Devil In Her Bed Read online

  “It might be more beneficial to learn about each other in a different setting, such as out of this bed.” His voice is hard with lust.

  The thought clicks seconds later, I had asked about him fighting. Hell, his mind went straight to sex when I asked him earlier about his scars.

  This time, Lincoln rubs his hands together and begins, “My grandfather handed me the keys to our manufacturing business when I was an adolescent, leaving me no time to honor our queen by serving in the army. After getting the business dynamics squared away, I took a few extended holidays in Jakarta, Indonesia, to tour their martial arts. Thus, no law enforcement background either. Although, I added to our list of associates in the UK and US alike.”

  “Indonesia, huh?” I cuddle closer to him.

  “Yes, I take it you have encountered potential clients and are versed on the subject matter?”

  I shake my head with a smile. “Nope. I think Jakarta was mentioned in ‘Ip Man’ or another karate movie. I am intrigued. Tell me more.”

  “To put it simple, it’s a beautiful art form. Though my opponent, your demon dog, was on four legs, which didn’t allow me to show my capabilities.”

  He tells me about how he strategized, deciding that being on the offense would cause for a longer fight. Kicks and strikes would have done nothing but tenderize the demon dog’s already hardened muscles. He explains the defense tactic he had used.

  “Body conditioning,” he says as he gestures for me to touch his forearms, “one must toughen their forearms by hitting them against hard surfaces.”

  His arms are hard, with a spattering of faint scars. From my angle, I assumed his hands had done the trick, but the scene comes back to me in a flash. The beast lunging toward us. Lincoln had angled himself, twisted the dog’s neck while swiveling the damn thing within the confines of his forearms.

  “Okay, Batman.” I stroke along his ripped forearms; my hand appears smaller and unable to extend along much of it. “I’m gonna catch a case of PTSD learning about Jakarta, Indonesia. While I enjoy learning more about you, I feel the pain just listening to you talk about it.”

  He laughs, and I do too. Damn, can we stay here forever? Lincoln leans on his side, head propped up by his elbow and pillows. He scoops me halfway beneath his girth. All muscle, but the heavy weight of him adds an additional sense of security. Man, had I thought I was safe before?

  I lick my lips, prepared to bring up his grandfather, and why place a young man in such an imperative position. Did his grandfather have any other children, besides Lincoln’s mother, to place on the throne? I’ve connected the dots that his grandfather and father never got along. But why didn’t the grandfather allow his own daughter to take the reins? Instead of collecting my thoughts on how to inquire, Lincoln beats me to the punch by asking me to finish the story of the worst day of my life.

  “Dang, I never did finish the story of why my life sucks.” Crap, we’re lying tangled in sheets with the enticing fragrance of sex, but I infer how depressed I am. “You already know heartache surrounds me… Damn, every time I speak, I kill our high with my heavy burdens.”

  Lincoln places a hand to my cheek, his face serious though I give a weak smile. “Don't ever feel like a burden, Ms. Bag Lady.”

  My bottom lip drops, and then I reach over to punch him softly.

  “Siobhan, you've been telling me about the worst day of your life for some time now. Flush it all out, beautiful, it’s for your own good. I care for you. And since we’ve decided no cops, I’ve learned more about that arsehole. Know your enemy as much as you know yourself, and there’ll be no fear of the consequences… a paraphrase of Sun Tzu.”

  I take a deep breath and recollect the day a few months before Hosea's disappearance. The day I woke up alone should’ve been the shittiest day of my life yet. But it paled in contrast to the day Hosea forced me to smile, and I scored the Rockstar Productions, Kill Joy deal. It hurts too much to dive into the aftermath of Samuel’s death. Running faster than I ever did in college track, just to make it to him, when there was nothing that could’ve been done. So I skip over Hosea forcing me to smile, and begin with, “The day was like a roller coaster. I got the deal with Rockstar Productions, then met up with my family for dinner at an exclusive restaurant located on Rodeo Drive. Only, Hosea and I were the first to arrive. My parents had ditched him for my brother…”

  ***

  “It’s all a bunch of political propaganda,” Hosea said as he gingerly took a sip of beer. He’d loved all my fears away just this morning, forced me to “smile” and regroup, then I got the deal. Yet it was easy to see the happiness Hosea felt for how well I did while securing the Rockstar Productions portfolio, which encompasses very controversial violent video games.

