KANDY

Around 3:00 a.m., there was a buzz beside my head. My phone was ringing. Foggy-minded and bleary-eyed, I picked it up with a groan. Mom was calling.

"Mom?" My voice was thick with sleep as I answered.

"Kandy, honey?" I was so tired I didn't even realize her voice was laced with worry and heavy with emotion. "Baby, I need you to wake up and listen to me."

I rolled onto my back, running a hand over my face. "What's going on?"

"Y-your father has been shot."

With those words alone, my back was off the bed. I sat up right away, the fogginess clearing and the bleariness vanishing.

"What! Shot? How?"

"It was while he was on duty. H-he's being taken to the hospital. One bullet hit his thigh and the other pierced his neck. They said he bled a lot. I'm on my way to the hospital right now so I can't get you, but I called Cane. He's on his way to pick you up. Just be calm and stay with him, okay?"

"Okay. I'll get ready.” I climbed off the bed and Frankie groaned, popping one eye open to glare at me with it. She pushed up on one elbow and rubbed her eyes. "Dude, what the hell are you doing?"

I grabbed my sweatpants and tugged them on with haste, snatching up my bag next. "That was my mom. She told me my dad was just shot on duty."

"Oh shit!" Her eyes stretched wider. She climbed off the bed too. "Is he okay?"

"I-I don't know. She said one bullet his thigh and the other pierced his neck. She sounded worried." I don't know how I was still so calm. My heart was pounding now, beating like a drum in my chest. My chest felt like it’d been crushed by the foot of an elephant and all oxygen seemed to have been sucked from my lungs. Still, I kept moving.

My phone vibrated in hand. I looked at the screen and it was Cane calling. I rushed to the window and saw his white Chrysler parked at the curb.

"I'll come back for my things later," I told her.

"Yeah, babe. It's fine. Go," she insisted, watching me rush to her door. I hurried down the hall and hustled down the stairs, swinging the front door open to get outside.

I don't remember if I closed it behind me or not. I just remember Cane standing by the passenger door of his car, holding the door open for me, his face pale, and eyes wide with worry. I’d never seen him that way. No words were spoken on his behalf.

I jumped in and the door was immediately shut.

He was behind the wheel before I could even give myself a moment to take a deep breath. He pulled off, gripping his face with his free hand and dragging his palm down.

"Damn it," he hissed beneath his breath.

"Why are you driving so slow?" I , frowned at him and then checked his speedometer. The speed limit was 45 but he was going 35.

He kept quiet, not looking my way.

"Cane!" I shouted. "Hurry and get me to the hospital! I need to make sure my dad is okay!"

He stopped at a light.

"Drive through the light! This is an emergency and he's a cop! If you get pulled over you can tell them who my dad is! I know most of the cops here! Just go!" The tears were like fire in my eyes as I tried to fight them off.

I wasn't in the mood for his asshole-ish ways that night. I wasn't in the mood to pretend-argue, or bicker, or do anything fun and exhilarating with him right now. I just wanted to be with my dad.

He was shot twice. He needed me right now. His only child. His little girl.

"I'm not taking you to the hospital, Kandy. Your mother told me not to."

"What!" I snapped. "Why the hell not! I deserve to be there! He's my dad—"

"Which is exactly why you shouldn't go," he stated, voice harsh. "He’s already at the hospital and going straight into surgery. You’d just be sitting there. Your mother has to be there for him when he makes it out.” He let out a tattered breath. “You'll wait at my place until we hear from her. She wants you with her, trust me, but she knows you’ll be better off waiting outside the hospital. I’ll take you there as soon as I get the say-so.”

I scoffed with blazing hot tears sliding down my cheeks. "This is so fucking stupid. I need to be there with him!"

Cane kept driving, not even responding, and when he went past the exit to get to the hospital, I wanted to fucking wail. I bit hard on my bottom lip until I tasted blood. The tears continued falling, landing in my lap, my heart still drumming.

"You can hate me and be mad at me all you want, Kandy. I'm doing what's best for you right now," he murmured.

"You don't even know me. How could you possibly know what's best for me?"

"I know more about you than you think I do."

