Not So Prince Charming: A Dirty Fairy Tale Read online

  “Feelin’ your privileges now?” It’s a tacky and vicious thing to say, and I’m not jealous of Mia’s fairy tale. She deserves it, worked for it with the beast she calls her man, but I can’t help the shock of pain that goes through my gut at her ability to write a check like this and not give it a second’s thought.

  Mia stares at me with enough venom that I blush in embarrassment, looking down in shame. “Sorry, Mia. I know you didn’t mean it like that. And I’m glad you’re doing so well. You’re my hashtag-goals, you know that. Degree, a job you love, and a guy you adore.”

  “It’s okay,” Mia says gently, thawing a little. “Listen, babe, I get it. I remember the way kids used to bully you. I remember those busted ass hand-me-downs you wore through high school. I know why you didn’t go to prom, and I know why you still rode a bike to school after everyone else had their licenses. And as if that wasn’t enough, fate bitchslapped you again when your aunt died. You’ve struggled for so long, I think it’s just your normal. But this thing with Russell is different. And I’ve got the means to help.”

  “I feel more comfortable working for it, though,” I reply with finality. “Mia, I love you. You’re my number one girl—”

  “Your future wife’s gonna hate hearing that,” Mia teases, knowing about the drunken pact Charlotte and I made. I smile a little at the joke.

  “But I have to refuse this. It’s too damn much! And I’ve heard too many stories about friendships getting ruined over dollar amounts a lot less than this. I won’t risk us on that,” I say, pointing at the check.

  Before Mia can reply, I pick up her check and tear it in half, then in half again two more times before dropping the pieces in the glass of ice water that came with my Americano. Mia sadly watches the paper soak through and sink into the glass, then looks up at me.

  “I was going to drink that,” she deadpans.

  “Didn’t you just say you’ve got stupid money? I’m sure you can afford another glass of free ice water,” I joke, grinning. “You mad?”

  “I can’t be mad at you for long,” Mia says, leaning back. “But I want you to promise that if Russell amps up his stupidity, you’ll reconsider. You can’t pay anyone back if you’re dead because some junkie got grabby hands for your cash or your other assets.”

  It’s probably the reason she and I are best friends, because as I look her over, you wouldn’t know she’s getting married to one of the richest guys on the West Coast. She’s still the same Mia she was a few months ago, with a green streak and red tips in her hair, a T-shirt for some Korean boy band, and ripped jeans.

  If there’s any difference in her lately, it’s that she’s got a little bit of a happy glow to her . . . probably from all the bedroom gymnastics she’s getting up to, because I know she’s not pregnant. Her Papa would have a heart attack if his princess so much as hinted at a pregnancy out of wedlock.

  We drink our coffees, and as she finishes her latte, Mia smacks her lips. “By the way, I heard you un-godmothered me.”

  “Well, Vash doesn’t quite fit the penthouse lifestyle. I promise you, give her a week, and she’d end up in Thomas’s office or something, leaving a hairball on his desk blotter.”

  “Yeah, well, she’s still my fur baby,” Mia says before pivoting in that sudden, not-quite-sneaky but disconcerting way she has. “Which is why you need to learn to defend yourself.”

  Most people would say she’s being mean, sucker punching . . . but I know her. I know the way she thinks, and there’s a connection in her mind that most people just aren’t seeing. And this is definitely another seed Charlotte planted.

  “Why?”

  “To defend my fur baby!” she exclaims, and then she smirks. “Oh, and you too.”

  “Ah,” I reply, lifting my cup for a refill. “What are you saying, I should get some pepper spray?”

  “Pepper spray isn’t a good idea. Vashy could get into it and lick the tip or something,” Mia says, assured in her correctness. “Can you imagine that poor cat with her tongue hanging out, numb and burning from what she just licked?”

  “Probably what Thomas looks like most evenings,” I reply, laughing.

  She grins, then grows serious. “Seriously, Char told me she mentioned you should learn how to handle a gun. It might not be a bad idea. Hopefully, you’d never have to use it, but just in case. Papa taught me how to handle one. If I were in your situation, I’d at least consider it.”