  “Babe, ‘Kill Joy’ is technically just a video game, knocking people off for kicks. Moreover, you’re a Texan, keep quiet about your views of stringent gun control in front of my father, okay?” I huffed, fingers tapping a mile a minute on the white-linen table.

  Hosea had kept my parents busy the entire afternoon since Sammy had a later flight this evening due to a comic event he hosted in Vegas. The minute Sammy arrived home, Dad started the petition to ditch Hosea for his son. Which would’ve been fine and dandy, except, Sammy desired a few moments of solidarity with his soon-to-be wife.

  “You’re seriously going to sum up Kill Joy—the bliss of slaughtering lives— as just a game, Siobhan?” Hosea argued. The previous chapter of the video game I just nabbed had been key evidence in two murdering rampages in the Midwest. I had no intentions of divulging that the ill media had set the foundation for my pitch—and I sure as hell wasn’t pitching Kumbaya antics.

  I arose abruptly. Hosea followed my gaze, and a megawatt smile to my parents, while a waiter escorted them past tables of customers. My mother’s hips filled much of the aisle. At least she had dressed up for the occasion, in a sundress. Magnolias dotted across the gauzy material. Her Chaka Khan wig on her head, added a mass of flowing, auburn curls, making her thick frame appear even chunkier. Mom loved to name all her wigs. I was impressed. The Chaka Khan didn’t normally get as much airtime as her Tina—no need for the last name Turner, because it was all that.

  Next to her, my father paled in comparison. It wasn’t that he wore jeans. California had the most casual, yet trendy attire. And he was trendy, if one accounted for the touristy hat which matched his t-shirt and these ridiculous sandals I purchased for him about five Christmases ago. I had never seen my father’s feet, and because I sometimes don’t mind hearing his mouth—on account that I’d missed him so at college—it took arguing until he was blue for me to get those suckers on his feet. Now nobody can get those damn sandals off his ugly-ass feet.

  Dad gave me a big bear hug. “My princess!”

  “Hey, Dad.”

  “You’re drinking beer,” was Dads astonished remark to Hosea.

  “Yes, sir,” Hosea answered. He’d hardly sipped the damn drink, but here he was attempting to be a “man’s man.” Crap. Dad’s motto rang loud and clear in my ears. We all stood there, sort of cumbersomely. It was a shame, knowing Hosea for the better part of my life, and insert Dad, the entire dynamics made my feet shift.

  “Sit down, honey, order yourself a beer too.” Mom sighed, rubbing his back. “Siobhan, what’re you drinking? It looks like I will take one of those too.”

  The waiter came by and dad asked for the same beer. “But don’t bring it in a damn chilled mug. I want it from the bottle, no cutesy little limes either.”

  “Mojito for my mom, thank you.” I stressed the words.

  Dad thought nothing of it, wrapping his arm around me. “So tell me about this deal you just made? Rockstar Productions, eh? You’re making one of those fancy video trailers. Can’t wait to see the movie!”

  I took a deep breath, and explained, “No, Dad it’s a video game, not a movie.” I had emailed my mom a YouTube trailer video of the company’s previous video games, all hits, and she showed Dad. R
ockstar was usually backed by one of the largest marketing companies in America. However, being ultra-successful, the company had assumed the “cookie-cutter” approach would suffice for Rockstar Productions. The marketing company who had them under contract weren’t able to bring something new to the table for Kill Joy, which happened to be one of the three owners of Rockstar’s baby. He’d had a tight fist on his first video game, and finally showed the other two owners of Rockstar.

  Kill Joy would be different. More death. A harder storyline. And On Demand was ready to brand Rockstar Productions in a way that a major marketing company couldn’t, or didn’t give a damn to do.

