Pretty Instinct (35 page)

Well, if that wasn’t the most confusing bout of incoherent rambling, some to the cab driver, some to my father, I don’t know what the hell was. My head’s throbbing as bad as my nose from it.

“Lizzie?”

I glance over at him out my good eye; is he talking to me or about me? One look confirms, he’s worried, angry and doesn’t know which problem to tackle first.

“Are you okay, sweet girl? Pull back my shirt and lemme see.”

“Good news or bad new first?” He strives to grin for me. “
Not
you,” he chastises in the phone, “uh, sir,” he recovers. “Her. Lizzie, baby?”

“Good,” I mumble.

He does a cursory examination and gives me a wink. “It’s stopped bleeding and I’m confident you’ll live.”

“Bad?”

“You look like you face planted a car seat. But in the prettiest way possible,” he gushes in hindsight.

I roll my eyes and groan, throwing my head back. “Hey, Evil Knievel, why aren’t we moving? Andale!” I say, though he’s no more Hispanic than I am.
Oh well
. I know what I mean….so do it. “Gimme that phone,” I growl, yanking it away. I’m about to gowler (I also had no idea what it meant) the hell outta every one of these disorganized, hazardous men.

“Conner fell down the stairs,” I state into the phone.

“Elizabeth, are you all right? Do you need to go to the hospital?” my father asks, with what sounds suspiciously like concern.

“Yes. No. Conner fell down the stairs. You put up rails and changed the flooring below. I’m right, aren’t I?”

There’s an extensive silence and finally he sighs, a painful, agonized sound. “Yes, he did.”

“Why didn’t you just tell me that?” I’m screeching—
no sudden movements, cabbie
.

“Like I said, you were young. Your mother was despondent. Your brother suffered a major, life changing injury, your father stayed gone like a coward, and then your mother died. As your father, however miserable of one, I thought your adolescent psyche’d had enough. I couldn’t ruin the last beautiful, healthy, strong one of us left.”

“He fell and hit the front of his head?”

“Yes.”

“Were you there?”

“Yes.”

“You said you weren’t. Why’d you lie?”

“Elizabeth, we will sit down and talk when I get back, I promise you. Right when we get back. Please, go spend this last week of ignorant freedom with that fine young man. Don’t hesitate to have your nose looked at. And for God’s sake, make sure you have Conner’s fish ready when we get back.” He chuckles lightly. “I’ll send you a list of the ones he expects to be there.”

Chuckles. My father. Wouldn’t have believed it if I hadn’t heard it firsthand.

“How’s your band, daughter?”

“Do you care?”

“Very much.”

“Disbanded for now.”

“Ah, prayers do get answered. See you in eight days.”

***

“We’re here.” He looks out the window anxiously, rubbing what I assume are sweaty, nervous palms on his thighs. “Hey, driver, here’s the deal. You apologize to my girl and hang for a few, call 911 if there’s trouble, and we’ll call it even. Or, I report you and kick the shit out of you now. Whatcha think?”

“I very sorry, miss. Ball roll in street, child might follow. And I wait, ten minute.”

“Agreed,” Cannon says, opening the door, giving me a hand, and digging out his keys. “Go around, babe, hurry,” he almost whispers, pressing the unlock button. Fun fact—they beep. We both look at each other with wide, worried eyes, realizing the mistake, then scramble frantically into the car.

Don’t even
try
to deny you’d do the same thing, even amongst panic…I take inventory. Pictures on the dash—nope. Pull down visor like I own it—nope. Backseat glance—nothing. Big whiff—all man,
my
man. Glove box—nada.

This car…is clean. No signs of her anywhere.

He starts it and throws it in to reverse, then slams on the brakes and jolts me forward, knee slamming into the glove box. WHAT. THE. HELL?!

I’m gonna invest in a top of the line, fully padded bodysuit. I mean, come on!

I really should have caught on sooner, and I would’ve if it wasn’t for my recent head injury, but one look at Cannon’s face in the rearview and I know.

Chancing a glance behind us, there she stands, Grandma Scorned. Hands on hips, pursed lips, eyes shooting daggers…blocking our path.

Oh, and shocker…cab dude bolted like lightning, long gone.

“Want me to call the po?” I ask.

“Nope.” He exhales dejectedly. “Her dad would paint it like Picasso and make it our fault. Somehow, I’d end up in jail and you’d be a home wrecker. Just stay in the car.”

