The Mercenary Next Door (Rogues and Rescuers Book 2), page 2
Turning on her TV for the company, she finished her meal…alone. Again.
Mason cracked a lid, hyperaware he wasn’t alone. He sat bolt upright in bed, surprised to find it was morning.
He hadn’t meant to crash right after getting home. Mason had planned on ordering a pizza and watching some porn to round out the night, but the jet lag took him down before he could decide on toppings.
Now it was daylight, and someone was in his apartment. He listened carefully, pulling his hand away from the bedside table, where he kept his gun safe.
It’s just Laila. He’d forgotten to text her to let her know he was back.
After rolling out of bed, he went to the stairs that led to the living room. He could hear her moving around, humming along to whatever music was pumping through her earbuds.
And there she was, appearing from behind his blood orange tree…wearing nothing but skin-tight yoga pants and the tiniest tank top he had ever seen.
His lips parted as she set down the sprayer he used on his orchids. He’d never seen Laila wearing so little. Mason typically saw her dressed for school, or on her way to work in the plain green polo and beige pants the store used as a uniform.
She’d always struck him as modest, or at least painfully shy—too shy ever to show any skin. And right now, she thought she was alone, which was why she was dancing around like no one was watching.
His lips lifted at the corners as she twirled unexpectedly, her creamy coffee curves highlighted by the bright sunlight streaming through the windows.
Laila reached out, touching one of the rounded oranges hanging from his tree. As she closed her eyes, her surprisingly lush lips parted as she bent and inhaled, drawing in the citrus scent.
Well, fuck. Mason could feel himself swelling as she patted and caressed the fruit. Then she moved on, picking up the watering can while humming a tune he didn’t recognize. Pivoting on her heel, she turned to face the stairs, opening her eyes. Screaming, she dropped the watering can.
“Hey,” Mason said, unable to stop his slow grin.
Laila pulled the earbuds from her ears with a quick jerk.
“Hi!” she said in a loud voice, her golden-brown eyes wide.
She quickly glanced down and then up, color staining her cheeks. Mason rubbed the back of his neck, belatedly realizing he was wearing nothing but a snug pair of boxer briefs that left little to the imagination.
For a moment, he contemplated going for a pair of pants, but, in the end, he shrugged and stood his ground. People wore less on the beach.
“I got back late last night. I meant to text you, but I forgot. Sorry about that.”
Still blushing, Laila cleared her throat. She picked up the watering can, twisting and spilling water on the floor.
“Here.” Mason went down the steps, going to the kitchen to fish a towel out of one of the cabinets. He handed her the towel. She took it without looking at him, and he realized how fucking rude he was being. The girl was ready to bolt out the door.
“I’ll be right back,” he said, hurrying upstairs for pants, kicking himself for embarrassing her. He also dug around his room for the cash he owed her, but he came up short.
Mason hurried back down, pulling a plain t-shirt on over his jeans. He thrust his hand out, offering her the cash just as she was about to bolt out the front door.
“I need to hit a cash machine later, but here’s a down payment on what I owe you.”
She turned around, peeking at him from under her lashes. “You don’t need to rush. I can wait for it.”
“It’s not a problem. I’m going to be running errands all day, getting restocked.” Turning, he caught sight of the fruit tree. “And by all means, take the oranges. They look ripe. I’m sure you’ll make better use of them than I can.”
He’d just eat them. But Laila could turn them into something mouthwatering.
She was about to refuse the offer, but he forestalled her argument by picking the oranges himself. He stacked them in her arms.
“You can return the key later,” he told her.
“Sure thing,” she said, struggling to hold onto the fruit. He opened the door for her, debating taking them back. But he didn’t want to risk touching her bare arms. Something told him skin-to-skin contact would be a bad idea. Instead, he ushered her out and shut the door behind her.
An orange rolled out of her arms and hit her foot. Accidentally kicking it further, she sighed, convinced Mason thought she was an idiot.
That’s because you are one.
In her defense, nothing would have prepared her for the sight of the man in his underwear. Those abs alone were worth the price of admission. Who could blame her for gawking? Sure, there were plenty of attractive people in the world. Supposedly they were crawling all over Los Angeles. According to the gossip blogs, a rock couldn’t be thrown without hitting a model or a starlet in this town, but Laila didn’t travel in those circles. Despite living here for years, she’d never seen a celebrity, with the possible exception of Mark Ruffalo at an environmental rally. At least she thought it had been the actor, but she wasn’t a hundred percent sure.
Nudging the fallen orange inside with her foot, she let herself into her cramped apartment. Her tiny studio was wedged into the corner of the building. It boasted a small, high window so that even on the brightest day, it was always dark. That was why she used a halogen lamp, even in the afternoon.
Gathering the fruit on the counter, she bent and took a deep sniff. Their fragrance had been teasing her for weeks, the scent more powerful than any fruit she bought in the store.
Laila had some time before her shift at the grocery store, enough to make something special with Mason’s gift.