  “Damn, baby girl, I thought a war movie would be good enough reason to bring my ass back out here to visit, since you and Sammy are always raking in the frequent flier miles. With his fancy wedding coming up shortly, I needed a reason not to save my money.” He held his chubby jaws high, pride exuding from his pores. “Speaking of breaking the bank, where is the little shit? Your mom and I took a taxi to Sammy’s around five, but couldn’t catch up with him. I had hoped to spend some time with him before I sign the final check for the big festivities this weekend.”

  “Stop bragging and for the love of God, Samuel is not a little shit,” Mom interjected, shaking her head.

  Dad didn’t pay her any mind. He took this as a chance to toy with Hosea. “Maybe you should be the first in line when that video game comes out, Hosea. I heard the effects are doggone lifelike these days. Shit, the thingamajig has a kick when you shoot. It’ll give you some balls.”

  “It's a controller not a thingamajig, Dad! Now stop,” I snapped under my breath.

  “Mr. Lowe, speaking of balls, I have something important to chat with you about later,” Hosea said, not missing a beat. My father’s behavior always went right over his head, besides, I fucked Hosea’s brains out following all encounters with my dad as an incentive since there was no persuading my father to be nicer.

  ***

  “My parents, Hosea, and I were at dinner waiting for Samuel and his fiancée. Dad was digging in on Hosea over the littlest things. Beer in a glass instead of the fucking bottle. Elementary crap as usual. Then we got a call from Sammy saying they'd meet us at Hosea's event later that evening instead.”

  My throat constricts as I recall the roller coaster of the day, telling Lincoln everything. Not until a few days later did I learn that Hosea had intentions of proposing that night. But it was too late for us, my big brother had died, and my heart had gone into such shock it became numb. I leave no shell unturned, telling Lincoln the highs. The lows. Through it all, Hosea was at my side until … he wasn't. Until I pushed him away.

  “Samuel and his soon-to-be wife wrecked their car while trying not to hit a pedestrian off Sepulveda Blvd. For no reason whatsoever, my dad blamed Hosea.” I glance off into the distance. “Shit, I blamed him too. I pushed him away. What makes things worse is, we all thought Hosea was dragging us to a reading for one of the New York Time’s best sellers he’d brought into the fold. But no, Hosea was supposed to be reading that night. For the longest time prior, I thought his confidence had failed him to write new novels. In reality, he had written something. He had written a new book inspired by our love. Sammy and Hosea were best friends, and my brother wanted to go off on his honeymoon a few days later with his kid sister locked down—with a ring.” I give a wry smile. “They devised a plan that Hosea would propose to me that night at the book reading. So Sammy decided to forgo dinner to help his best bud. Later, I learned they’d gone to purchase flowers. How eerie was our timing, as my parents rode with Hosea and me after dinner? Somehow, we all ended up traveling to the event at the same time. I saw Sammy jerk the wheel of his car due to some dumb fucking jaywalker. I recall every second of it. My brother had just purchased a custom-paint job on one of Dad’s classics. Dad had had the car sent to him as an early wedding present. I didn’t want to believe it was him or that the car belonged to Sammy. But there my brother was, lying on a bed of glass and roses. My brother had been propelled through the front window. The muscle car didn’t have a single dent in it. We’d all witnessed Sammy’s death, but it was so dark out there, and only I had gotten close enough. I, and another man, from the car next to us, ran along to help. But there wasn’t much help that could be done.” The somberness of my tone paints a picture. Seeing my brother’s brains splattered against the sidewalk still churns my guts.

  “Sheesh.”

  “We’d seen the whole thing transpire. His car spinning out of control.” I pause to bite my bottom lip. “What makes it such a shitty-ass day? Worse than waking up cold. Alone. Unaware of what happened to Hosea’s body and where he was laid to rest. Well, because I had a wonderful man and before he was taken from me, I gave away time with him. Hosea was my moment of sanity in an otherwise ruthless world of marketing. He had loved me from the beginning of time as far as I’m concerned. Knew how to make me laugh, smile, and calm my nerves before a sizable proposal. And I was a fucking weakling. Afraid of losing the other, most important man in my life. I gave away two months of loving him longer.”

  Lincoln pats my knee then gives it a squeeze. As if it didn't suffice, he leans up to kiss my forehead. “I will get the arsehole who has done this. Mark my words.”