The speed of his car decreased and he took a left turn, pulling into a gated community. He said something to the security guard at the box, something I didn't care to listen to, and the gates drew apart.

He drove until we reached a creamy white home with a black roof. Gold lights flashed on the walls of house as well as the trimmed rose bushes in the front. If I hadn’t been so distressed, I would have soaked it all in and admired how elegant, yet simple it was, but in this moment, I didn't care about any of it. I didn't care that I was being selfish. I didn't even care about the fact that Cane and I were alone again. I needed to be with my father.

Cane killed the engine of the car. "Coming?" he asked softly.

"No."

He breathed heavily through his nostrils. "You can't sit out here all night, Kandy.” He was agitated now. I didn’t care.

"Then take me to the hospital! I don't care what she wants! I don’t care if I have to sit there all night! This is what I want!"

"You know I can't do that."

"Well screw you, then," I seethed.

"Are you fucking kidding me?” he bellowed, like he was truly fed up. “Derek wouldn't want you there, Kandy! Your mother told me to keep you with me, so stop being a fucking brat, get out of the goddamn car, and come into the house already!"

My eyes stretched wide as I turned my head to focus on him. He'd never spoken to me this way before. Yes, he was arrogant and yes, he cursed often, but not at me. Not like this.

Frustrated and honestly embarrassed, I gripped the door handle and pushed out of the car, rushing for his front door with the same stupid tears still burning the rims of my eyes. I refused to cry in front of him right now.

He followed right behind me, unlocking the door and opening it.

Pressing a hand on my shoulder, he ushered me inside his home, guiding me down a long corridor until a room appeared.

Creamy leather furniture was set up in it, the room neat and clean, like a home out of an interior design magazine. The electric fireplace was burning, and a glass with ice in it was on the coffee table along with some papers, like he'd been sitting in this very room when he got the call, and had dropped everything to come get me. The lights were dim enough to be considered relaxing, but not relaxing enough because I was still on edge.

"Sit, Kandy. Please." He extended an arm, gesturing to the biggest sofa. I noticed his voice was softer, like he felt bad about his sudden outburst in the car. But Cane wouldn't apologize. Not for speaking his mind and telling the truth.

I avoided his eyes, walking past him and sitting down. I kicked off my shoes and drew my knees to my chest, burying my face in my lap.

I tried to fight the wave of emotion that hit me, but it was impossible. I couldn’t bite back on the tears anymore. My body shuddered. The tears clogged and thickened in my throat. The saltiness finally ran over my lips.

The whimpers and cries I'd made that night, just thinking about my dad in pain, were foreign noises. I'd never heard myself cry like this before. So hard. So desperately.

"Damn it, Kandy." The couch dipped beside me and a hand ran through my hair. "He'll be okay. Stop crying. You know he wouldn't want you crying."

"I don't care what he wants right now," I sobbed. "I just want to see him. I want to know he's okay."

Cane's fingers stroked the back of my neck, the pads of them feathery-light and caressing my skin. "He'll be okay."

His touch electrocuted me, awakening my soul, even through the thick layers of emotion. I picked my head up and looked over my shoulder at him, lashes damp now. "You don't know that," I whispered.

"Yes, I do." His eyes latched with mine. He sighed softly, like he wanted to say more to make me feel better. He obviously didn't have much else to say because he clamped his mouth shut instead and pulled away, standing up. "Can I get you something to drink?"

I shook my head.

"Then I'll go make one for myself. Let me know if you change your mind." He walked away, glancing back once at me. I dropped my chin on top of my knees, staring ahead, into nothingness.

All I could think about was my daddy. What if he didn’t make it out of the hospital alive? What if he’d bled out on the way there?

I could picture Mom's reaction when they told her the bad news. She'd bawl and break down—fall to her knees and weep into her palms. I prayed he would pull through.

I was pissed off, but I knew they were right. They were so right. I wouldn't have been able to handle waiting at the hospital. Every ticking second would have felt like centuries. Plus, I hated hospitals. I didn't like being surrounded by pain and misery.

The sound of ice clanking in a glass a short distance away pulled me from my trance and I heard Cane talking.

