28. Douchenozzle with a Side of Shit Stain
DOUCHENOZZLE WITH A SIDE OF SHIT STAIN
brAXTON
There’s pounding on the front door. Not knocking—knocking is normal.
This is ridiculous. So help me, I’m about to light somebody’s ass up.
I’m too tired for this shit, and Colt has had a hell of a day.
He’s been sleeping just long enough that I’m going to kill whoever wakes him.
I whip the door open and, if I weren’t so pissed, I’d have taken in the beautiful woman in front of me.
“Can I help you?” My voice might as well be a growl.
“Braxton?”
“Who’s asking?”
“Seriously?” With that, the blonde in front of me throws her hand onto her hips and juts out her chin—the international symbol that a woman is pissed right the hell off. “You’re a fucking prick!”
She taps the toe of some high-heeled sandal. That sets my teeth on edge. She’d be pretty if she weren’t an obvious bitch. Correction—she is pretty despite being a raging bitch.
“Lady, you’re on my porch, after dark, beating on my front door and waking up my… Regardless. I’ll show you me being a prick if you don’t get on with it.” I stare, waiting impatiently.
“I—” she begins.
I roll my wrist in a get on with it gesture and raise my eyebrows. When she says nothing more, I step back into my house and shut the door, only to see a hand reach in between it and the jamb.
“Stop! Don’t you shut that door in my face, Braxton Ranger, or there will be hell to pay.”
“Hell to pay? From you? That’s cute.”
“I am not a woman to be trifled with.”
I swear her spine straightens as she meets my gaze head-on.
“And you would be?”
“Emberleigh Carrington. Colt is my nephew.”
Well, fuck me sideways. The gorgeous blonde on my porch is the last person on earth I expected to see.
Probably because she’s the spitting image of her sister.
Long, tanned legs that I could easily picture wrapped around my back are evident below short jeans shorts.
I’d love to say I notice what else she’s wearing, but tall sandals and short shorts fry the wiring in my brain.
She moves her hand and pushes against the door as I try to make this dream stop its morph into a nightmare. I stare down at her hand.
Better than staring at those fucking legs.
When I click my gaze up to meet hers, I can see the hatred in her gray eyes.
She stands ramrod straight—a woman who’s confident in who she is.
But there’s more. You can see her breeding come to the fore.
Everything about her says she was born into money and was never withheld from.
She carries herself like a woman who won’t be denied.
It would be sexy as fuck if I weren’t so damn tired that I can’t see straight. It’s only been one day. One dang day with Colt and I’m already ready to bow down at the feet of mothers everywhere.
“Why are you here, Ember?”
“Emberleigh,” she corrects.
I knew I had it wrong, but I’m not looking to make a friend or even have a contact right now with my … would you call them in-laws? Not while all the legal stuff is being settled. Besides, they’re threatening court action.
“Yeah. So why are you here?” I square myself in the door and look down at her.
Her frown slides into a look of determination that I don’t like one little bit.
“Well, Braxton,” she begins, sarcasm dripping from her words. “It’s like this—”
At that second, Colt cries out from inside the house, and I turn, looking over my shoulder.
She takes that moment to push right past my side, under my arm, moving into my home as if I’d fucking invited her in.
She goes straight to where Colt is lying in the living room, dropping her leather bag on the floor near where he lies.
She scoops him up, cradling his head, and cooing in his ear, as she moves with him and comforts him, a well-performed dance borne of consistency and long-term intimacy.
His quivering bottom lip is still pouting and huge crocodile tears roll down his soft cheeks, but the crying stops almost immediately.
I’d be pissed if I weren’t so goddamn relieved.
“He’s wet,” she accuses. She looks around, but finds my gaze when her eyes don’t land on what she seeks. “Where’s his changing table?”
“On order. We’re working off the dining room table for now.” I nod to it, while continuing. “Why are you here?”
Emberleigh makes quick work of the diaper that was dry not ten minutes ago and leaves a dirty diaper ball on my table after another quick search leaves her not finding what she wants.
“I told you. Colt is my nephew. He’s my last physical connection to Emerson.” Her voice cracks a little, and she averts her eyes, before plopping into my recliner—my favorite seat in the house—and hiking Colt onto her shoulder, purring something in his ear.
“That’s all well and good, but, I repeat, why are you here?” I point to the tile floor in my living room. It’s as if she doesn’t grasp the question.
“I’m here because I need Colt, and he needs me. And you, Braxton Ranger, know not one damn thing about this boy, his schedule, or his little likes or dislikes. So I’m here to protect him.”
“I’m his father.”
“A father who never once laid eyes on his son in the first six months of his life.”
“I didn’t know he existed!” I throw my hands out in exasperation. How could I have been there when I didn’t know he was born?
