Darcy’s slender hand wraps around my cock, and not a single fucking sensation is dulled by all the vodka I drank tonight. I stare down at her through blurry eyes and I think she smiles at me. An attack of conscience almost has me pulling away, but then her mouth is on me, and it’s hot, and wet, and she’s sucking hard.

  I tell myself that she and Kyle are broken up, so it doesn’t matter. Hell, they’d only been dating a few weeks, anyway, so how serious could it have really been?

  I tell myself that over and over again, even as my hips thrust against her face. It feels good. Definitely too good to stop, but the longer it goes on and the more I worry about the morals of this shit show, the duller the sensations become.

  And when she finally wrings an orgasm out of me, it’s lackluster. I pull away from her, stuffing my spent dick back into my jeans, and take two steps where I fall face-first onto my bed.

  The last thing I remember before passing out is praying that I don’t remember this at all the next day.

  My ringing phone brings me out of my dream as if a bucket of ice water has been tossed in my face. I suppose I’m so quickly pulled out of slumber because it really wasn’t a dream but a recurring nightmare that haunts me all too often.

  I groan as I rub a hand over my face and roll to my nightstand. I grimace when I see it’s my father calling, and for a moment, I consider not answering. Our conversations never go well, and it’s easier to ignore him.

  But coming out of that nightmare, more a hazy but very accurate memory, I’m angry—at myself—and wanting to pick a fight.

  Swinging my legs over the edge of the bed, I connect the call. “Yeah.”

  “Coen… it’s your father.”

  Not sure why, but the scene from The Empire Strikes Back when Darth Vader says to Luke, “I am your father,” flashes through my mind.

  Not for the similarity in words, but because my dad is kind of like the evil megalomaniac.

  “Yup. Got that from the caller ID.”

  “Stop being disrespectful,” he snarls, and I can almost see him sitting at his desk in his custom Italian suit with a thousand-dollar tie and gold cuff links. “I raised you better.”

  “You didn’t raise me at all,” I point out, and that is done without one ounce of rancor. I simply don’t care anymore about how fucked up my childhood was.

  “Jesus fucking Christ.” My dad bangs his fist on something—probably his desk. “Why must you be so combative all the time? Why can’t you appreciate the opportunities we gave you? You have no gratitude at all.”

  I bite down on the inside of my cheek, because the anger burning hot inside wants to lay into him that I’m a product of my upbringing, but if my parents had paid one bit of attention to me growing up, they’d know.

  They wouldn’t have to guess at it.

  I take in a deep breath, exhaling slowly. “What do you want?” I ask.

  It’s silent for a moment, and I’m sure my dad is off-balance that I didn’t come after him with acid-laced words aimed to hurt.

  He coughs slightly, and I envision him tugging on his tie. “I’ve found an attorney who can help you get out of the charges in New York. An old law school buddy of mine who’s well acquainted with the judge there.”

  “Don’t need your help,” I say.

  “I don’t give a fuck if you need it or not. You will take this offer because you will not have a conviction against you. It would be irreparably embarrassing to me and your mother, so I am going to fix this shit.”

  Historically, when I battle with my dad—my mom can’t be bothered to engage with me—I’m able to laugh off most of his ridiculous accusations. It’s because despite them being incapable of having a loving relationship with their only son, I found love, acceptance, friendship, and camaraderie within hockey. From the time I was six, I was on skates and gained a different sort of family.

  I was raised by nannies who gave no more of a shit about me than my parents did, but at least they got me to all my practices on time. When I was fourteen, I went off to a hockey prep school and absolutely hated the summers when I had to go home.

  When I left home for good, I led a very happy and fulfilled life. My morals and personality were thankfully molded by teammates, coaches, and host families. Those were the bonds that I cherished beyond measure.

  The only evidence that any part of my father resides within me is that since the crash, my body has apparently called forth the asshole DNA, and I behave more like my father than myself.

  I should hang up on him and not give him an ounce of relief. I’m sure he and my mother are terrified I’ll make the news again from this arrest in New York.

  But frankly, I’m tired of fighting. I’ve left the Titans behind, and I’m going to leave my parents behind too. I don’t have the bandwidth anymore.

  “I’ve already handled it,” I advise my father. “I hired an attorney, and the charges were dropped.”

  “Oh,” my dad says in a tone of shock. “Well… that’s very… mature of you. I hadn’t expected—”

  “Of course you didn’t,” I cut him off. He doesn’t know how to pay a true compliment or show pride, which is ironic because he used to love dropping my name to everyone who’d listen when I was a hot hockey star. He’s been severely disappointed—and that was straight from his mouth—since I got suspended.

  “Listen,” he says stiffly, “I’ve got an appointment I need to get to, but your mother and I will be attending a fundraiser in Pittsburgh next month. Perhaps we can get together for dinner.”

  “I’m not in Pittsburgh.”

  “Where are you?” he asks.

  “Not in Pittsburgh. Is there anything else you need?”

  “I guess not,” he clips out. “As long as the charges were dropped, that’s all I care about.”

  That was a targeted blow, and I let it bounce off. “Yes, I know,” I reply softly.

  And then I hang up.

  Standing, I stretch and arch my back, grimacing at the tiny pops in my spine. The mattress on this bed sucks, and while I’ve ordered a new one, until it arrives, I’m going to be creaky.

  I pull on a T-shirt and pair of shorts and head into the kitchen to make coffee. It feels good not having a set agenda.

  No responsibilities or places to be at a certain time.

  My plans for today are to dig out all the bushes along the front of the house since half of them are dead. I don’t know what I’ll put in their place—maybe nothing—but I like the physical exertion.

  I might go for a run on the trails later, and I wonder if I’ll run into the hellcat neighbor.

