaled deeply, allowing myself one brief moment to remember what could have been. Then I rolled down my window and tossed Parker's scent and memory into the cold wind whipping past the taxi.

~ Four ~

Parker

"Ms. Jones, may I speak with you in my office?"

f.u.c.k. f.u.c.k, f.u.c.k, f.u.c.k. That was Melanie Cartwright, Editor-in-Chief of The Spill. She was my personal Miranda Priestly-you know, from The Devil Wears Prada?-and if she wanted to see me, it meant nothing good.

I glanced over at Thom, sitting a few feet away at his desk. He was our sports columnist and very popular. He rarely had to deal with any bad news from Melanie Cartwright, and when I'd first started working here, I'd hoped cozying up to him would grant me some kind of immunity, too.

No dice. I did come away from it with a pretty great friend, though. Right now, he was giving me a look of both sympathy and intrigue. We were reporters, after all. Schadenfreude was in our blood.

"You'd better go," he said. "It's only going to be worse if you keep her waiting."

I sighed and stood up, smoothing down my skirt. I was lucky she'd called me in today and not two days before when my blouse would've been covered in beer stains. I didn't need to look any more incompetent than she already thought I was.

My mind drifted to Kellan as I walked down the long hall toward Melanie's office. He hadn't called. With the way he'd stormed off, that was hardly a surprise, but I'd hoped he'd see reason and drop the tough guy act. I mean, it wasn't all an act. Kellan really was strong and obviously could hold his own in a fight, and what he'd said about being dangerous didn't feel like a lie to me. But that was just the physical stuff. Kellan was like the rest of us, emotionally speaking, and maybe even a little more damaged than that. The way he pushed me away, how I bet he refuses to let anyone get close-it betrayed a deep-seated fear in him, one that wouldn't be easy to cast aside.

I wasn't just disappointed for personal reasons, though. I was disappointed because without Kellan, I'd entirely lost track of my story. I hadn't been able to get Senator MacFarlane alone since then, and my deadline was looming in the not-so-distant future. I might've been able to keep Melanie at bay if I had Kellan's human interest story in my back pocket, but since I didn't, I was bringing her nothing. And Melanie didn't like her reporters strutting into her office empty-handed.

Ever.

I paused at her door for a deep breath before knocking. It was open, but I knew better than to enter unannounced, even when she'd summoned me.

"You rang?" I said with a tentative smile.

Melanie flicked her gaze up over the wire rims of her gla.s.ses. She was one of those women who only got s.e.xier and more intimidating with age. Her full-bodied, wavy brown hair had a single streak that had gone gray, making her stormy eyes all the fiercer. She looked like she'd been poured into her devil-red dress, and when she gestured for me to take a seat, her body moved with all the elegance of a swan.

Being in Melanie's presence was petrifying and awe-inspiring all at the same time. I admired her almost as much as I feared her. She was probably the only person in all the world whose bidding I did without a second thought.

I sat down in front of her and watched as she stood, arms crossed, heaving a sigh. "I don't suppose you've made any headway with the senator, Ms. Jones?"

Slowly, I shook my head, then cringed at the disappointment in her eyes. "But my deadline's not until the end of the month. I'm sure I'll have other opportunities..."

"You'd better make yourself some opportunities," Melanie said, gingerly closing her door. "I didn't want to have to pull this card with you, Parker. I really didn't. But you should know that your readership has been dropping like a stone, and what's more, I'm running out of bones to throw your way. You've got to take some initiative if you plan on continuing your career here at The Spill."

I swallowed hard. I knew she was telling the truth, at least about my readership. My online articles were pulling in abysmal numbers and getting worse with each new article I wrote. I knew the problem was their content. I hadn't had anything interesting to say in a while, which was largely because nothing much ever happened here, and n.o.body wanted to read my drivel when they could spend their time on one of Thom's articles or vlogs instead. Sports never went out of style. Lucky him, I thought bitterly.

"I am taking initiative," I a.s.sured Melanie, a low flame of frustration flaring in my gut. "This story is going to be big. Huge. I can feel it. It's got everything our audience wants." I thought again of Kellan, of the angle I'd lost by offending him at the bar. "Heck, it might even run deeper than I originally thought."

Melanie narrowed her eyes, her winged liner nearly touching the tail ends of her perfectly coiffed brows. "So you do have something."

"Nothing concrete," I replied, wringing my hands. Was it really wise to be telling her this? But if my job was on the line...