“Wow. Father of the year right here.” She makes a point of motioning to me with her head, disdain evident on her face.
With that perfectly-landed barb, she kicks up the footrest on my recliner, turns her head, and pretends I don’t exist. She holds Colt until they’re both sound asleep.
What the fuck am I supposed to do with her?
And if that’s not enough, how do I protect my son from her interference? She looks like a kitten, but with that gutsiness and the money she has at her back, she must be formidable.
I need to protect Colt from her manipulation.
I need to protect myself from her beauty and cunning.
Emberleigh
I wake, cold and with a crick in my neck, and I must’ve been dreaming because I’d swear I heard a rooster.
Nope, no such luck. The rooster is real, and he wants everyone to know he’s seen the sun.
The cold has permeated my skin. Apparently, I’ve also been clenching my teeth for some time.
My jaws hurt, and my skin prickles. The pain in my neck is a persistent pinch on one side and a knot on the other.
The smells are all wrong. The sounds are wrong. Then memories flood back, and I know. I’m miles away from home, in Braxton Ranger’s house at the Ranger Ranch and horse farm. I’m with Colt. Though, he’s not in my arms where he was when I fell asleep.
I stretch and moan quietly. Everything hurts. My body aches. But mostly, my heart misses its twin and longs only to hold the last piece of her that’s left.
I rise and find a bathroom.
Snores from the door off the right of the living room catch my attention, and I know I have some time.
So, I tiptoe through the house looking for Colt.
My sweet boy. My heart. In my mind, I see his precious face and I know.
I need him as much as he needs me, and his father—I won’t call him dad—is stuck with me.
Come hell or high water, I’m here.
That is, until I can take him home.
I don’t see him in any of the other rooms. A cursory glance tells me that this home is not used for entertaining or for family gatherings.
One bedroom is all boxes. Of what, I don’t know.
Another is a home gym, but there’s dust on the equipment.
The room smells stale, practically accusing its master of not visiting for way too long.
The coffeepot in the kitchen gurgles and glugs as it brews, and the sun peeks through the blinds. I need coffee, but more so I need to brush my teeth and change my clothes.
My suitcase is in my car, as are my computer and some basic necessities.
I open the front door to grab my things and am immediately greeted by the whirring and screaming of an alarm system.
“Intruder alert” is on repeat as I close the door and search for the alarm panel.
I have no clue why. It’s not like I have the code or could even guess it, but I want the shrill siren to end.
That’s when I hear it... Colt’s wail, followed by a distinctive growl.
I turn to find Braxton in only basketball shorts, wide, bare chest on display, holding a screaming Colt in one hand, a pistol raised toward me in the other.
His shoulders drop when he sees me, as does his hand with the gun, but his eyes harden into granite as he grinds out, “Of course, it would be you.”
He moves to the kitchen and the beeps of an alarm ring out just before the high-pitched sirens stop.
Colt’s wails do not and watching him scared pinches my heart in pain.
“What the hell?” Braxton spits out.
“I needed something from my car.”
“And you think you can just come and go as you please? From my home?”
“I… Well, yes.”
“You’re wrong.” His jaw is set, the bump above his molars showing he’s grinding his teeth together. He walks to the fridge, grabbing a bottle, and begins to run it under hot water. He also rubs big strokes on Colt’s back, trying to soothe him. Trying being the operative word.
“Give him to me.” It’s heartfelt. My anger has abated with the madness of the morning.
“You’re out of your damn mind, woman.”
“I know him. I know his patterns. It’s his second morning out of his routine. New people, new places, new smells. I can smooth this over quickly.” I reach my arms out to Colt while seeking permission from Braxton. My boy leans chest first toward me, fists outstretched.
Braxton looks wary, and it’s obvious he doesn’t like it, but at Colt’s affirmation, he relents, hesitant though he may be.
He picks up the pistol he laid near the coffeepot and walks to the back of the house, before returning, yanking a tee down over his hard, muscled chest, and running a hand through his bed-tousled hair.
He grabs and fills a coffee mug and leans a hip on the counter, studying me as I check the temperature of the contents of the bottle on the inside of my wrist.
“What do you want?” It’s all he seems to ask me.
“Colt.”
“Not gonna happen.” His face is hard; his voice steely as he slams his mug on the kitchen counter, chipping an edge off the bottom of the cup, sending it flying.
“We’ll see about that.”
“I’ve had enough. You’re not welcome in my home. Get out.” He reaches for Colt, firmly planting him under his chin, grabs the bottle, and walks away, slamming the door to his bedroom behind him.
My sister always loved assholes. She liked them grunty, grumpy, and hot. Braxton Ranger is all three, plus he’s a douchenozzle with a side of shit stain.
I hate him.
But I’m not leaving.