  Chapter Fourteen

  Siobhan

  Over the next week, Lincoln and I are inseparable. Our relationship doesn’t revolve around copious amounts of sex sessions, but I’d be damned if I didn’t admit the sex is welcome and new each time from screaming, to laughing, to crying; he beats the orgasms out of me.

  We just have a balanced lifestyle. Morning run. Midmorning both of us are glued to either a Bluetooth or a laptop. The obsession we both have with micromanaging is bar none. Though, with On Demand there are a dozen employees under my thumb, Zager asserts himself with a full management team under his belt. Half of his business talk is threats and orders, which I’ve learned since he doesn’t distance himself on calls anymore.

  One day, I drag Lincoln into the emporium for a few choice items for dinner. Though we both have grocery delivered, I wanted to make it a romantic night for us. Besides, I have only stepped inside a store once since moving to town in over two months.

  We walk down the aisles of picturesquely displayed organic and gluten-free foods. I’ve picked out a few bottles of wine, fresh herbs and vegetables, and Lincoln holds a basket in one hand and my hand in his other, as we dawdle toward the front of the store.

  “So you're telling me, you honestly missed grocery shopping?” Lincoln asks as we turn the corner at the end of the aisle and stop short behind a throng of people in the three checkout lines. Clearly, we came at the wrong time.

  I chuckle lightheartedly. “Yes, I miss it, in certain instances.”

  “How about now? We’ll be standing here for hours.”

  “Wow, that’s an exaggeration for someone who likes to be so precise. Now, what does it matter? I'm with you, purchasing special ingredients for you. All I want to do is cater to you.” My tone is soft, lush, but he isn’t eating up my words because he’s impatiently standing in line. “Damn it, Lincoln, we’ll be out of here in a few.”

  “Dash it, I could've sent for everything on your list. They deliver anytime of the day.” His point is hammered in as the white-haired woman in the front of our line removes a checkbook from her purse.

  I pick up a bushel of thyme then place it back into the basket, no need for the pun. I then grab rosemary, instead. “We just picked out the freshest ingredients.”

  He shakes his head. “It's a good thing I like you.”

  “Wow, thanks. That's exactly what your mate needs to hear.” I make a beeline toward the ten items or less line that has just opened. A throng of people follow. But we end up next in line at the register.

  “I don't bloody give a damn. You've forced me to shop, woman.” He paws at my ass for good measure. “I'll be expecting a consolation prize.”

  After Lincoln pays, we head outside,
each with a brown bag in our arms. “Keep up the ’tude, no prize.”

  “Tosh!”

  I shake my head as he pops the trunk. Not sure what that means, but I say, “Why do I have the feeling that your friends just enjoy arguing with you? Your way or the highway, huh?”

  He puts his bag in the trunk and I put mine. Lincoln opens the passenger side for me and says, “No fri…”

  “No friends, no?” My eyebrows rise. I get into the car. I’ve been more than open with him. Half the time, embarrassed while divulging the sordid story of being stalked. Lincoln is beginning to tell me more about himself, but I don't expect to be fully aware of him.

  There’s something here. Though he reads me well, I believe he’s hiding something from me. Not outwardly lying, or anything which would cause us to part ways.

  “No friends, really?” I repeat.

  “In this world, a man only needs two mates. His woman is one,” Lincoln says, grabbing my thigh while pulling out of the lot. “I had a dog once. The bitch got old and died. Besides, after the encounter at Monterey, the verdict is a toss-up with regard to ‘man’s best friend.’”

  “Hmmm,” I say, egging him to continue.

  “What’s that supposed to mean?” Lincoln glances at me as he pauses at a stop sign, and then veers onto Alister Way.

  I shrug. “Not entirely sure, Lincoln. I guess does it have something to do with your dad? I know you mentioned one time that we had to get out of bed to be candid, but damn, you skim over the surface of how your dad treated you, and I care enough about you to be interested in more. My father is too loud and obnoxious to get too close to, but we’ve got a good enough relationship…”

  “Don’t compare apples to oranges, Siobhan. Every person is different. My father is nothing like yours.”

  Damn, we spent all day in bed, but leave it to me to get him to broach the subject out in public. “I wasn’t implying—”