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Kisses,

Nicole Snow

Every girl knows about reckless men.

Reckless in the best ways, when they pick you up like a glass paperweight and hold you high, tilting fate just right until you're glowing in the light of their kiss.

Reckless because they always let you fall.

Always, I said. No exceptions.

Sometimes they let go, gently watching as you drift down like a feather after they've had their fun. Other times, they hurl you down as hard as a stone skipping over water, shattering everything you thought you were into a hundred vicious smithereens when you hit their world at full breakneck speed.

Reckless with hearts. Reckless with life. Reckless in the good, the bad, the ugly, and the oh-so-irresistible. Reckless because they'll never, ever be tamed.

I fell for a reckless man once.

He was my first, and deep down, I think I knew he'd be my last. He put me through hell, and he still hasn't left my side.

He taught me there's not much difference between the words reckless and forever.

* * *

“Seven percent, Robbi, just like we agreed. Frankly, I think it's a crime my cut for making you the happiest little bird on earth is so low. Drinks are on you tonight.”

Little bird. I hate when she uses that nickname because I instantly recall where I've heard it before.

Of course, she doesn't mean anything by it. She doesn't mean it like him.

Words shouldn't bother me. I'm used to Bebe Silk's antics after working with her the past six months. But nothing could've prepared me for today, when she's sitting across from me, more smug than a Cheshire cat.

I reach for the thick stack of papers she's pushed in front of me. The Berkland Studios logo gleams forest green in the header, brighter than emerald. My hands are shaking.

“Holy shit. I can't believe this.”

“Believe, doll. The world's about to know you as the hottest little starlet since...well, since anything, if Mr. Pierce Rogan has anything to say about it. The film simply can't fail in his capable hands. That man could make a mouse swoon after a cat on the silver screen. This is the big break we've been waiting for.” Like I don't know it. Her grin gets wider, and she clasps her hands, leaning over the desk while she beams. “Congratulations, Allison Evers.”

“Allison Evers,” I repeat the name, wondering how many times it'll take before it doesn't feel strange on my lips.

It's almost as incredible as hearing a legend like Pierce Rogan is directing the film. He's made classics, works of art, and entire careers. Bebe isn't exaggerating this time, as she's often prone to do – Pierce's talent means people will be talking about Allison Evers and the woman who played her when I'm in my wheelchair.

I can't believe it's happening, but it is. The miracle I've been hoping for ever since I clawed my way up the Hollywood heights has officially arrived.

It's the sexiest, strangest kind of hocus pocus a plucky young actress could ask for. I'm playing the female lead in Bare.

Hundreds of millions – hell, maybe billions – of women worldwide are going to fill the seats for earth's biggest erotic thriller. The book only sold enough copies to rival the Bible, after all, and fan legions will line up to see how well the movie edition jives with their imaginations.

Bebe wags her finger, several thick rings on her hand jostling underneath the dull office light. “Initial in the corner of every page, please. All fifty. There's a line for a proper signature on the last one, and one for me as your very talented agent.”

I run my finger down the first page, tracing legalese I can't possibly comprehend in this excitement. Bebe laughs, slaps my hand away, and guides the pen in my fingers down to the corner.

“Let's move this along, Robbi. I promised the studio I'd have it sent back by closing time. Don't you worry about the fine print, I've proofed it all myself this morning. Ran it by the lawyer I work with. No nasty surprises. Just a whole lot of fortune and fame, exactly the way mama likes.”

For a second, I hesitate. My saner side says I should take my time, read through every last sentence, make sure I'm not being trapped or cheated in a lead role bigger than anything I've had before.

But if it wasn't for the shark in the red blouse and jacket across from me, I wouldn't have it at all. Someone else would be playing Allison Evers, and it would be their bare ass taking a paddling on the screen instead of mine for stardom.

Oh, God. The whole world is really going to see my ass, isn't it?

I swallow, promising I'll make peace with the sex scenes later, and start initialing.

I knew what I was getting into when I auditioned for the part. No one who hasn't been stuck in a cave has any illusions about Bare by Isabella Frieze.

They know about the sex, the scandal, the dirty, kinky things that are probably going to break all kinds of world records by showing up in a mainstream film for the very first time. They know how sheltered Ali loses her virginity and half her soul to the most powerful man in Chicago, how he breaks her, and how she surrenders everything by the end.

They know about Frieze's fanatics. Millions of adoring readers who made her book a global hit, and at least one ocean of money for her and her publishers to swim in.

They also know they're not really there to see a virgin go through losing it on her way to baby fever, or to stroke Ms. Frieze's enormous ego.

The real star is Miles Black, the tortured, broody enigma. Cold, domineering, completely covered in tattoos. I can't remember whether I melted or burst our laughing the first time I read the scene where he grabs her chin, presses his forehead to hers, and stares into her eyes for ten minutes like an obsessed maniac.

Okay, so I'm not the target demographic for sexy romance. But it still made me wet when I read the sex, rolling the paragraphs over in my mind where the billionaire finally claimed his prey, and took her night after night, flinging her body against his as they fucked like the earth itself had to be repopulated.

I'm thinking about how I had to close the book and reach for my nearest vibrator when another question grabs me.

“So, who's playing Miles? Have you heard?” I'm halfway through the papers, slurring my initials with the pen. I bite my cheek, expecting Bebe to tell me I'll be working with a household name sculpted like a Greek God.

