Chapter 2
TWO
KIRA
I sit stiffly in the passenger seat of Isaak's truck, gripping my Birkin bag in my lap. My finger runs back and forth over the little gold clasp, once, twice, three times.
"You really didn't have to start right away," I say, trying to break the tension that crackles between us.
Back and forth, my finger dances over the clasp. Back and forth. Ten times. Then, ten more times. Then another ten more. Dammit. Did I lose count last time? Shit, now I have to start all over again. One, two, three?—
"No good taking chances when the threat's real." Isaak’s gray eyes briefly leave the road to glance my way.
I nod, swallowing hard. The photos on my bed. The roses. The blood. I still don't know if it was real or staged, but either way, it was a message. One I can't ignore anymore.
"Where's your place at?" he asks, voice gruff but not unkind.
I give him my address, watching his massive fingers punch it into his phone. There's something mesmerizing about how someone so large can move with such precision.
"West Dallas," he comments. "Figures."
My cheeks heat. I know what he's thinking—another rich girl living in her bubble. He's not even wrong. But he doesn't know the whole story either. I know my parents' money smoothed the path, but I've also worked hard for everything I have.
I clutch my thighs tighter together to avoid the eight-inch gash in the bench seat that exposes the yellow stuffing underneath. I don't want to imagine all the things that have happened on this bench seat. It's fine. I'll just shower when I get home. With extra hot water.
The truck roars to life, and I grab the handle above my head as we accelerate. Every muscle in my body tenses.
"Relax," he says, throwing me a look that's half smirk, half genuine concern. "You'll enjoy the ride more that way."
There's a double entendre there that sends heat spiraling through me. I try to stamp it out, but I can't help noticing how his forearms flex as he grips the steering wheel. And how sharp and handsome his profile is in the dim light.
"Is it entirely necessary to drive so recklessly?" I ask, trying to distract myself from intrusive thoughts that flash unbidden through my mind: What if I just grabbed the wheel? Or opened the door and jumped out?
Jesus, what is wrong with me?
Issak chuckles, a deep rumble that I feel more than hear. "Reckless? I used my blinker."
Despite my anxiety, I almost smile. Almost.
"Men," I still mutter under my breath, immediately regretting it when his expression hardens.
"Oh, I get it. You're one of those."
"One of what?" I challenge, even though I know exactly what he means.
"Lemme guess. You're the kind of feminist who thinks all men are trash. Especially us big Texas boys with our big trucks."
I turn toward him, forgetting my anxiety for a moment. "Do you ever actually haul anything with this big truck?"
"All the time," he says. "When I got back from the sandbox, I worked construction and was hauling all kinds of shit back and forth."
"Sandbox?"
"Afghanistan," he clarifies with a sigh.
Something softens in me. "How long were you there?"
"Two terms. Seven years."
"Thank you for your service," I say quietly, meaning it.
He glances at me, something unreadable passing across his face. "Ya know, I never know what to say when people tell me that. Especially someone like you."
"Someone like me?" I echo, feeling defensive again.
"When the war was happening, did you even give it more than a passing thought?"
The question stings because he's right. The war was distant news headlines, easily scrolled past. I was wrapped up in my accelerated degree program, in pleasing my parents, and in building the life I thought I was supposed to have. Who has time for things like world politics or the troops when you’re so busy arranging and rearranging the books on your shelves? Or having panic attacks about all the things you’re failing at? Because you’re striving to be perfect, for everyone, at everything, all the time.
"Do you always just say every single thing that enters your head?" I deflect.
"Why wouldn't I?"
"It's called a filter."
"Fuck polite society," he says, and the way that word falls from his lips makes something tighten low in my belly.
There's a raw honesty to him that's both infuriating and fascinating. In my world, everything is polished surfaces and careful words. No one ever says what they mean.
"Considering it's your safety on the line," he continues, "we play by horror movie rules. We never split up. Neither of us goes anywhere alone. And we only tell each other the absolute truth. No bullshit."
"So... radical honesty?" I ask, thinking of the psychological concept I've studied.
"Sure, if you gotta have a fancy name for it."
I can't help smiling a little. "Fine. I'll start now."
He looks at me expectantly. "Oh, this ought to be good."
I take a deep breath. The radically honest truth is, I find him overwhelmingly attractive and it terrifies me. But god knows I’ll never admit that.
