Son of a bitch.
Chapter Three
Prior to the last eight months—when the first of my “gifts” showed up—I slept like the dead. Being able to sleep through pretty much anything less than a tornado blowing through the room came in handy those years I dated Ryan. The guy may be one of People’s sexiest men alive, but holy crap, as his brother Jase would say, “Homeboy’s snores could wake the dead.”
Honestly, the way he saws wood like a professional lumberjack is one of my favorite things about him. Ryan is so damn perfect in every other way, and I always thought it helped remind the world he actually is human.
Thanks to what I attribute to a heightened sense of self-preservation, I wake the instant I feel another’s presence in my bedroom.
I know better than to react carelessly, and I continue to feign sleep until I have the best opening to evade whoever is creeping in my personal space.
Most people would automatically assume the person is any one of the number of people with the code for my house, but I’m able to rule out that possibility immediately—my people don’t really grasp the concept of keeping quiet.
So, no. The person lurking on the side of the bed is foe, not friend.
Hidden beneath the fluff of my pillow, I shift my hand ever so slightly and stealthily until it’s wrapped around the taser I keep under it.
Thumbing off the safety, I keep my finger over the on switch, waiting for just the right moment to strike.
The scent of the ocean fills my nostrils as the intruder moves closer. There’s something familiar about it, but the haze of sleep hasn’t lifted enough for me to place it.
A finger trails across my forehead and over my temple. Repressing a shudder of revulsion is harder than not rolling my eyes at Jase Donnelly, the most ridiculous human being on the planet.
I promise myself I’ll bathe in a vat of Purell after this as a reward for my Oscar-worthy portrayal of a sleeping woman when this creep moves his finger down my cheek to tuck some hair behind my ear.
Now, Madz.
Keeping a firm hold on the hard plastic, I thrust my arm free, earning a grunt in response as I hit my target and shoot him with fifty thousand volts of electricity.
“Oof.” Down he goes, and I’m already scrambling from the bed to press my thumb on the scanner of my bedside drawer to retrieve my gun.
I know my resistance to protection makes some batty, but Hello people! I’m not some defenseless damsel here. I’ve been taught self-defense and straight-up defensive tactics since I was single digits, and it’s not like any of my teachers were your run-of-the-mill Joe Shmoe variety either. They have all been Navy SEALs, police officers, or professional MMA fighters.
I’m tiny but mighty, dammit.
With the comforting weight of my Smith & Wesson M&P Shield in my hands, I sidestep around the end of my bed to the now rolling, cursing, and groaning intruder.
“Son of a bitch.” The words barely come out distinguishable.
My chick Rapunzel wields a frying pan like a pro in Tangled, but I think I’ll stick with my trusty 9mm. Shuffling my feet, I inch closer, keeping it trained on my target, prepared in case of attack.
The man, though large, poses zero threat while curled in the fetal position holding his family jewels.
Ooo, look at how his back muscles stretch his white t-shirt. They would look good on a cover. I must be more hard up than I realize because those are not the thoughts I should be having at the moment.
“Fuck me!” The slap of his hand beating my hardwood floor rings out, causing me to jump.
“Move and I shoot.” He can’t see me since he’s still rocking in pain. “And I promise, I always shoot to kill.” Not that I’ve ever shot at anything other than targets and beer bottles, but this asshole needs to know I mean business.
“Son—of—a—bitch.”
Wait…
I know that voice.
Is that…
“Dex?”
“Fuck, Tink.” Sure enough, it’s Dexter Stone writhing in agony.
What is he doing here?
Ohmygod.
I just tased Dex in the balls.
It must be some type of karmic retribution or something to accidentally maim my childhood crush.
Seriously though—did I really just tase him? And in the balls, no less?
Holy shit. I couldn’t make this shit up if I tried, and I write fiction for a living.
Easing my grip on the gun now that there’s no threat, I let it fall to my side and drop to a knee next to his prone body. “Are you okay?”
He rolls to his back with a groan, his melted chocolate eyes rising to me with a did you really just ask me that? look.
“Dammit, Tink.” Unlike when my brothers—and subsequently my other male friends—use my childhood nickname, it doesn’t annoy me when Dex does. Sure it’s probably—definitely—from residual puppy-love brain, but coming from him, it sounds like an endearment.
His hands still cup his package, and I wonder how he would react if I offered to kiss it better. In your dreams, Madz.
You got that right. I’ve lost count of the number of times I’ve dreamed about going down on Dex…him going down on me…us sixty-nine-ing…
Yeah, stop those thoughts right now, missy.
Oh, stuff it, Jiminy.
Yeah, don’t be a prude.
We live for the dirty details.
Let’s hear all the ideas.
Jesus. This is so not the time for me to get lost in my own head. Be a writer, they said. It’s fun, they said. Yeah, well the part no one tells you is that your characters start to take on lives of their own and talk to you all day. It doesn’t matter how inappropriate the time may be.
“You should know better than that, Hook.” It’s my turn to bust out the old-school nicknames. Even before he enlisted in the Navy, I always thought he had a roguish pirate appeal.
“Don’t try to be cute right now.” It’s clearly meant to come out as a threat, but it falls flat with the hint of a whimper the words hold. “I think you just ruined my chances of ever making baby Dexes.”
I rub my free hand over my heart as if the words are a physical blow. Taking a hit to the chest from Vince, the current UFC’s Light Heavyweight Champ and one of my closest friends, wouldn’t hurt as much as the idea of Dex having children with some faceless woman.
Dramatic much? You’ve said so yourself—countless times, I might add—that you aren’t in love with him either. So riddle me this, Batman…why does the thought of Dex making babies with someone else bother you so much?
Fucking Jiminy. Just because I was thinking of Vince, my conscience thinks it can go and hit me with one of his lines.
Can I ask something without you taking it out on me when you get to my book?
Even if she says no, you have to ask now.
Agreed.
You know how much I hate to agree with the cricket—*side-eyes Jiminy*—but you’ve never had a reaction like that about the idea of Ryan procreating.
“Come on, tough guy.” I hold out a hand to help Dex up. “Let’s go get you an ice pack for your booboo.”
He growls, the sound hitting each one of my lady parts like a pinball ricocheting back and forth. Padded bras and panties are going to be a must for however long he’s planning on being around if I’m going to have any hope of hiding the physical effects he has on me.