That adds a whole new layer of anxiety, of course, but I don't care if I have to work with Zeus himself. I'm not screwing this up for anything.

“Oh, wait till you see him!” she chirps, spinning in her chair, reaching for the folder behind her. “He's a name I don't recognize. New to a major lead, but I guess the studio chose him for other qualities. Like you, he's only had a few supporting roles. He's hot, of course, and I saw his social media has quite a presence. I expect that's why the studio decided to take a gamble on another newcomer. Ah, here he is!”

She pulls out a photo, and pushes it over to me. It's a tall, dark, and very handsome looking young man in a leather jacket. Something about the glint in his eye causes my stomach to fold in on itself. It isn't until I hold the photo up, catching the full brilliance of his trademark blue eyes, that my heart comes to a screeching halt.

No. No fucking way.

“Jesus!” My fingers slip while I sputter a one word prayer. The picture drops from my hands and slides down to Bebe's desk.

She snatches it up with a frown on her face, giving me a concerned look. “What's this? Hey, are you okay, Robbi? Don't tell me you've worked with him before?”

If only work was all it had been.

If only my nightmare, my heartbreak, my reckless and stupid first crush weren't staring at me from a glossy printout, wearing the same icy blue eyes and soul destroying smirk as the day I last saw him.

“Robin!” Bebe pats my hand like she's tenderizing a piece of meat. “Do you need some water? Maybe a little fresh air?”

“It's nothing. I'm fine.” Falser words were never spoken. I'm sure all the blood has left my face. I contort my lips, forcing a smile. “Sorry. It's just the excitement, that's all. I really can't believe I'm sitting here, signing a contract to play Allison freakin' Evers.”

“Believe, doll! You've earned it.” Relieved, she reaches under her desk, and comes up smiling with a water bottle. “Take a few swigs. I insist. Can't have you collapsing before I've gotten the contract out the door.”

I obey, taking a few precious extra seconds to chug the water. I'm not sure whether they're a relief or pure torture, amplifying the claustrophobic feel of the world closing in around me.

I'm putting the ink on my greatest success. I should have known these kinds of wins always come with hellish challenges.

I try to turn my eyes away from the photo I've pushed back toward my agent. Look anywhere. Anywhere except him, damn it.

Just get through this.

Easier said than done. I think I'll manage to finish signing my contract today without letting Lucus Shaw ruin me for a second time.

But when it comes time to actually film with him, to pretend we're professionals? When I'm supposed to act infatuated, in love, and totally not bothered by him shoving my wrists into handcuffs while he whispers how he's going to 'fuck the baby fever straight out of me?' No exaggerating, that's one of Ms. Frieze's most memorable lines from the book.

I stop, I try to breathe, and I wonder. What sin did I commit in a past life to deserve this?

Bebe taps her long red nails impatiently. I pull the water bottle away, realizing I've drained it. I give her an uneasy smile before I set it down, pick up my pen, and finish the signature party.

“Perfect!” She practically jumps out of her seat when I push the documents into her hands. She bends over the scanner behind her, feeding in page after page, never giving me a second glance until the machine is done.

Plenty of time to promise myself over and over I'm not going to throw up all over her office. When Bebe turns around, her hands are on her hips. She's looking at me like a concerned mother.

“I'll have the details in the morning. Now, go home and get some rest, Robbi. Just between you and me, you look like shit. Hell, are you running a fever?”

I cringe as she presses her palm to my forehead. She lets out a low whistle. “You're freezing, dear. My God, don't tell me you're allergic to success?”

“Obviously, this much takes some getting used to,” I say weakly.

She starts laughing, falling back into her seat, folding her arms in a self-embrace. “It's a joke, for heaven's sake. I'm serious about the rest, though.” She sits up straight, leans forward, wagging her finger in my face. “I need you in tip-top shape when everything starts moving next week. Give me sexy, doll, and I'll give you the whole damned universe.”

“I've worked too hard to get here. I won't let you down, Bebe.” I shake hands with my agent, questioning her sanity for the thousandth time, and then head out the door.

The Uber ride home to my apartment is just a blur. So is crawling into bed, hugging my body pillow tight, and doing my very best not to press my face into it, screaming.

The walls here are paper thin. Plus I'm going to be a world famous actress soon, if bad memories don't kill me first. I don't need to invite any surprise recordings from nosey neighbors, happy to beam fresh weirdness into the world for nothing more than Likes and Retweets.

I'm slumped and fuming for about thirty minutes before I walk to my kitchen, grab the half-depleted vodka bottle, and slam down a couple shots so straight they make me gag.

The buzz doesn't help.

I doubt anything can. A hundred twists of hell couldn't have prepared me to face what's coming, and Luke did them all.

The bastard destroyed me once. In any just universe, that ought to be enough.

Not here. Not now. If I want to make my dreams come true, I have to give him a second chance.

How does that old saying go? Maybe I should add my own twist.

Ruin me once, shame on you.

Ruin me twice...shame on everything.

* * *

It's the loneliest place in the world, and I'm supposed to live there.

I never thought I'd miss Chicago. I never liked the twenty-four hour lights, the constant whoosh of traffic, the three a.m. thunder of trains pounding through Union Station. When my parents first told me we'd be moving out of the city to Shaw estate almost an hour into rural Illinois, it sounded like a dream come true.