"I don't have any choice but to have you around," I say instead. "We're obviously not the kind of people who would hang out with each other in the real world, so I don't see any reason for communicating more than necessary for the job at hand."
His expression darkens. "'Cause I'm just the help, right?"
"Uh, yeah. I'm paying you... to help."
He shakes his head as we reach the gate of my neighborhood. "You people are all the same."
My eyebrow arches. "You people?"
Then I shake my head and lean across him to wave at Bernard, the gate attendant, suddenly realizing I've invaded his personal space. The scent of him—leather and something uniquely male—is overwhelming.
"Sorry," I whisper, pulling back quickly.
"Gated community," Isaak mutters. "Of course."
I curl into myself, clutching my bag again. I want to explain that I'm not what he thinks, that I'm just as trapped in expectations as anyone else, and that I've spent my whole life trying to be perfect because anything less was unacceptable. But the words stick in my throat. Because I’ve gained enough self-awareness the last few years to know I am that girl. Rich. Entitled. Anxious and shy in a way that makes me come off as a snob. I’m exactly what he thinks I am. And I hate it.
"You don't like me very much, do you?" I ask softly as he pulls into my driveway.
"Is liking you a requirement of the job?"
"Why did you even take this job?"
He looks at me, really looks at me, and for a moment, I can't breathe.
"Money."
I push my door open, needing air, needing space from the intensity of his presence. I'm careful to close the truck door softly even though I want to slam it. Mrs. Samuelson hates loud noises after nine-thirty.
"Of course, it's for the money."
"Says the girl living in the gated community. This is from Mommy's money, isn't it?"
I want to deny it, but he's not wrong. My parents have always helped with my rent, even though Mrs. Samuelson gives them a discount as an old family friend.
"You don't know anything about me," I say, frustration building as I count the items in my purse to make sure nothing's missing. Keys, wallet, phone, hand sanitizer, tissues, pepper spray. Everything in its place.
"I know you're rich and you've finally run into trouble that all your money can't fix, or else you wouldn't have come to me."
His words hit home, and I hate that he's right. "I guess that's true," I admit reluctantly, then stare at him deadpan. If he’s clocked me as a bitch, I can lean in. "Sometimes you just need a big, dumb brute because no matter how civilized we've gotten, there are still people out there who can only think in terms of violence and intimidation."
He scoffs. "That's most of the world, lady."
I turn the key three times in the lock and then open the door, suddenly exhausted. "Why am I even talking to you? Didn't we decide that you're supposed to, like, stand in a corner and be silent?"
"Is that what the last guy did? Guess that's why he worked out so well."
His words sting because he's right again. Carol's man was perfectly silent, perfectly obedient—and perfectly spying on me and reporting my movements back to her every day.
"Do you ever shut up?" I ask as I finally get the door open, careful not to make noise that might disturb Mrs. Samuelson. I step over the threshold with my right foot first. It's a habit I've had since childhood.
"Sure," he says, but his eyes remain fixed on me.
"Stop it."
"Stop what?"
"Stop looking at me." I arrange my keys, wallet, and phone on the entry table, making sure they're perfectly parallel to the edge.
He smiles, just a little. "Pretty sure that's my job here."
"You're supposed to be watching the perimeter."
His eyes track slowly down my body, then back up. "Oh, I've got eyes on the perimeter."
Heat rushes through me, pooling low in my belly. I've never been looked at like that—like I'm something to be devoured. Drew certainly never looks at me that way.
I push past the kitchen into the small living room stuffed with books, Isaak following close behind. "This is intolerable. Domhn's got to find someone else."
He laughs, crossing those ridiculously huge, muscled arms over his chest. "He doesn't trust anybody but me. You heard him."
His voice booms, and Mrs. Samuelson's dog starts yapping upstairs.
"Have you ever heard of whispering?" I hiss, impulsively hitting his shoulder with my fist. It's like punching a wall. "I have an elderly neighbor upstairs."
"Good," he says, barely lowering his volume. "Did she hear anything the night of the break-in?"
I glare at him, frustration boiling over. "Weren't we just talking about finding a replacement for you? Domhn's got to know somebody else. Anybody else. I can't stand you, and you can't stand me. This is impossible. There's no way this is going to work."
A crash comes from somewhere in the apartment.
Before I can think, I all but leap into Isaak’s arms.