"Yeah, I picked her up already. It's fine. She can crash here for as long as you need her to." He was talking to Mom.

Cane stepped around the corner moments later. He sat beside me again with a short tumbler in hand and a half-empty decanter of amber liquid in the other. He placed the decanter down on the coffee table and then swirled the ice in his cup, causing it to rattle in the glass.

After taking a small sip, he let out a long, weary sigh. "He'll be okay," I heard him say. It seemed he was trying to convince himself of that more than me.

I looked up at him, a sudden thought crossing my mind that escaped me vocally before I could stop it. "You love my dad?" I asked, but it was a juvenile question. Men like Cane didn't tell other men he loved them, even if it were true. It was just...not in his nature, I supposed.

His response took me by surprise. "He's my best friend. Of course I love him. Love him like a brother."

"How long have you known him again?"

"Since I was twenty-one. He saved my mother's life."

"How?" I asked, more than intrigued now.

He side-eyed me, probably debating whether to tell me or not. "From a domestic abuse dispute. He got a call about it, showed up in less than five minutes since he was nearby. I was on my way home from college and still an hour away."

"Domestic abuse?"

His lips pressed thin. "Between my mother and my father."

"Oh. I'm sorry."

His nostrils flared, head dropping, focused on his lap instead. "Thanks to Derek, my mother wasn't killed that night. My father had pulled a gun on her. He was drunk and accused her of cheating, but he was the cheater. We all knew it. Derek came at the right time and took care of it, sent my sorry-ass father to jail and I haven't seen him since. I was only twenty-one then. Derek was twenty-eight and new to the job. I haven't been able to thank Derek enough for it. He’d put his life on the line for hers. He considered it his duty—said he was just doing his job—but I respect that much more than he will ever be able to imagine. She could have been seriously hurt or dead if he hadn't shown up when he had. After that, I asked him to meet me every week whenever he was free so I could repay him with cheap beers and hot wings at this late-night bar a short drive from downtown. As we got older, and when I finally kick-started Tempt, we got a little busier. We still kept in touch with phone calls and texts, but didn't get to see each other as often. He was raising a child, taking care of his family, and I was building my career."

"That's cool," I said softly. "I'm glad he saved your mom."

"Me too."

I lowered my gaze to his glass. "What are you drinking?"

"Macallan Scotch. Strong stuff."

"Can I try it?"

He cocked a brow, looking from me to the glass. I could tell he wanted to say no, but instead he lifted it up and handed it to me. This was my pity drink from him to me. I didn't care. I wanted it.

"A little," he said, "and only because I don't know how else to make you feel better right now."

I accepted it, taking a sip. It was strong and burned my throat, but soothing the fire in my veins all at once. I took another big sip, and then two bigger gulps.

"Kandy, come on," he grumbled, taking the glass away from me. He looked at the nearly empty glass, sighing and picking up the decanter of scotch from the table. He topped off his glass again, keeping it to himself this time.

"I'm scared, Cane," I confessed after a brief silence. "I don't want him to die."

"He won't," he said, cut and dry.

I laughed a little, but it hurt and my eyes welled up.

"What?" he murmured.

"I don't know. It's just...funny. I always saw my dad as this hero, you know? Like a man who could take on anything, even bullets? Kind of like my own super hero. Nothing is ever supposed to hurt him. In my mind, he's this indestructible man who will always protect and save me. Live forever."

Cane huffed a small laugh. "Yep. I know. He talked about that a lot. He told me once that he used to have you call him Mr. Strong-O.”

A giggle bubbled out of me. Cane chuckled.

“Yeah…I remember that.”

We both became quiet again. It was a long silence, but far from uncomfortable. I dropped my legs and pressed my back into the cushion, shutting my eyes. I felt tears building back up again, burning behind my eyelids.

"Can you distract me, please?" I begged, voice cracking. "I can't—I mean, I just don't know what else to do—shit." The tears dripped, despite my eyes being sealed.

"Stop crying, Kandy. Please," he pleaded when I pressed my palms to my face. "I'm not good with tears. Never have been."

"Yeah," I huffed, swiping hard at my face, "I can see that."

He reached up and ran the pad of his thumb over my cheek, swiping a teardrop away. I avoided his eyes.