That was before we moved into the empty servants' quarters about several acres from the billionaire's sprawling palace. If I only had to hang back and look through the overgrown gardens at their sleek modern castle, it wouldn't be so bad.

But mom won't stop hounding me over working part time inside the house. She wants me dusting, cleaning toilets, washing dishes, whatever makes easy money for a girl going into her senior year of high school.

Saying no isn't an option when she acts like she's done me a massive favor. I'm expected to be on my best behavior, too, with both my parents on the Shaw payroll.

Their name is all over Chicago. They've built landmarks and soaring skyscrapers in the city and God knows how many other places for generations. By some stroke of luck, mom fit the bill for Mr. Shaw's new head of household management, and dad moved up in personal accounting.

Not corporate, but the kind that lets him oversee running the property. He moves their money to pay invoices owed to every service under the sun, ensuring no Shaw ever needs to lift a finger again. He executes the household shopping lists, processes maintenance requests, and does his best to satisfy everything at the lowest prices.

Yes, these people are so damned rich they don't even do their own shopping.

As for mom, she's taken over the head cleaner role. It's her job to make sure the Shaw's hygiene needs are met efficiently. One look at the place tells me her job is important, and at least one member of the family probably lives up to the germaphobe stereotype I've seen wealthy elites have in so many movies.

It's spotless. Pristine. Empty.

The place seems deserted the first week I'm working there after school. I never see Mr. Shaw or any of his sons.

I meet the full time maids, and take on their extra work. One of them guides me to a wing of the house that looks more like a museum than anything lived in.

“The first two rooms, you're welcome to walk through, tidy up, and wipe down,” an older woman named Valerie tells me. “They belonged to the older Shaw sons, and they've both moved on. If they come home to visit, you'll have plenty of notice. It's the last room, down at the very end of the hall, that's...shall we say, off limits.” She hesitates.

“Oh?” I ask, raising an eyebrow.

“Master Lucus lives there, the only Shaw boy left who still lives here full time. Don't worry, you won't be seeing much of him,” she says, taking her hands off the cleaning cart she's helped me put together. “But if you do, if you're smart, you'll stay the hell out of his way.”

Her face looks puckered, like simply mentioning him leaves a sour taste in her mouth. I wonder if this is a joke?

Some kind of hazing ritual the girls put new people through? This place is uber-creepy enough with everything looking picture perfect. If she's trying to make me jittery, well, it's mission accomplished.

“I'd better go,” Valerie says. “The gardener needs an extra hand today. Find me out there if you need anything, Robin. Give my best to your mom if you see her.”

She takes off, leaving me alone. That's how it goes for the first week. I walk through the old bedrooms, empty except for their furniture, toiletries, and a few photographs. I call them rooms, but each one is more like its own private condo, complete with a kitchen, a balcony, and a bathroom bigger than our living room.

I'm cleaning the wing I've been assigned for the fourth time when I think I hear music. At first, I stop with my duster against the intricately carved wooden mantle in the huge library.

No, not my imagination. It's real, and it's coming from the room down the hall, the one Valerie warned me about.

Curiosity gets the better of me. I walk back through the cavernous library and stick my head around the corner, listening to an amp growling jagged electric guitar notes. I think it's the radio until I get closer, taking tentative steps down the hall.

No radio. It's too clear to be coming through any speaker. It's sad, it's loud, and it's being played by someone who clearly has some idea what they're doing. I flatten myself against the wall, just a couple feet from the door, my ears prickling when I hear a young man's voice between the wailing chords.

Go ahead, so go ahead.

Bleed for me. Bleed down there in your smoking crater.

Bleed like the day you left forever.

Bleed, bitch, bleed. Hotter than my tears.

Can't you hear me through the red wave?

Well, I still love you anyway.

This just might be the edgiest thing I've ever heard. I'd wrinkle my nose and laugh at the strange absurdity, if he didn't sound so damned serious.

There's pain in this voice. It's unmistakable. Deep, rich, and very, very real.

The amp drones on to silence. I hear a soft screech when he pulls his fingers off the strings. It seems like he's done, which means I'd better get the hell away.

I turn around so fast, I forget about the little end table with the vase outside his room. When my knee crashes into it, the thing starts to wobble. It's a huge monstrosity from Europe or Asia, black and smooth with painted gold lines crisscrossing it like veins.

There's no good reason it should go flying off the black tabletop and smashing on the ground – except for the fact that I've always had the worst luck in the world.

It happens so fast. I'm staring at the mess under my feet for no more than a few seconds before the door behind me flies open, banging against the wall.

“What the fuck are you doing out here?” He stands in front of me, fists at his sides, taller and grander than anything I imagined. “Were you eavesdropping? Listening to me?”

I don't know what I pictured in my mind. An older boy with long shaggy hair and a torn t-shirt, perhaps, a few piercings hanging from his face. One of those spoiled trust fund brats who gets his way so often he doesn't have to try to look civilized anymore.

But this is no boy.

I'm looking at a young man, angry and serious as real men can be. Strong jaw, full chest, arms thicker than my legs, his dark hair trimmed to a neat business cut. The only thing edgy about him is the pitch black bombardier jacket draped around his broad shoulders, almost a perfect fit for his tall, muscular frame.

“I was just cleaning, sir,” I stammer, wincing because I realize too late I've forgotten to use his title. Not that I think hearing Master Lucus will calm him down much right now. “I'm so sorry about this mess. Um, do you have someone I should talk to about claims? I broke this. Accidentally.”