“What?”

“Please, Lizzie, for me. Stay in the damn car. This isn’t a fight of who’s scrappier or has the sharper tongue, this is a battle of power. She has it.”

He affords me one long, last glance, like he’s off to war and never coming back, and gets out. His shoulders are slumped, his head down, his steps sluggish, and all I want to do is jump out and love him back to better.

We’ve established, through Cannon’s extensive “shock me with your love and understanding” therapy, that my bark is worse than my bite. I’m his favorite candy—hard on the outside, smushy on the inside, and I love far fiercer than I hate.

But even the fucking Easter Bunny couldn’t just sit back and watch discreetly thorough her side mirror as the man she loves gets scratched¸ slapped, pushed, and screamed at. And since I’d used his shirt for the nosebleed, he’s totally unprotected from her nails…which I’ve decided need ripped from the nail bed and shoved square up her ass.

Nope. Miss Priss ‘bout to learn how “ladies” (especially those who wear pearls) should act.

She hears my door slam and jerks her head my way for a split second, before she’s back at him, arms flying and screeching like the dirtiest sailor on the ship.

Cannon keeps her in one eye line and me the other, tight, tense lines of worry around his mouth and eyes. “Siren love, get back in the car,” he grits pleadingly.

“Nah, got my dog for the bunny fight,” I spit, staring at her. As I wave to her, she circles the other way
and
runs a key through the paint of his car, one endless scratch down the entire side. A nice car at that, one of those extended, luxury BMWs, the
only
thing he asked to take with him, and she just keyed the sumbitch.

“Was she always psycho?” I ask him as though she’s not even within earshot.

His mouth curls up adorably. “Little bit. Easier to stay, I told ya,” he shrugs.

“You buy this car with your own money?” I lift a brow in some sickening way, a tingle with anticipation, sort of flirting with him.

“Every cent.”

“The house?”

“Her daddy.”

“Her clothes?”

“Daddy.”

“She work?”

“Not a day in her life.”

“I’m right here! I can hear you, you dykey bitch!” she screams at me in the voice of a debutante who lost her tiara and can’t handle it.

“Babe?” I ask and I think he knows what’s coming.

“Yeah?” He lights up, the smirk I covet in his expression, from being called babe. I’m not sure if he’s more pleased about the upcoming main attraction or the fact I’m “fighting for us” most, but it doesn’t matter, pick one.

“You go wait in the car,” I tell
him
now.

He salutes me, gives Ruthie a snarky finger-roll wave, and slides into the driver’s seat.

“Now, Miss Ruthie.” I make my way to her leisurely, biding my time, thinking of the most untraceable causes of death. Arsenic or air embolism—and me without the poison or a needle, dammit! “Why you backing up, badass? You were all yelling and shouting and keying cars like a prize fighter, so why you backing up?” I keep my voice deceptively calm, toying with her, stalking her like the scary flaming dyke she thinks I am.

“This isn’t any of your business. This is between me and Cannon, my fiancé!”

So sneaky, my man, I hear him slide open the electronic window; he wants to hear his witch—I mean me, the
good
witch
without
a house on her—go to work.

P.S. I’m suddenly embracing the nickname with pride.

“Here’s the thing. He’s not your fiancé anymore, at all, not even a little bit, ever again. You used and tricked him then dumped him off like trash. I scooped up your trash, and it’s my treasure. And
nothing
, comes between me and Cannon. He’s mine. So it
is
my business. Now, you can either hand me your phone so I can block and erase his number and write me a check for the damage to his car,” I roll my shoulders and suck in a calming breath for him, “or, I can change his number and put him on my plan,”
should of thought of that a lot sooner, really
, “and take the damage out of your ass.” I spread out my feet, cross my arms and cock my head to the side. “What’s it gonna be, Princess?”

“C-Cannon! Do you hear the way she’s talking to me?”

“Why’d you key my car, Ruthie?” he yells through the crack in the window.

“I was mad! I’m sorry. Daddy will fix your precious car, geez.” She rolls her eyes.

“Then yes, I hear her talking and can tell you, after that admission of yours, I’m loving it and recording it!” He grins ear to ear and holds up his phone, waving it from side to side gleefully.

And…he’s smiling, having some fun now, keyed car and all! My work here is almost done.