I can give it to him when I return his key. The key exchange was part of the routine…
Lips pursed, she wondered why that was the case. Mason was unfailingly polite, but the one time she’d suggested holding onto his spare key, so they wouldn’t have to keep passing it back and forth, he’d shut her down, albeit it in the nicest way possible. But that was his right. It was his space, and he was protective of it.
Pulling out her industrial-sized bag of flour, she washed and cut the fruit, excited beyond reason to find they were blood oranges. Oh yes, she was going to make something special with these…
Chapter Three
Mason had hit the gym, the bank, and the grocery store before the incipient jet lag hit him, forcing him to head back to his place. He fell asleep on his couch, basking in the warm sun and the familiar smells of his apartment.
Perhaps that was what woke him—a new aroma that made him ravenous. Then something brushed past him. He shot up, rolling and taking the intruder down with him.
Laila’s muffled gasp was cut off as he ground her into the carpet in between his couch and coffee table.
“I’m sorry,” she cried, throwing her hands up to ward off a blow.
“Laila,” he hissed, blinking rapidly, realizing with a start that his arm was drawn back to strike.
Fuck. If he’d hit her, he would have smashed every delicate bone in her face.
Slowly, he put his arm down. “What are you doing here? How did you get inside?”
She gulped, her chest heaving underneath him. “I didn’t think you were at home. When I knocked, you didn’t answer, so I assumed you were still out running errands.”
Lifting her arm, she pointed at his coffee table. “I was leaving your key and the cake I made with the oranges. I—I thought you weren’t home,” she repeated, stuttering slightly.
Adrenaline was still coursing through him, but he tried to get ahold of himself. “Did I hurt you?” he asked, studying her critically as if peering into her eyes would tell him if she had a head injury.
“N-No.” Laila was still staring up at him. She cleared her throat. “I, uh, just had the wind knocked out of me.”
He paused, gazing down at her. Her heart was thrumming like a hummingbird. He could feel it beating far too fast for his peace of mind.
He could also feel other things, like his own arousal, which was rapidly going from half-mast to rock hard.
Laila wasn’t even trying to be provocative. She was wearing her grocery store uniform for fuck’s sake. Compared to the yoga pants and tank top, it was shapeless and boxy, but that didn’t seem to matter because now he could feel each one of her curves pressed against him.
To make matters worse, Laila smelled of sugar and vanilla. It made him want to open his mouth against that cinnamon skin to swallow her whole. Or at least lick her up and down.
Snapping out of it, he climbed off her, pulling her to her feet as he went. Once she was standing, he gave her another once over
“Are you sure you’re not hurt?” He checked her back for bruises, then moved in front of her to flex her wrists.
“I’m sure,” she said, looking up at him with huge honey-brown eyes. He’d never gotten this close, which was why he’d never noticed those little gold flecks in them before.
“Again, I’m so sorry. I would have never come inside if I thought you were home…” She ducked her head, stepping away.
It was only two feet, but Mason could feel her withdrawal like a punch to the gut. Her posture, the way she was physically drawing in on herself, told the story.
“You’re afraid of me,” he whispered. “Shit, I’m sorry. I didn’t mean to scare you.”
“I’m not scared,” she assured him, her eyes skittering to his face and then away.
Wincing, he swore under his breath. “Fuck, again, I am so sorry. It’s a hazard of the job. Some of the places I sleep in aren’t always secure. When you brushed past me, I reacted.”
She nodded a little too quickly. “As I said, I shouldn’t have come in here without permission. I know better than to sneak up on a soldier.” Her shoulders drew up, and she gave him a forced smile. “That is what you do, right?”
Well, he was wearing an old pair of fatigues. It was only natural she put two and two together.
“I was a soldier. Now I work for a private security firm. That’s why I go overseas a lot. The missions I pull take me all over the world.”
A small line formed between her brows. “Like a Blackwater-type job?”
He wanted to groan aloud. Of course she’d know that name. And it didn’t bode well, given how the company was portrayed in the media.
“Auric isn’t like the outfits you’ve heard about. The type of work I do involves protecting people. The last mission was a K & R.”
“What is that?”
“Kidnap retrieval. My team went in to extract to an oil exec and his wife from a hostage situation. We got them home to their three little girls.”
“Oh.” She blinked. “Wow.”
Mason had never tried to justify what he did before, not to anyone. He wasn’t ashamed of the work, but he knew how some people saw his kind. Mercenary was a dirty word in certain mouths. And this was Laila.
He hadn’t realized until now that her opinion mattered to him so much. Enough for him to try to paint himself as a hero in her eyes—whatever he needed to undo the damage caused by throwing her to the ground like a maniac.
“That’s amazing. Those people got to go home to their kids because of you,” she added, giving herself a little shake. “But I, um, I should get going. My shift starts soon.”
Nodding like a marionette, he let her go. But long after she was gone, he kept replaying the way she left, backing away as if afraid to take her eyes off him…because he was a threat.
Chapter Four
Laila looped her infinity scarf around her neck one more time, trying to draw it high enough to cover her ears. The nights were colder now than when it had been raining. But she had to be out here. It had been over a week since she last took a shift with the Night Witches, the group she helped found when she was an undergraduate at the school.