“You didn't answer my fucking question, little girl.” He ignores me, coming closer, pushing me up against the wall. “Were you listening?”

We lock eyes. Rather, his eyes lock mine down, so accusing I think I'm going to drown in his blue, stormy pools.

“No! Jeez, why would I? I'm just trying to do my job, Lucus.” I forget to add the Master part. Oops. “Look, I really didn't sneak out here to spy on you or whatever. I'm not interested in any crappy music.”

I'm bluffing because it was actually quite beautiful. Still, I'm not paying this huge, handsome freak any more compliments until I know he's going to let me go without tearing my head off.

“We say shitty where I'm from. Shitty,” he repeats, his lips becoming a sinister smirk. “If you wanted to avoid it, you really shouldn't have come calling, sniffing around where you don't belong. Get used to shitty, little girl. You're going to the very top of my personal shit list.”

“Please, Just let me go.” He's starting to scare me now, his eyes drilling into mine.

He moves closer, pressing his chest into mine, backing me into the small corner at the end of the hall. “What are you? Fifteen, sixteen? Old enough for the stupid shit. Old enough to pay when it happens.”

“Stupid, what? I don't do stupid. Clumsy, maybe.” I gesture to the broken vase, trying to distract him.

“Wrong. You've fucked up, invading my privacy. That was your first mistake. The second one's lying about it.”

“Then maybe you shouldn't play so loud!”

Shit! So much for denial saving my skin.

His eyes drop down, slowly working their way back up. He's taking me in, inch by inch, the way I've seen snakes eat animals twice their size on nature shows. And I'm a whole lot smaller than him.

“I have to go. If you want to bring this up with my mom, fine. Just...just let me get out of here. I swear I'll never bother you again.” I don't know why it's so hard to speak.

Heat, shame, and frustration clash in my chest, constricting everything. There's something else, a weird arousal I don't want to acknowledge, especially when he's keeping me hostage.

His eyes narrow, sharpening his rich blue gaze. “You're Ericka's girl, aren't you?”

“Robin. Don't wear it out.” I nod, trying to look fearless, and failing. I tell myself it's the last of his questions I'm going to answer.

Really, I just want out of here. Almost as much as I want to force down the boulder building in my throat.

I haven't done anything evil. But he has a way of making me feel like I stepped on his kitten's tail.

A second later, Luke rips himself away, heading back to his door in a few quick, fluid steps before he pauses and turns. He fills the big frame leading into his room, arms outstretched, revealing more of his muscles and angles than I'll admit I want to see.

“Get the fuck out of my sight, Robbi. Send Valerie around to clean this shit up. Come by my room again, and make no mistake, there'll be hell to pay.” His voice has softened for reasons I don't understand.

Hell, maybe he's psychotic, and whatever switch there is in his brain making him a raving monster has flipped the other way. I don't know what to say. I have zero desire to talk to this crazy asshole ever again, as a matter of fact, so I peel myself off the wall and start moving, stepping over the rubble at my feet.

I'm guessing I can kiss this job goodbye. He's going to report me. I'm sure I'll get balled out after someone screams at mom first for breaking what's probably a priceless work of art.

Asshole or not, he never did what I expected.

I wish he had.

Maybe it would've gotten us all evicted from Shaw property a whole lot sooner. Then I wouldn't have had to suffer everything this mysterious bundle of muscle and testosterone had in store for me next.

* * *

Weeks pass, and everything is weird. My parents are barely home anymore. I guess they think because I'm about to turn eighteen, it's okay to leave me alone with my homework.

Dad's long hours are getting longer. He brings his laptop with him wherever he goes, but I'm not sure why he wants to work over it hunched at a bar, instead of at home. He stumbles in late, halfway through the night, reeking of whiskey and cheap beer.

As for mom, she's spending more time at the house. A lot more time. Overtime, she says, flashing me an uneasy smile whenever I ask, catching her dragging in near midnight some days.

She tells me it's the cluttered basement, a dirty pantry, or a dozen other reasons why the Shaw household needs her special cleaning expertise.

“How can their place be so dirty? I've never seen a real speck of dust in any of the corners I've cleaned.” I look up from the lines I've been memorizing. The latest musical is in just a few weeks, the day before my birthday.

“Did you forget I'm a manager, honey?” She shakes her head. “You wouldn't believe the hours that go into carving out people's shifts, making sure the supply cabinets are restocked, handling complaints.”

“Complaints?” I tense up, wondering if this is a subtle lead in to the broken vase I still haven't heard jack about.

“Oh, honey, not about you!” She flashes me a sympathetic look. “Frankly, I'm surprised you've taken to it so well. I know you'd much rather be spending your hours after school backstage, but look at all the extra money you're earning! You're going to put a dent in those student loans next year. Long as you decide to pick a major that's actually useful.” She winks.

I bite my tongue. She doesn't approve of my plans to study acting in the city. My parents are practical people, and they expect me to follow suit.

Art is for snobs and 'people who can afford it' like the Shaws.

She always tells me things are bound to come full circle, if I don't pick a different career. What she really means is, I'll be dusting off art I could never afford for the rest of my life, instead of making it.

Surprisingly, she doesn't stop to dig into me any further. I barely have time to call out before she's heading for the door, a can of iced coffee in her hand.

“You're going out again?”