  “But I have Vash to protect me,” I reply weakly, knowing I’m fighting a losing battle with my besties. “She’s a trained scratcher.”

  She glares at me, compelling me to take this issue seriously.

  “Fine,” I say, crumbling. “I’ll look into it.” But I know I’m not going to, still resisting even as I half-promise nothing.

  “And you’ll take this,” Mia says, holding out a folded-over pile of bills. “No arguments, and if you say no, I’m giving it to Charlotte’s arms dealer buddy anyway. Take it and make sure you get a quality piece and learn how to use it.”

  I grumble but take the wad of cash. I still don’t want a gun, but this seems like the lesser of two evils considering the big check she tried to give me. I realize she played me like a damn pro, knowing she’d win either way. I’d take the big loan or the money for the gun, but I can’t turn them both down.

  And I am scared, in denial and full of wishful thoughts that Russell will OD before the next payment is due but fearful about the dangers his presence brings my life. I think about going home late after my Saturday double, the street dark and quiet, no one around but me and Russell hiding around the side of my house.

  Or worse, in my house. He’s threatened that before too.

  “Okay, but I’m giving you a receipt and change on this.”

  Chapter 8

  Isabella

  It’s Friday, and by a miracle of scheduling and Shelley’s generosity since she knows I have a double tomorrow, I have the full afternoon off.

  Taking advantage of it, I drive over to Roseboro Arms, which sounds a lot more like a high-end apartment complex than a gun shop to me.

  Whatever. Maybe the name gets the upper echelon of gun buyers who are nothing like me. I get off my scooter and head inside, opening the door cautiously, like I’m going to be greeted with a ‘yee-haw’ and a hail of shotgun pellets. I’ve really got to get my fear of guns under control.

  I’m not quite sure what I expected, but what I find is a quiet, neat little store that looks more like a jewelry shop than anything else with glass cases surrounding the space.

  The deep burgundy office-style carpet looks freshly cleaned, and in a surreal twist that must be fate laughing ironically at me, the sound system is quietly playing Do You Really Wanna Hurt Me?

  “Hi, can I help you?” the man behind the main counter asks, looking up from the magazine he’s flipping through.

  “Uhm, hi. My friend, Charlotte, recommended I come down here, says she works with a guy named Brady?”

  “Brady? That’s my little brother,” the man says, smiling. “The name’s Saul. What’re you looking for?”

  “Home . . . uh, personal defense?” I reply. “Something I can carry in a purse.”

  “Well, first thing I’ll tell you is that you need to get your permit to carry concealed,” Saul says, “but it’s pretty straightforward. I’ll help you with the forms. Now, let’s see what we can do for you.”

  It’s almost dizzying, listening to the man talk about calibers, actions, trigger weights, and more. I give him respect, though, because he’s not ‘girlifying’ it for me. He’s giving me the information straight without any of the condescending attitude I expected.

  Still, I feel like an idiot. “I’m really not sure—”

  “Maybe I can help?”

  Even though I’ve forced myself not to think about him, and my schedule has helped fill in the void, keeping my mind preoccupied, the voice is like cool water on a hot day, instantly quenching my thirst but making me want more at the same
time.

  I turn, seeing that half-smile on Gabe’s face as he looks at me with those piercing eyes. Instantly, butterflies take flight in my belly and my thighs clench together.

  With every drop of blood rushing elsewhere, my mouth opens before my brain can filter my thoughts. “You didn’t come in Wednesday like you promised. And what’re you doing here?”

  “Yeah, sorry about that. I had some last-minute business come up, and I got held up out of town longer than I anticipated. I apologize,” Gabe says, stepping a little closer. He’s just inside my personal space bubble, but instead of feeling like it’s an invasion, I want him even closer.

  I want to be mad, and maybe I am . . . at myself for getting tied up in a guy I don’t have time for and that doesn’t have time for me, judging by his trip out of town. But maybe that makes us even? So I let him off the hook a little.

  “Well, I didn’t give you my phone number, so I can’t blame you for not telling me,” I murmur, smiling a little. “So what about the other question? What’re you doing here?”

