Masters at Arms (Rescue Me Saga, #0.5)(15)
Karla giggled. She’d never made that kind before, but she’d learn. For her Adam. Maybe she could send him an MP3 recording of her singing. Her music teacher wanted to record demo tapes for her and another student to send to college admissions offices.
“Why don’t you write down your address for me, too?” She looked up. He wanted to write to her? “I probably won’t get around to writing very often, but I’ll write when I can.”
Karla scribbled down her address on the next sheet and tore it off to hand to him. She wished Adam would hug her, but he’d been very careful not to get anywhere near her since she’d made a fool of herself on the porch.
But what if she never saw him again?
Karla wouldn’t risk never getting to feel her arms around him one more time. She closed the space between them and slipped her arms around his narrow waist. His sides felt like steel bands and his heart beat fast against her cheek.
“I’m going to miss you, Adam.”
Just when she was about to let go, thinking he wouldn’t hug her back, she felt his arms surround her and pull her into his heated warmth.
Safe. Protected.
Adam. He’d always be her hero.
Section Two
Prequel to Damián’s Story, Nobody’s Perfect
September 2003, La Jolla, California
“Hey, boy!”
Damián Orlando looked up from bussing one of the isolated booths along the wall of the hotel restaurant to see some rich-looking dude at the booth in the corner waving at him. He did a slow burn at the condescending way the man in the white suit addressed him, but smiled as he’d been trained to do.
In the booth next to the man sat the most gorgeous blonde he’d ever seen. She reminded him of his little sister’s Malibu Barbie doll—the one he’d decapitated accidentally while they were playing dragons and princesses as kids.
Her pale skin looked fragile enough to break, like his grandmother’s china. She pursed her cherry-red lips. He’d enjoy kissing the lipstick off her full, sexy mouth. The thought of those full lips sucking his…
“When you’re finished ogling my…date, would you mind asking our server to bring us the top-shelf wine list?”
The Barbie doll looked up at him and he saw the apology in her sad blue eyes. What did she have to apologize for? Her date was the jerk-off.
He looked at the man and clenched his fists. Fucking jerk-off. Damián smiled. “Yes…sir.”
What was she doing with such an *? He shook his head. Understanding crazy rich people wasn’t what he got paid for. He turned away from their table, happy to hide his hard-on.
“You didn’t have to encourage him, slut.” The man’s hate-filled whisper carried across the nearly empty room.
“I didn’t…”
“Just shut up. If you mess up this deal for us…”
Damián felt himself doing a slow burn. What the hell gave the jerk the right to talk to her that way? And why didn’t she tell him to f*ck himself up the ass? Hell, Damián had needed no encouragement to stare at her. She was freakin’ perfection. But she’d kept her eyes down the entire time he’d ogled her, until right at the end anyway.
Stay out of it, man. You can’t get into trouble again.
Damián went out to the patio and found their server schmoozing with some exec from a modeling agency. They’d approached Damián to model for them, too, but he wasn’t interested. All the other restaurant staff were looking for a way out of poverty. He was just happy to have a steady job with predictable hours—and to be out of juvie.
He glanced out at the ocean and breathed in the salty air. The cool evening breeze felt good against his skin. He’d been cooped up in juvie so long, he’d thought his soul had rotted. Now he spent his days cooped up in the restaurant. He was long overdue for a drive up the coast. Laguna Beach always settled him when he got restless.
After getting the server back inside, Damián followed. The dark wood paneling closed in around him again in an instant. While the white tablecloths, fresh flowers, and glowing hurricane-lamps on each of the tables and booths helped to lighten the room some, he couldn’t figure out why someone would choose to dine inside on such a beautiful Southern California evening. He’d be out on the patio waiting for the sun to set—if he could afford to eat in a place like this.
Damián picked up the dish bin and glanced at the Barbie doll. A tear ran down her jaw as she fiddled with her fork. His gut churned as he turned toward the kitchen. That man had made her cry. His sister Rosa had been verbally humiliated that way by her now ex-husband. Then the man had become violent.
Rosa had come close to being put in her grave before Damián had forced her to move into his apartment. When Julio had come after her, Damián had punched his teeth out—and earned himself two years in juvie for his effort. But he’d do it again. No woman should ever be disrespected like that.
“Keep a low profile and mind your own business, if you know what’s good for you.” The words of his social worker focused his mind where it belonged. He walked into the kitchen and loaded the dirty dishes into the racks. He sure as hell wasn’t going to interfere for a total stranger. Even if her shithead date deserved to be pummeled for his remarks, he knew the man’s money would get Damián’s ass locked up so fast, his head would spin. At nineteen, the key would be conveniently thrown down a sewer hole this time.