“Just back to the house for a little while. I have some organizing to do in the maintenance office.” She stops, her face tightening, a nervous tick in the pale blue eyes we share. “Ask your father to pick something up for dinner on the way home. Hell, order pizza for all I care!” She reaches into her purse, pulls out a couple crumpled twenties, and lays them down on the counter.

“I'm sorry I've been working so much. It's for your college, honey. We're going to pay your way next year, damn it, or at least as much as we can.”

She door slams shut behind her. She's gone, without even making me feel like an idiot for wanting to be an actress.

What the hell is going on here?

A couple more hours pass. Luckily, it's a Friday night, so I don't have to worry about turning in early.

I call dad around ten, but it goes straight to his voice mail. I could fend for myself and order a pizza, but I'm not very hungry. Dark curiosity pulls at my stomach, leading me to the door.

Something isn't right.

I don't know what it is, but I can't ignore the gnawing bite in the pit of my stomach. I'm heading out into the warm night. It's late April, just a few more weeks until my last big musical, and then graduation.

True, I shouldn't be worried about anything except getting away from this creepy sideshow. But before I do, I want to find out what's happening behind the curtain.

Using my key to the servant's entrance, I tip-toe into the house. It's dark as usual, a few dim light fixtures glowing on the walls, lighting the abandoned hallways.

I'm in a different wing. It's unfamiliar, so I have to listen closer, trying not to jump at every shadow. I think this is the part of the house Mr. Shaw himself uses. He never lets anyone work there except mom, plus a couple of his senior cleaners. I wonder if I'll find her there, instead of the maintenance office tucked in the basement at the end of the elevator, and what I'll say when I do.

I'm turning another imposing corner, heading deeper into the house, when I hear it.

Voices. They're faint. Strained. Two men speaking through clenched teeth and heavy breaths.

“Clearly, I'm wasting my time, and I shouldn't be,” an older man says, his tone like a gun barrel echoing after the shot. “You've already decided you want to fritter away your family name chasing silly dreams. Interrupting me in my free time to ask for another handout for your madness. A fucking charter airline? Do you have any idea what that costs, Lucus? You're not even thinking! That's abundantly clear.”

“What's 'abundantly clear' is that you're still an asshole, dad. You expect me to be just like them, Hayden and Grant, and I never will be. I'm not following in their fucking footsteps. It's not who I am.”

“Yes, yes, how shameful that you have an older brother on Wall Street and another in real estate. I suppose asking you to get the stupid out of your system at an earlier age like Hayden would've been too much.”

“Hey, I never lost six figures at the horse track. I gave you a plan. Use my pilot license and the connections I'm building in the industry to revolutionize it. We could have a stake in the luxury charter service. We could do a lot with this, if you'd open the folder I gave you, and take a goddamned look. It's amazing how blind you're being.”

“Blind? You don't know the meaning of the word, Lucus. If you had any sense, you'd see you're blind, deaf, and dumb to the fact that I don't have an extra billion to piss away investing in a brutal, hyper-competitive industry just to quell your mommy issues.”

My jaw drops. There's a long pause, so dark and quiet I hear my heart banging in my throat.

“That therapist I hired to pick your brain was another failed investment, I'm sorry to say. I'm done throwing good money after bad with you, boy. Better than the money I wasted on your music lessons, I suppose. They've both led you nowhere, but at least one tried to treat your childish dreams with more dignity than they deserved. I wonder what Helene would say if she could see you now.”

“No! Don't you fucking say her name, old man. You're the real disgrace in this family.” A fist comes down so hard on some hard surface I jump, holding my breath. “She deserves better than being on your tongue. You're just pissed I interrupted your latest fling. How the fuck she had the misfortune to die hitched to a man like you, I'll never understand. Who is it this time, dad? Another maid? Or is it just another plastic slut from the clubs down in the city? I know you like their fake tits, ten times bigger than your balls will ever be.”

Mr. Shaw laughs. Deep, sardonic, and cruel. “Spare me the self-righteous bullshit, kiddo. You were too busy shitting in your diaper to shed any tears when we had your mother's memorial. You never even knew her. A mercy, perhaps, considering how much of her idealistic nonsense rubbed off on her youngest son. I'd hate to think what would've happened if she hadn't crash landed in grizzly country – that's where you'll end up, too, if you don't start using your brain.”

There's another sound, a sickening crunch. Someone screams – I think it's the older man – and I hear shoes scuffing the wooden floor.

Forget holding my breath. It won't come. It's like I have a straitjacket wrapped around my chest, constricting everything, turning me into a human pressure cooker for someone else's pain.

Where the hell is mom, anyway? Surely, she isn't hearing this crap all the time, or getting in the middle of it?

The worst part is, I'm beginning to think the spoiled asshole with the chip on his shoulder might have a good reason for it.

“Never change, you miserable fucking drunk,” Luke growls. “We're done here.”

The older man doesn't say anything. I hear laughter, thick and slurred. Then footsteps, coming toward me at a frightening pace.

I have about ten seconds to avoid getting caught eavesdropping like I did several weeks ago. I race down the hall, ducking into what looks like a small tea room with a fireplace. I can't tell because it's dark inside.

My nostrils flare, drinking in heavy breaths, listening as the young man's furious footsteps pound the marble floor. His silhouette passes by me for a second. I close my eyes, praying he won't see me.

He just keeps going. Thank God.