  “Just shopping. Shooting’s a hobby.” He shrugs like it’s no big deal that he pulls the trigger on a powerful machine that spits out life-ending projectiles. For all my nervousness about guns, the idea of Gabe directing and controlling all that power is sexy.

  I can feel the heat on my cheeks and try to cover my dirty thoughts. “Hobby, huh? I guess you know something about guns?”

  Gabe chuckles, nodding. “A little. I enjoy target shooting in my spare time. Boring sport to some people, punching very expensive holes in paper . . . but I like it. Thought I’d get some practice in during some down time. What about you? Come here often?” he lets the words ooze off his tongue flirtatiously, but it’s with a big wallop of humor laced through.

  “Personal defense,” Saul injects into our conversation, his own smile not dimming at all. “I was just about to recommend the Glock 43.”

  “No,” Gabe says, his smile never fading but his voice gaining an authoritative edge. “Let’s try the Springfield XDM.”

  Saul nods, always the happy help. “That’s a fine choice too,” he says to Gabe before turning to me. “Now we just need to make sure you know how to handle it.”

  I look to Gabe, but he lifts his chin toward Saul. “Let him do the full beginner tutorial. I’ll shop around and leave you to learn so you’re not distracted.” He must see the disappointment mixed with fire in my eyes because he leans close, whispering by my ear, “I’m not going anywhere. I’ll check on you in a few. Go get ’em, tiger.”

  Things are a lot less fun thirty minutes later as I hit the button on the little paper target thing and it rolls in close to me, showing me where I’ve hit.

  “More like where I’ve missed,” I grumble, looking at the three holes in the paper. Ten shots, and I only hit the paper three times? Three friggin’ times in ten shots?

  I could throw the bullets down the range and hit more often than that.

  It’s the kick. I know what Saul showed me in the lesson he gave me, but between pulling the trigger and the way the gun seems to jump in my hand, I just feel out of control with each shot.

  And the tighter I hold the gun, struggling to control it, the harder it is.

  Suddenly, I feel a warm, hard body close to me, and before I can react a strong arm wraps around me, holding my wrists. Then my borrowed earmuffs are pulled down, the cacophony of echoes in the room hitting me full force.

  “You’re doing it all wrong,” a gravelly voice says in my ear as I feel Gabe’s body nearly envelop me.

  “Well, it’s my first time,” I say, coating the words with innocence, but my smirk makes it obvious I know exactly what I’m doing. With the flirting, at least, but definitely not with the gun.

  Gabe inhales sharply, and his voice is even deeper, his chest rumbling against my back. “Let’s start from the beginning. Show me your stance.”

  He steps back and I miss his warmth. Still, I assume the grip on the pistol the way Saul showed me, and Gabe watches. I can feel his eyes on my body, looking over my shoulders and back, then drifting down my hips and legs before starting back up. It feels clinical, though I hope he likes what he sees.

  “Not too bad for a first-timer.” His tease is playful, making me smile, and then he lightly asks, “So, what made today the day you purchase a gun? Anything in particular spark this?”

  His eyes quickly trace up and down again, though this time there’s nothing professional about it at all.

  I lower my pistol, setting it on the bench before clipping in a new target. “My friends encouraged me, for the most part. They’re concerned about my living alone.”

  My eyes widen as I realize I just told a strange man . . . a very sexy strange man, that I live alone. I’m quite literally the too-stupid-to-live girl in every cautionary tale, I think to myself.

  Well, at least he knows I’ve got a gun. But then again, unless he’s the broad side of a barn, he’s got little to worry about from me.

  “Probably a smart decision in that case,” he says pragmatically. “As long as you know how to use it. You know, I think a woman who can handle a gun is . . . sexy.”

  The way he says it turns up the heat in the firing range by about twenty degrees, and I glance over my shoulder to see him looking directly at me with a dimple-framed smile. “Okay, now what?”

  “Reload, and I’ll show you,” Gabe says, picking up my empty magazine and quickly slipping ten fresh rounds into it. “Oh, and earmuffs. Always shoot safely.”

