Chapter 3

CHAPTER THREE

BEAU

This is bad. So, so bad. Killian's pumped up, ready to…terminate someone. That's who he reminds me of. The Terminator. Fantastic. We've moved from aliens to time travel. I jab a finger into his chest. "Be cool."

His mouth twitches, and that's endearing as hell. Not the Terminator then. But theories can wait because the NOPD will break down my door. Ask me how I know.

I yank on the door several times before it opens. Two officers stare back at me. One I don't recognize. The other, I do. Jackson is inching on thirty with a saggy middle and a patchy beard covering pockmarked cheeks. His hand is in the air, mid-pound. "Hey, Officer Jackoff, how's it hanging?"

His glare used to bother me. "We've had a complaint."

The other officer is young. A rookie. Red hair and a pert nose. Her eyes are huge as she stares at me. Great, my reputation proceeds me. But honestly? How could it not?

Then, her gaze darts behind me. Killian. I resist the urge to check. As long as he stays cool, we'll be fine.

The crunch of tires alerts me to another squad car in my drive. Unbelievable.

I ignore the other car for now and focus on Officer Jackass. "Is there a problem, Frank?"

"It's Officer Jackson. And the problem is your friend ."

The way he stresses the word tells me everything I already know. Homophobic asshole. Killian puffs up. I can't see him. I just know. I need to stop this train wreck before the other officers make it to the door.

I feel Killian behind me before he even speaks. "Beau, step aside."

His low growl is predatory, and the hair on the back of my neck stands straight up. He's going to get us killed. Jackson would love an excuse to shoot me.

"Just a sec, Officer Jackson , m'kay?" I hold my fingers close together so he knows I won't be long before I turn my attention to Killian. Giving the NOPD my back isn't a smart move, but this man I don't even know seems to be the bigger threat. I catch his eyes. "I've got this," I say low and firm. "Stand down."

We stare at each other for a long while. At least, it feels long. Footsteps crunch on the pavement as the other officer—thank God, just one—gets closer. I can't keep this from going sideways, but maybe I can mitigate the damage. First, I need Killian to do as I ask.

As I intensify my glare, he releases a breath, the fight leaving his body. Not entirely. If they threaten me at all, I have no doubt Killian will act first and ask questions later. Warmth centers in my chest. When was the last time anyone fought for me? Not for a long time, that's for damn sure.

"Beau, get your ass out here right the fuck now."

But someone fighting with me? Happens all the time. I know without turning around that they've called out the big guns. The chief of police. Fantastic.

I give Killian a warning look. He cannot do this right now. Then, I turn to face the new threat. "Morning?—"

"Don't start that shit with me, Beau," she says, stepping through the doorway without an invitation. Her frizzy blonde hair struggles to free itself from her bun, and I empathize with its bid for freedom. "Why is a naked man roaming the neighborhood. And why the fuck are you always the one involved?" Her voice rises on each word until she's yelling in my face.

I don't react, keeping my features impassive. It's not difficult. I've had twenty-five years of practice. "Nice to see you too, Mom."

Killian shifts and the movement registers without me looking at him. He's less worried. As if the threat is gone. He couldn't be further from the truth.

"We had it handled, Chief," Officer Jackoff says, stepping inside. "You didn't need to come down."

She turns on him. God, I know that look. He cowers immediately and the new deputy squeaks in surprise. "Go."

They scamper away as quickly as they can. Mom studies Killian with hard eyes. She barely glances at me as she closes the door. "Now, Beau, what the fuck is going on?"

Jesus. This isn't what I need today. Or any day. "Don't you have criminals to put away? Bribes to take?"

She widens her stance and her hands settle on her hips. Too close to her gun for my peace of mind. That stare could wrangle a confession out of anyone. That's how she found out her ex-boyfriend tried to hit on me. She cut him loose faster than a high-priced lawyer springs a member of Congress charged with solicitation. You don't mess with Coco Tremere's son. I'd like to think my mom is fiercely protective. But she has an image to uphold, and I've messed that up more times than I can count.

She smiles and a cold sweat breaks out on my skin. "Just be honest, Beau. Did you drag this guy home from a party?"

"He didn't?—"

She glares at Killian, and he swallows his words. I jump between them. "It's fine, Killian. I've got this."

"It is not fine, Beauregard Tremere. It's as far from fine as you can possibly get."

The music, which I managed to tune out until now, surges, and Mom throws up her hands. "Alexa, turn off the fucking music."