My heart hurts for him after overhearing the run in with his dad. It's ridiculous because it shouldn't. I'm shaking off my stupor, wondering how I'm going to get out of here. I count to sixty before I move.

I take the hallway quickly, heading straight for the nearest servant's entrance. I don't care about finding my mother anymore after the shit storm that just went down.

I'm almost to the winding staircase on the main floor when a man steps in front of me. I stall the heart attack just long enough to escape crashing into him.

“Hello.” He speaks softly, eyes narrowed, straightening his tie with one hand, while the other wipes blood from his lip. “Working late, are we?”

I've only seen his portrait before. Never the man in the flesh, until now. It's Francis Shaw, larger than life, and just as merciless. He must've stepped out to the bathroom across the hall to clean up the cut his son gave him.

“Um, actually, I came to find my mom. Family emergency.” I'm frozen. Nervous as hell doesn't begin to describe the adrenaline overload making me a statue.

“Ericka's daughter, of course.” He steps past me, continuing down the hall, stopping next to a room adjacent to the office where I heard the arguing. Luke wasn't kidding about the drunken part – he leaves a distinct plume of fine bourbon behind him. “I know just where to find her. Wait right there, please.”

He's eerily calm for a man who's just been in a fist fight with his youngest son.

Forget it. I'm out. I can't handle more weirdness. I'm running down the hall before I ever catch a glimpse of mom.

Blood racing, heart pounding, vision blurring. I hit a wall when I crash through the door leading outside. A hand reaches out, catches my wrist, and latches on like a hawk picking up a mouse.

I'm screaming before I open my eyes.

“You again?” Luke doesn't even look surprised. He's bored. “What's so interesting that you've come back here to spy on my sorry ass?”

“I'm trying to get home. I didn't hear anything, I swear!” I'm a horrible liar.

Recovering my senses, I decide to be straight, mustering up the strength to look him in the eye. Honesty hasn't done much for me in the past, but here's hoping it will. “I came looking for my mom. I thought she'd be somewhere on this side of the house, where your dad lives. I didn't mean to hear you two arguing.”

He lets my wrist drop from his grip, turning his back to me. “Better that than what you heard last time. Privacy is a fucking illusion around here, anyway.”

He's so...defeated. It makes me feel even worse.

“Listen, Lucus –“

“Luke. Nobody except my old man needs to be so formal,” he tells me.

“Fine, Luke. I really don't mean to keep dropping in on you like this. Honest accident. Both times. If I didn't have to come here to work, or chase down my mom, you'd never see me. I'm more than happy to stay out of your way.”

“Bullshit.” He turns around, the smirk he wears in place of a smile returning. “Sorry, little girl. You're too young for me, and not really my type.”

My jaw drops. “What?!”

“You heard me,” he says coolly, beginning to walk a slow circle around me. “You're not the first girl to crush all over this, magnificent human specimen that I am. I don't have time for games and I don't fuck virgins, especially when they're offering up a sympathy lay. I can pull any pussy I want.”

“Are you out of your mind?”

He stops in front of me and stares. It's a drawn out, uncomfortable, eye-fucking gaze. I hate him for making me the one who's questioning my sanity here, wondering if I'm dealing with a man or a demon who looks like an angel. But I hate him most for putting this heat in my blood, igniting a burn between my thighs I shouldn't have.

“Boo!” He throws his hands in front of my face, nearly knocking me over backward.

“Ass!” I stumble against the waist high stone wall behind me. “I'm only going to say it one more time – I'm not interested in you that way. I'm practically your employee. It wouldn't be right for all kinds of reasons.”

He eyeballs me slow and hard, shaking his head like my reasoning wouldn't stop anything. “It's not fair.”

“What? Can we please stop being so cryptic?” I want to be done so I can walk back across the overgrown path through the garden and go home.

“You know a lot of my secrets for an employee with a schoolgirl crush on me. Can't say I like it.” He comes toward me again, and this time he doesn't stop until his arms are around my waist. I almost jump again, and for the first time, I see a thin smile on his face. “Your family's here until somebody quits or my father gets sick of you. Plenty of time for me to even the score. You know too much about me, Robbi Plomb. I'm evening the score. Before the summer's out, I'll know a whole lot more about you.”

He's trying not to laugh when I finally wriggle out of his grasp. I check behind me several times on my way out, running down the path through the gardens.

No footsteps behind me. Zero pursuit. He's decided not to come after me tonight.

Later, I learn a man doesn't need to run to start the chase. I didn't know it at the time, but it had already begun.

* * *

School is almost over. It's my eighteenth birthday, and becoming an adult feels...underwhelming.

I'm just weeks away from graduation, a couple acceptance letters from a local community college in my hand. They're not glamorous, but at least I'll knock out a few cheap requirements over the next year before I go somewhere better for acting or theater.

I haven't decided which direction yet. I love to sing, and I live for nights like these. I owned the musical stage and walked away, better and more tired for it. I'm still wearing my royal purple dress, fresh from playing young Queen Bearington, ruler of Sealesland, a fabulously wealthy European kingdom.

I'm sitting behind our family's bungalow with my friends, a couple dozen kids total in my class. I've got a bowl with German chocolate cake and ice cream to celebrate, just like the rest of the girls. My mother baked it before she took off for another round of overtime, handing me a card stuffed with an embarrassing amount of money for snacks and 'whatever,' in her words.