“You!!” she whines/growls/shrieks (in reality, I have no idea WTF that sound was), and lunges at his door, smacking into a wall—a tiny wall, mind you—of overly protective, pissed off Siren. Cannon’s Siren.

“What’s the password?” I taunt her, straight-faced and cool as a cucumber. His phone’s as good as changed, at this point, I’m simply toying with the bitch, like a little ball of catnip that I enjoy batting back and forth between my paws…like she did with him, all that time, in so many ways.

“You are such an evil, low class lesbian,” she sneers, an inch from my face.

“Evil is kicking people you supposedly love enough to marry out in the middle of nowhere and fucking with their future behind their back. Low class is keying cars and begging your way back when you’re not wanted. And a lesbian wouldn’t have sat on his face, screaming around his big dick in her mouth while she came. Guess what I did this morning, Twinkle Toes?”

Kill shot
. Cannon snorts in full appreciation of that one.

“Have I mentioned lately that I love you and you’re the coolest person I’ve ever known?” Cannon’s praise is muffled through the window behind me.

“Yes, babe, now zip it. I’m busy schooling a bitch at the moment.” I can’t quite tame my grin fully, but I do manage to school it and turn my attention back on her. “What’s it gonna be, Bad Root Job Barbie? Your phone and a check, or my exercise—well, besides this morning—for the day?”

“You lay one finger on me and my daddy will ruin you,” she warns, crossing her arms.

I
cannot
believe I’m about to play this card.

“Cannon?” I call over my shoulder, not taking my eyes of her.

“Siren?”

“Whose daddy is more powerful?” I ask, literally tasting vomit, but taking one for my team.

“Yours.”

“Richer?”

“Yours.”

“Thank you, babe. So…” I give her the old “how ya like them apples?” eyebrow. “What now? My patience is running thin. I gotta go house shopping with my man.”

“Fine, how much?”

Ah, I just love it when everyone gets a happy ending.

“Cannon, how much?”

“I’ll take care of the car and change my phone plan and number. I’d rather she stay out here while I go in and grab my clothes, golf clubs, pictures of my family…”

She heard him, so I stare her down, waiting for her answer. I may also have my fist locked and loaded if it’s the wrong one. I’ve never punched anyone in my life—well, I beat on a few guy’s heads for being mean to Conner—but she doesn’t need to know that.
If
I punch her, she’ll think I’m a pro.

“Fine,” she huffs, “I’ll let you in.”

“No you won’t.” I put a stiff arm straight out to block her. “You’ll stay right the fuck here. Ten minutes, babe. Go.”

***

“Tell the truth, was I more
Training Day
badass or like, say
…Laura Croft Tomb
Raider?
” I ask, turned and childishly ecstatic in the passenger seat.

“You were Training Laura Croft, a hot and nasty all your own.” He glances from the road briefly to wink. “I adore you, you know that, right?”

“Please, you just want free lessons.” I giggle and swat his arm.

“You stood
by
me,
for
me. You don’t know what it meant Lizzie,” he says. “But you will, because I damn sure plan to show you. In multiple ways.”

“I do know. Pretty sure I still have the edge of the bar imprinted on my back to remind me,” I joke, looking out the window at our stopping point, empty desolation. “Um, if we
build
a house, where we gonna live in the meantime?”

“Not building a house,” he grunts, turning off the car, shoving the seat back violently. Like a blur, several things apparently happen at once, each one more evasive to me than the last.

At some point, in what order I wouldn’t chance a guess, he’s turned on, or up, or both “Give me Love,” by Ed Sheeran, and gotten his jeans and briefs past his hips, smoldering eyes watching me as he strokes up and down his hardness.

“Come ‘ere,” he rasps with a sinful cocked brow and come hither chin.

I’m turned inside out by the chin beckon, the cock in hand, the song, and the chance of being caught in public—a heady, deadly mixture setting me unrestrainedly aflame. I scramble over the console like a jungle cat in heat, licking my lips as I sit astride him.

My plaid, cotton skirt easily fluffs out and over his thighs, and my thong doesn’t stand a chance as he yanks it to the side. I hear the rip of fabric, at least even to allow some “give.”

“I’ve never wanted anything in my life as badly as I want you right now. You make me crazy in every way, Siren. Ride my dick, gorgeous,
please
, now.” He sounds pained and desperate, a dying man that can only be healed by being buried inside me.