"I'm sorry. I don't understand." The robotic voice reminds me of Killian, and I hold back a snicker as I punch a command in my phone. The music stops, but somehow, the quiet is worse. Not that it will last.

"I'm still waiting for an answer," Mom says, her eyes shooting daggers at Killian. "Who is this…man?"

The disdain dripping from her voice pushes me over the edge. I'm done. Jamming my hands on my hips, I give her the same glare she's giving him. "He's not your type, Mom. Not nearly mean enough."

She presses her fingers into her forehead. That look is also familiar. I've gotten it a lot. Most recently, when I told her I quit my job at the university to work in the French Quarter.

"Beau, I swear to fucking God, you're going to put me in an early grave. I'm giving you a chance to explain, but hell, I already know what this is. You worked the bar last night. Partied. Brought a rando to my house?—"

"Technically, my house."

"And," she continues, glaring at me while jabbing a finger in Killian's direction, "after fucking my son, this guy decides to roam the neighborhood, naked and high. I'm getting calls, Beau. And not just the neighbors. My son having a naked man roaming the streets and digging in his yard doesn't play well with the media or the mayor."

There it is. The real reason she's here. And then her words register. Was Killian digging in my yard? I didn't notice any dirt on his hands or holes in the yard. I tuck that detail away for later. "Gee, Mom. Sorry I'm such a burden."

If she'd been worried a naked man was breaking into the house, that might have made a difference. But no. As always, she's worried about her job. About how it looks. Same old argument. We're stuck in a loop. Like that movie Groundhog Day. Always repeating this moment. This conversation. No matter what.

Bill Murray made it out.

"Your assumptions are incorrect," Killian says, taking his life into his own hands.

"Did I ask you to speak?" Her gaze shifts to the shirt he's wearing—my Fortnite shirt. She waves her hands with an exasperated sigh. "Where are your clothes?"

"Jesus, Mom. Leave the guy alone."

"This is just like you. Always?—"

"I don't know."

On a different day, in a different situation, I might be able to laugh at the way my mom's eyes try to take over her face. Sweet, innocent Killian has no idea how dangerous it is to interrupt the chief of police. Coco Tremere. My mother.

Her face clouds over. Her eyes stormy. "Get the fuck out."

I jump between my mom and my…guest. "You can't kick him out. He's my friend"—okay, stretching it a bit—"and, as we've established, this is my house."

"Right. Because you pay rent?" She raises an eyebrow.

Note to self: pay this month's rent. And last's. "The point is, this is my residence, and you can't tell me who can and can't be here."

"Maybe you should reread the rental agreement," she mutters as she pushes me not-so-gently aside. "Let's hear your story, kid. Although I must be honest, it's not easy to take you seriously when you're wearing the shirt I bought my video game-obsessed son when he was a teen."

"You bought me that shirt last year."

"And you're twenty, so…"

"Five. I'm twenty-five," I say, wedging myself between them.

She likes to pretend I'm younger so she can tell herself I'm just figuring things out instead of acknowledging that I quit a good job at the university and now work part-time at a bar and a Taco Bell. She doesn't have a clue that I was forced out. Or why. And if I have any choice in the matter, she never will.

My goal is to lie low, finish my research, and eat free tacos.

Killian's fingers wrap around my biceps. He gently—more gently than my mom—moves me aside. "I don't know who I am or how I came to be here. I'm still processing?—"

"Processing." Mom snorts. "Sure. How long are you sticking to that story, pretty boy? I need to get back before Jackson spreads his own version around the station."

"Then I suggest you leave now. If my memory returns, Beau can let you know. Or, since you're the police chief, you could help us."

Mom stares, and I wait for the explosion. "Jesus, you're an arrogant little shit."

"Arrogance requires self-awareness."

Her eyes dart to me. "Where the hell did you find this guy?"

"On my doorstep," I say. I check my antique pocket watch that used to belong to my father. "Forty-three minutes ago. Naked as a jaybird. But I agree with Killian. Either help us or go back to work."

Mom scowls and grabs her phone. Pushing her might not be the best idea. "Wilson? Pull the missing person files. Check for a male, six-four, about"—he glances at Killian—"two hundred pounds. Brown hair. Eyes…"

"Green," I say.

She furrows her brow but doesn't respond. "Eyes green," she says to Wilson. "Any distinguishing marks? Tattoos?" she asks Killian. He stares blankly, and her gaze shifts to me.