The boys among us break into a couple six packs one of their older brothers snuck from the liquor store. I haven't seen my friend, Jenny, for about an hour. I wonder if she's finally decided to get a little face time in the weeds with her longtime crush.

“Nothing except cake for the birthday gal? Typical, and disappointing.” I stiffen when I hear his voice.

I look up, and there's Jenny again, standing next to someone who doesn't belong here. Luke has his arm slung over her shoulder, his hand perched dangerously close to one breast. She gives him a knowing look, melting into him.

Please, somebody tell me they didn't fuck.

Tell me he isn't here to ruin my party.

“You told me last week you were going to have fun on your birthday. Do you even know how, Robbi?” Luke doesn't let up. Jenny nuzzles into him and laughs, too tipsy not to be drunk on something. I don't know if it's beer or sex.

“I am having fun, jackass,” I snap, stabbing my fork into the last morsel of cake. “It's called unwinding. You should try it sometime.”

“Nah. Think I've done plenty of that tonight with my charity case. It's not every day I suck face with a chick who's aiming out of her league.” He looks at Jenny. It takes her smiling face a few seconds to register the insult, and flatten like the melted vanilla ice cream under my fork.

“Hey!”

“Hey, what? I'm talking to Robbi now.” He pushes her away, heading for me. I swear he can smell the jealousy throbbing in my veins, and he likes it.

“Walk with me, little bird,” he says. I don't move. “Aw, come on. I came all the way out here to have a heart-to-heart for your eighteenth birthday. Couldn't let you step into womanhood and leave school without some brotherly wisdom.”

“You're not my brother, Luke. You're a fucking joke.”

He blinks, both of us surprised because I've slipped an F-bomb. It doesn't knock him off his game, whatever one he's playing, for more than a second. “Duh, princess. You don't have one, which is why you need my advice more than you think. Let's go, before I drag you inside to wash that mouth out with soap.”

There's no resisting his strong hand under my shoulder. I set my bowl down reluctantly and walk with him, onto the path. There's a small pond with several soft blue lights glowing around it. My friends are down there in all kinds of compromising positions, using their phones for light in the darkness. Maybe a few are taking naughty pics they'll regret.

There's no moon tonight. Even fewer stars. A smoky early summer haze covers everything, fed by the farms beyond Shaw property lines burning brush.

“Why aren't you out there having some real fun with your friends?” He gestures to the mini-orgy going on by the pond, just as the nearest couple moans. “No use going to college with your cherry intact. Better to get it punched now, and grow up. Then you won't have to worry about the emotions getting in the way when you're locked down in your dorm, trying to study.”

“I'm staying here, Mr. Authority. Taking a few community classes over the next year. I won't have a dorm.”

“Typical,” he says again, shaking his head, using what's becoming his favorite word with me. “I guess you won't have a boyfriend to fuck you good and proper either?”

“None of your business!” I stop in mid-step, pushing against his chest when he leans in closer. I can't stop seeing him down here by the lake with my friend, her traitor legs wrapped around him, moaning while this alpha-hole runs his tongue down her neck. “Get on something else, or this conversation is over. I don't need a sex therapist who writes bad music. Why the hell aren't you in college, anyway?”

The reference to our first meeting makes his eyes smolder like blue gas flames in the darkness. “I did the university thing downtown for about a year and a half. Business school, just like dad wanted. Didn't work out. I'm too restless to sit in a lecture hall listening to guys in shoulder patches blow smoke up everyone's asses.”

“Hm, I never would've guessed. Pretty typical, Lucus.” It's my turn now.

If he's bothered he doesn't show it. Instead, in one of his swift movements, he grabs me around the waist, pulls me close, and looks me dead in the eye. “No more games, Robbi. If you want to know the truth, I brought you out here to say congratulations. You've got a real chance to get away from the shit that goes on here. Take it, run, and live like there's no tomorrow.”

He's never sounded so serious since the night we first met. “Thanks, I guess.”

“Acting, right? Or is it theater?”

“Either. Both, maybe. I love the stage,” I say, smoothing my hands against my dress. It helps take my mind off the huge shoulders shadowing me, the gorgeous eyes looking so protective tonight, when they're usually my biggest dread.

“It's hell getting anywhere in those fields, but try, damn it. One of these days I'm going to gas up my plane and fly as close as I can get to Hollywood. Somebody here has to make it. Whoever gets there first, we'll save the other person a seat. Promise me, Robbi.”

Luke acting with me in the distant future? There's a terrifying thought.

Still, he's being nice for once. I don't have the heart to do anything except play along, staring into his eyes while I smile.

“Deal. We'll have plenty of time to talk about it since I'll be here another year, at least.”

“Whenever I come home for the holidays and breaks, you mean.”

“Home?”

He nods. “I'm leaving next week. Can't turn twenty-two and still be rotting away here while my older brothers leave me in the dust. I'm doing the commercial pilot thing. Landed a pilot job with a cargo company I'll try for a few months, while I get a feel for the industry. I'll wind up an actor or an airline executive someday, or I'll die.”

“If you make it, so will I,” I say.

He reaches for my face. The bastard makes me forget about Jenny in record time when he's touching me. His fingers are thick against my cheek, strong as the rest of him, the tips calloused from his guitar.

“Obviously. I've got plenty on you in experience, little bird. Like that sex thing we were talking about.”

Not again. Just when I was starting to enjoy the asshole's touch.

My eyelids pop open. “None of your business,” I tell him, ignoring my body going rebel.