Named after a famous group of Soviet aviatrixes, their version had been created after she and Rosamie found one of their classmates passed out on the lawn halfway between the frats and their dormitory. Banding together with a few other girlfriends, they spread the word—anyone partying on campus could text them to get walked back to their dorm room at any time, no questions asked. The girls who volunteered worked in pairs, sometimes arranging to pick up a certain person in advance. They were a regular and unpopular sight on Greek Row, the street where the fraternities and sororities owned their houses.
Despite the fact she wasn’t an undergrad anymore and lived off-campus, Laila still tried to volunteer at least once a month—twice if her schedule allowed.
It was just her luck she’d chosen what had to be the coldest night of the year. If anyone had told me I’d be freezing in L.A., I would have laughed in their faces.
Laila had grown up in Chicago. After eighteen years of chilly autumns and frigid winters, she initially laughed at what passed for fall and winter in California, but, five years later, it was as if her blood had thinned to the point where she was always cold.
“You’re quiet tonight,” Rosamie observed, walking beside her with her hands in the pockets of her faux-fur bomber jacket.
“Sorry,” she apologized, aware she hadn’t been very animated. Being out with Rosamie or their other friend Jasmine was one of the things that made the Night Witches enjoyable, even fun most of the time.
“I’ve had a lot on my mind.”
“Is it your mom?” Rosamie asked, concern wrinkling her rounded features.
“No, although she’s not great.” Laila’s stepmother was her only family. Joyce James suffered from a case of progressive dementia. She was currently in a home in the Chicago suburbs, close to the siblings who had never really accepted Laila as one of their own. “I spoke to her yesterday, and she was fine…at first. But she became confused and hung up on me after ten minutes.”
That was how Laila judged her mother’s state of mind—by how long Joyce stayed on the phone. Her dad’s life insurance money ensured his second wife had the care she needed, which was a relief, even if it meant Laila had to pay her own way through school.
“Is that shorter than normal?”
A corner of Laila’s mouth pulled down. There had been a time when she would have spent more than two hours on the phone with her stepmother. “A bit shorter, but only a few minutes.”
The call before had lasted a quarter of an hour, but this kind of fluctuation had happened before. Laila knew better than to count the seconds. However, the overall downward trend was distressing.
But she can bounce back. It had happened before, and Laila lived in hope.
“Are you going to visit her this Christmas?” Rosamie asked.
Guilt weighing down her steps, Laila shook her head. “I can’t afford the airfare if I’m going to pay for this year’s classes.” She was more than halfway through her associate degree, but she was struggling to make ends meet. The books she’d had to buy for this quarter had wiped out her reserves.
“That sucks. But you’re always welcome at my place!” Rosamie was local. Laila had spent many a holiday with her big and boisterous Filipino family.
“I would love to go. If I don’t have to work, of course.” Since she couldn’t afford to go home for the holidays, she was often scheduled to cover the holiday hours. But she appreciated the invitation, nonetheless.
“If it’s not your mom, what’s got you down?”
Laila stopped halfway down the path to Greek Row. “I, um, I had a run-in with my neighbor.”
“What did that old fart say to you this time?”
“It wasn’t Mr. Tran. I meant Mason.”
Rosamie’s eyes bugged out. “You mean Mr. Marvelous? He’s back in town?”
Laila nodded. “I didn’t even realize he was home. I was watering his plants, and he came out of his bedroom in his underwear.”
Rosamie whistled. “Was it awesome?”
Laila tipped her head back to take in the night sky. She could compare Mason’s beauty to the stars, but they couldn’t see them. Too much light pollution.
“Yes,” she said, drawing out the word. “In the most literal sense of the word. He was magnificent…”
She trailed off, lost in the memory of all those glorious muscles.
“Did you stare at him too long, and it got weird?” Rosamie asked sympathetically. They’d been friends long enough to know that was a real possibility.
“No—I mean, yes. But also, no. He didn’t seem embarrassed. It was later that I made a mess of things. I came back when I thought he was gone to return his key and to leave him a little something I made.”
“Again?” Rosamie’s nose wrinkled. She didn’t approve of Laila’s penchant to bake things for Mason. Her friend thought it was too desperate—because it was. ‘The way to a man’s heart isn’t really through his stomach,’ she would say.
“I was making something for myself anyway,” Laila lied. “But I shouldn’t have let myself into his place with him back in town. He was there, but asleep. When I woke him, he—he sprang up and pinned me.”
Rosamie stopped short in the middle of the walkway. “What?” she screeched.
The scarf was starting to feel too tight against her neck. Laila tugged, loosening it. “He moved so fast. It was crazy—one second I was on my feet trying to sneak out without waking him; then, the next, I was on the floor with him on top of me.”
“I don’t know whether to be pissed at him or jealous of you.” Rosamie threw up her hand. “Both. I can be both. Did he hurt you?”
“No, I was just…shocked,” Laila said, prevaricating.
She was a small woman, and the impact had stung. But the thick carpet had protected her head from the worst of it. True, her back was sore today. However, it was the memory of Mason’s hard body over hers that she couldn’t get out of her mind. She was going to remember how he’d felt—his hard length pressed against her for a long time.