Right. "Not that I noticed." My face heats.

"Can you check?"

Now my face is flaming hot. "Are you serious?"

"I agree with your mom," Killian says, nodding. "You could only see the front of me, and most of the time, your eyes were focused on my?—"

"Okay, fine."

I grab his arm and yank him toward the kitchen before he can finish that sentence. Thankfully, he goes without a fight because he's a big guy.

"Don't go too far," Mom says like I'm nine again and we're exploring Yellowstone.

I ignore her and pull Killian through the kitchen and into the next room. It used to be a dining room, but now it's my work area. The shelves are full of books, various specimens, and bones. Is it too late to take him to another room? I turn, but my words dry up. Killian is pulling his shirt off, exposing his hard abs. There's dark hair dusted across his chest and his nipples… I swallow the want clogging my throat.

How is he sexier now than when he was full-on naked?

He pulls the shirt completely off and his gaze meets mine. "Is there a problem?"

I shake my head and wave my hand for him to continue, trying not to get distracted by the perfect V of his abs pointing down like a flashing arrow. This way. And hell, I'm losing it.

But this is why we're here. And I give the man points for credibility. If he was afraid of what I'd find, this is the last thing he'd agree to. He pulls the joggers off, and his body is on full display. I saw it not even an hour ago. But this is different. More intimate.

"Ready?" he asks, and I nod.

I need to get this over with. If my mom wasn't in the next room, armed, I might take my time and enjoy examining his smooth, silky skin.

My fingers are on him before I can talk myself out of it. I start at his hands, examining his long fingers. No calluses. I expected calluses. His palm. His lifeline is long, broken by a jagged line. Not that I believe in reading palms, but my ex-boyfriend taught me, and it's been useful later for picking up guys. Even the most closeted guys can't hide their reactions when I brush my fingers down their lifelines. Killian inhales sharply and blinks. The impulse to kiss his palm is hard to resist. Trace the line with my tongue. Bite the meaty part… What in the hell is wrong with me?

I shake off the lust as best I can and check the back of his hand. Nothing but a fine dusting of hair, which is sexy as hell. He holds out his other hand and I give it the same treatment, though with fewer porny thoughts. I move on to his arms. I'm a sucker for strong forearms and…wrists.

I haven't hooked up with someone in months. Is that the problem?

"Arms up," I say, clearing my throat.

It doesn't help. My voice is still rough.

He stretches his arms up and folds his hands behind his head. Like he's on display. For me. Dark hair under his armpits. His chest rising and falling as he breathes. His nipples are tight nubs. Is he cold? Or feeling this too? I could check. His cock is there between us, but I keep my gaze north. For sanity reasons.

I don't see anything useful. Well, nothing to help identify him. But I move on to touching. I don't technically need to, but I want to be thorough. This guy could be hiding something. A weapon? A listening device of some sort?

Barely a month after I left the university, I was robbed. They didn't find what they were looking for—that wasn't exactly the truth, just my official statement—but my mom was on my case for weeks. I need to stay focused. There's so much I still don't know.

My fingers skirt down his sides with barely any reaction from him. Not ticklish then. I tuck that information away.

God, his body is exquisite. And I'm not being dramatic. As if someone said, Hey, let's make the perfect specimen of a male body . And then they nodded and said, This is good. My work here is done .

I stop my hands from going lower than his hip bones, but his belly button intrigues me. Perfect. Almost too perfect. Whisps of dark hair trail down, and I want nothing more than to follow that path to the treasure below. I close my eyes. Jesus. This guy needs answers and I'm perving on him.

Figure out your crap, Beau.

I pull in a lungful of air and slowly let it out as I examine the area surrounding his belly button. Something seems off, but I can't figure it out. I trace the inside of his left thigh and my finger brushes over something raised. I can't see anything, but when I push the area, Killian gasps. My eyes dart to check his reaction.

But not his face. And I'm not proud of that fact. His dick is right there. Filling. Getting harder. Now I check his face. His eyes are green pools of desire. But mixed in are questions. Questions he voices aloud.

"What are you doing?"

"Nothing."

I move to stand, but his hand grips my shoulder, holding me in place. His fingers move to the back of my head. His touch gentle. Firm. And my body thinks it's playtime.

"I'm sorry, Beau." His voice reminds me of fine whiskey. Dark. Smokey. Decedent. "I can't have sex with you."

"No"—but really, God, yes—"I found something."