  My mind must be twisted, because I swear I can see his eyes twinkle when he says it, but I put my earmuffs back on and send the target to the end of the indoor range. I reload the gun, and Gabe watches, coming around me again and resting his hands on my wrists, his body pressed lightly against mine.

  The wanton slut in me begs permission to rub my ass back against his dick, but I refrain, appreciating that he’s not using this as an excuse to grind on me like most guys would. Gabe is a gentleman, something I’m not used to, I think wryly.

  He pulls one earmuff away an inch, his voice muffled against my ear. “Relax your grip. I can feel it in your forearms,” he says, and I will my muscles to release.

  “There you go. Now, just focus on the front sight. The target’s not moving. It’s not going anywhere, and when you’re ready, squeeze slowly . . .”

  He lets go of the earmuff, and I take aim down the barrel of the gun the way Saul showed me, aligning my sights and the target. I take a slow breath and squeeze slowly.

  The pistol pops in my hand, and as soon as it does, I can see the paper jerk and a little white hole appear in the black part of the target, the high scoring rings that I’ve never hit before. Gabe looks and smiles.

  “Nice shot. Now, try again.”

  I’m no Annie Oakley, but this time, I hit the paper nine out of ten times, and best of all, five shots in the middle. I can’t help but smile, and Gabe throws his hand up for a high-five, which I return carefully, keeping the gun aimed down range.

  “Improvement?”

  “Much better,” I agree, my shoulders still tingling from where I felt his chest pressed against my back. “Uhm . . . mind showing me how you do it?”

  “Sure,” Gabe says after a moment. “Can I use your piece?”

  I nod, hooking up another target and sending it out while Gabe reloads again.

  I step back, expecting the slow, methodical, two to three seconds between shots that I did, but instead, Gabe’s an explosion of shots, ten rounds before I can barely take two breaths, his brown eyes going from warm to icy as he jabs the button and reels the target back in.

  The paper, which has a few pieces of tape on it from where I’ve patched holes, suddenly has ten brand-new punctures in the paper, and all of them damn near bullseyes.

  “Whoa,” I whisper, looking at him with newfound amazement. “Forget buying the gun, I should just bring you home.” I slap my hand over my mouth, my eyes going wide.

  Oh, my God, did I j
ust say that? I didn’t mean it like that. Okay, maybe a little, but I wouldn’t have said it so boldly if my ovaries weren’t exploding like the target paper bits did. Gabe’s right, someone who can handle a gun is damn sexy.

  Gabe’s smile tells me he heard exactly what I said, and what I meant, and those butterflies once again start fluttering like a hurricane in my stomach.

  “If you’d like,” Gabe answers my accidental proposition but without pressure. “I’m just glad I can help.”

  “Hopefully, I won’t need this, but the strung-out guy down the street has been coming on a little too strong lately.”

  Shit, I just keep blurting things out that I shouldn’t be.

  Gabe’s jaw clenches. “A neighbor?”

  “Kind of. Technically, he owns the land my house is on, a land lease. And he keeps coming by to collect aggressively. He’s bad news in general,” I explain with a lift of my shoulder. “What’re you gonna do?”

  “You think he’s dangerous?” he asks carefully. His eyes go icy as I tell him how much Russell scared me that morning outside my house, and I can see his hands curling and uncurling. “I’m sorry that happened to you.”

  “Yeah, well . . . I guess it scared me enough that when Mia and Char said I should come down here, I did,” I admit, stepping a little closer. “I mean, there’s nothing wrong with learning to defend yourself, right?”

  Gabe’s eyes are serious as he closes the distance, and if he were to reach out right now, he could wrap me in his arms again. But he just stands there, hands at his side.

  “There’s nothing wrong with being strong enough to take charge of your own fate,” he says, his expression darkening, and I wonder what trick of fate he’s trying to control.

  Gabe blinks, the iciness melting a little as he reaches up, his hand curling around the nape of my neck as he moves in close enough to kiss me.

  But instead, he says softly, “You don’t have to give me yours, but I’m going to write down my number. If he gives you any problems, you call me, okay?”