"Look at me," he murmured.

But I couldn't. Looking at him would have made me cry even harder.

"Look at me, little one."

I swallowed hard, pulling my gaze up, and locking eyes with him. His hand was still on my cheek, his eyes sincere and understanding. He stroked the apple of my cheek.

"What do you want me to do to make you feel better?" he asked, voice low, deep, and husky. He studied my face, like he really wanted to know what could help.

I couldn't speak as he looked at me. Couldn't breathe. I smashed my lips together, my eyes dropping down to his hands. I knew exactly what I wanted.

I wanted him to kiss me. I wanted him to hold me. I wanted him to keep telling me everything was going to be okay while he stroked my hair and held me close, wrapping me up in his big, strong arms.

But I knew he couldn't do that, so instead I said, "Just . . . hold me, I guess?"

He didn't hesitate much. He wrapped his arm around me as I hooked one of mine behind his back. He pulled me into him until my cheek was pressed on his chest. It was now when I noticed he wasn't wearing a suit or dressy clothes. He wore a solid gray T-shirt and jeans. It was the most casual thing I'd seen him wear.

His chin dropped down on the top of my head and a hard sigh escaped him. I rested my other arm on top of his lap to get more comfortable, sighing by how calming this actually was. I was wrapped around him, the left half of my face on his chest. He smelled so good. Manly and delicious. I wanted to bury my face into his hard, chiseled body and breathe him in forever.

He lifted his glass and sipped, longer this time.

All I heard was his throat working with each sip he took. The ice clinking around in the glass. I stared at the fireplace to distract myself.

When his glass was empty, he sat forward a bit to place it down on the coffee table, but kept me secure in his arms. When he sat back again, I tilted my head up to look at him.

"Are you scared?" I whispered, catching his eyes.

"Yes."

"You don't seem like the type to get scared."

"When it comes to the people I care about getting hurt, I do."

"Do you care about a lot of people?"

"I can count on one hand how many people I truly care about."

"And who are those people?"

"My mother. Your father, of course. Mindy, your mom. My sister, Lorelei . . ." He paused, eyes sparkling as he looked down at me. "And you."

I was relieved when he didn't say Kelly's name. More than relieved actually. Apparently I was more important to him than her. Or maybe he didn't love her. Still a good sign to me.

It was now when I realized how close our faces were, how hard I was pressed against his solid body. My arm was still on his lap, and I noticed my hand was close to his groin. He looked down at where my hand was, like he'd noticed too.

I squeezed the hem of his shirt, my head still tilted up. I should have moved away, but I couldn't. That drink was chasing away all of my morals now, making me want to attempt something and be bold.

"I'm glad to know you care about me," I whispered. I leaned in more, until our lips were a hairsbreadth away. His eyes were on my mouth, his grip tightening on my waist, probably without even realizing it. My pulse skittered, but I leaned in more, until his lips created a feathery-light sensation on top of mine.

"Kandy," he warned.

"What?"

"No." A bold command that couldn’t be mistaken.

I never liked being told no, though. Maybe he was right about the whole brat thing. I could act like a spoiled little girl when I wanted to. I liked things to go my way and sometimes that made me pesky and infuriating.

I slid my hand down, running it over the bulge in his pants anyway. I moved it over the jean fabric, shifting it back up gradually. I felt him getting harder, his breaths unsteady now, body tensing.

"Kandy," he said, but this time it wasn't a warning. It was a plea.

"Should I stop?" I asked, my voice so low I could hardly hear it myself.

He didn't answer. Only stared down at me with intense, hungry, smoky eyes. I kept moving my hand up and down on his groin, pressing in more and more, making sure my breasts were completely pressed on him.

"You know damn well you should stop," he mumbled on my mouth, but I felt his grip get even tighter around me, like he was saying one thing, but thinking the complete opposite.

I pressed my hand down into the jean fabric again, getting a better feel of the thick, hard ridge resting on the inside of his thigh.

I couldn't help myself. I couldn't stop. I couldn't believe this was happening and I refused to pass this chance up.

Quinton Cane was hard for me and I wanted him. Bad.