“What's holding you back? Don't tell me your parents don't let you date. Can't believe you get the shy schoolgirl act from your ma.”

I'm not sure what he means. Shaking my head, I stand still while he tucks my hair behind my ear, watching a heavy, suppressed growl move down his throat when he swallows.

“Like I could date here. I'm sure you've been inside these bungalows for the servants before?”

“Reed always was a minimalist. You've got his old place. He took off to the city to be my brother Hayden's valet. Sorry you've got the shitty one.”

“Yeah, then you get what I'm talking about. It's too small to bring a boy home, much less do anything else.”

“Anything? How about some details, Robbi? They're important in college, or so they say.” Luke runs his fingers through my hair again, finesse in his touch.

Like he doesn't know what I mean. He's done this to so many girls, he has to know my panties are soaked by now. I'm too ashamed to admit it, refusing to let my guard all the way down for this freak, equal parts unpredictable and irresistible.

“Can't just be the house that's got you clinging to your panties like a stripper maxing out her tease for tips. Your parents are gone half the time. I've seen the hours they keep. Fucking awful.”

“How did you know?” I press my cheek into his hand. Not thrilled where this conversation is going, but enjoying the moment too much to stop.

“I take long walks. I notice things. Half the time it's just your rusty little Toyota in the driveway. Your mom spends too much time at the house, and your old man, who the fuck knows.”

“He's drinking, I'm afraid. Comes home real late with his computer and goes straight to bed. Sometimes, he passes out on the sofa watching late night junk. I have to cover him with a blanket. It wasn't like this until we moved here.” I catch myself, looking away from him. “Sorry. That's family stuff, not your problem.”

“I'm sorry. My old man does the same crap, ever since I was old enough to pay attention. He's always got some new bimbo in his bed. Probably goes through two or three a week when he stays downtown, before he settles on a regular fuck for a few months. They haven't lasted longer than that since mom.”

“I have both my parents. I'm lucky. Can't imagine what it's like growing up without a mother.” I'm flirting with fire, oozing sympathy at this tall, dark beast, poking tenderly at his obvious sore spot.

“Quit changing the subject.” He taps my face with his fingertips, reminding me there are some lines better not crossed. “This isn't therapy hour. We're talking about what it's going to take to get you laid.”

“Right, Dr. Jekyll.” I smile, goosebumps peppering my skin. “I think we agreed I'd better wait until I move out. It'll be easier then. Plus I'll find better quality men than any around here. We're way out in the boonies, and the boys in my class aren't really my type.”

“God – yes!” A soft voice rips through the night, louder than before, reaching us from the weeds several yards away.

It doesn't help that most of the guys in my small class are taken. Or busy with girls who are more than happy to be their next piece of rotating meat. I'm not interested.

Luke's smirk grows wider, more like a smile crisp with lemon. “How do you know your type if you've never had one?” His blue gaze intensifies, so hard I can't look away.

“A girl knows,” I tell him. Vague, but true, one more lie hiding my inexperience. “Not sure why my status is so important to you anyway. It's not like you're coming to college with me, standing over my shoulder, and handpicking suitors to bring me bouquets. You can't stop me from making mistakes, Luke. Everybody deserves a chance to stumble, don't they?”

His arm goes around my waist. My eyes flutter shut. All the frustration pours out of me when his fingers graze my side, firm and wanting, reminding me he'll do whatever he pleases. “Robin?”

I open my eyes, surprised he isn't using my nickname. “What?”

“Shut up.” It's not his words, but his kiss that silences me.

Except calling the explosion tearing through my nerves silence is wrong.

It's fire, it's ice, it's rain emptied on the soil after a savage drought lasting years. It's everything my body wants, and everything my brain keeps screaming no to.

It's quintessentially him, Lucus Shaw, mysterious and ever calm. In control. Focused on taking me over.

His lips come at me softly at first, and his tongue does the rest. It flicks out once, parting my lips, sliding into my virgin mouth when it opens for him. He tastes me good and deep, putting his hunger into me.

Just before he breaks away, I moan, and heat rushes to my cheeks. I only realize after the fact I'd started grinding on his knee, poised between my thighs.

“Jesus,” I whimper, as soon as he pulls away. “I thought I was too young for you?”

“Happy fucking birthday, little bird,” he whispers, tipping his forehead into mine. He holds it there, listening to me breathe, lust and want and confusion boiling in my veins.

“What's next, Luke? I don't know what to do.”

“Go home. Get your friends some water and a shower when they stumble in with their hangovers. I'll see you when I'm home from my first flight. Got at least one reason to come back here instead of staying in a hotel.”

He's gone. No hesitation. I can't fathom how he pulls himself away so easily, like it's nothing more than shaking hands.

He's halfway down the path, heading uphill, when he turns back and looks at me in the darkness. I can't see his face, but I know he's smiling.

More than a smirk this time.

He's proud. I'm left happy, breathless, and horny as hell. I kind of want to run after him and punch him in the back of the head, or at least taste his wild lips again.

I don't know what this makes us, if it makes us anything. But it's obvious I won't be leaving the Shaw grounds without experiencing Luke again.

Little bird. That's what he likes to call me, ever since we started having regular encounters in the halls while I'm working, with no time or privacy for anything more than a quick glance and a few words, until tonight.

If only I knew what he really meant with the nickname. Does he want to cage me, or help me fly?