  Part of me hopes I do.

  I enjoyed her showing up on my doorstep yesterday, attempting to figure out a way around my injunction. At first, she was pathetically cute, but then she got all fiery and wouldn’t—no, wait… couldn’t—be cowed. I tried my best to scare her away, and she just puffed up her chest and stared me down.

  It was impressive and sincerely the most excitement I’ve had since moving here.

  Admittedly, she has me intrigued. Pissed, obviously, but she’s kind of hot.

  In an odd way.

  I reach the coffee pot and glance through the kitchen window before pulling the carafe out to fill with water.

  I do a double take as my head whips back that way, my jaw agape as I take in my backyard.

  Releasing the carafe, I move to the sliding door that leads out to the deck, sure that I’m not seeing things correctly through the window, only to be brought up short.

  On my deck are hundreds of shelled peanuts scattered around—and the whole area is crawling with rodents. Squirrels and chipmunks happily skirt around each other as they stuff nuts into their mouths and run off, only to be replaced by more critters.

  Around the deck railing are several trays of birdseed, and all manner of winged creatures are landing to eat. A lot of seed has fallen to the deck, and there’s bird shit everywhere.

  And fuck… a pair of raccoons are at the bottom of the steps eating something out of a plastic dish that looks a lot like dog food.

  Farther into the backyard are probably fifteen deer with heads bent to the ground, and as I stare harder, it looks like they’re gathered around blocks of salt or piles of some type of food.

  And beyond that, maybe five yards into the tree line, are dozens of brightly painted bird feeders hanging from branches. And when I say bright, I mean neon colors. Birds fly in and out, battling for perches, and several are on the ground, pecking at fallen seed.

  My backyard looks like a fucking zoo.

  “Jesus,” I grumble, shoving my feet into the boots sitting nearby. I sling open the door, expecting the noise to scare away all the deck varmints. It merely causes the squirrels and chipmunks to scamper a few feet from me. The birds ruffle and launch into the air, but then they land again just as quickly.

  I eye the raccoons at the bottom of the steps. They freak me out a little, but thankfully, as I hit the steps leading down, they have enough sense to run under the deck.

  The deer lift their heads as I step into the yard, watching me, their tails twitching. As I move closer, they bolt into the forest.

  I approach the first white block, bending over to inspect it. It’s definitely salt, and I can see it’s been mounted on a spiral stake and spun into the ground. There are several piles of some type of feed that looks like a mixture of corn and sunflower seeds.

  “Son of a bitch.” I unscrew the first stake. It takes me a good minute to get it all the way out, and I inspect it carefully. I somehow doubt salt licks are fabricated on stakes that go into the ground. Most I’ve seen are on elevated posts. I’ve no doubt these are homemade.

  I glance out at the glowing neon bird feeders. Just as I have no doubt those were recently painted by a certain artist who lives in the area.

  Turning back toward my deck, I see the raccoons are again at the dish, and my deck is still overrun with rodents and birds. Christ, it’s going to take me forever to clean this shit up.

  I pause a moment.

  Oh, fuck that. I’m not cleaning it up.

  Dropping the salt lick to the ground, I head for the forest that separates our properties, through the trees decorated with neon bird feeders with seed spread all over the ground, finally emerging on the side of her yard. Her cabin sits fifty yards away.

  Tilden Marshall is about to regret tangling with me.

  I stride angrily across the yard, still wet with morning dew, the air heavy with humidity. It’s going to be hot today, and I expect it will take quite a bit out of her to clean up her handiwork.

  I mount the porch two steps at a time, ignore the doorbell, and pound on her door.

  If that woman is smart, she’ll hide in the back until I go away. Instead, the door swings open and there she stands, wearing a smug smile. “Good morning,” she says brightly.

  She had to have been up awfully late last night bombarding my property, but she looks fresh and well… lovely. She’s got on jean shorts, frayed at the hem, but they don’t ride very high up her legs—mid-thigh at the most—a mustard-colored T-shirt that’s got dried paint on it, and a red bandana tied in an old-fashioned triangle on her head. Her curly blond hair streams out and cascades down her back.

  Same as the last two times I saw her, she has no makeup on her face, which makes the freckles over her nose incredibly distracting.

  “You’ve got about five minutes to get your ass over to my yard and clean up your shit.”

  She tips her head and smiles quizzically. “I’m sorry… but why would I be doing that?”

  “Don’t play stupid with me, Tilden.” I emphasize her name so it’s clear we aren’t friends. “You know damn well you turned my yard into a zoo.”

  She frowns, lower lip sticking out a bit. “I don’t understand,” she says sweetly. “You said you were a naturalist. What was it you called yourself? A modern-day Snow White? Well, I wouldn’t be surprised if a bluebird landed on your shoulder any moment now.”

  “Fuck,” I yell, spinning away from her in frustration, then turning right back around again. I step into her, pointing a finger in her face, probably the height of rudeness, but I don’t care. “You are the most annoying, if not the craziest, woman I’ve ever met. You’ve got no respect for other people, you’re self-centered and bratty, you’re probably not even that great of an artist so it’s a waste of money to build this studio, you wear granny panties, and that bandana looks stupid in your hair. You think the world owes you, and you don’t care—”

  Tilden’s hand slams into my chest and I brace, waiting for her to push me backward off her porch. Rather, her fingers curl into my shirt, nabbing fistfuls of cotton, and she jerks me forward. Ordinarily a little thing like her couldn’t move a mountain like me, but I was leaning forward while I berated her—trying to intimidate as she’d accused me of before—and I’m off-balance.

  Before I can stop my momentum, she’s up on her tiptoes, mashing her mouth against mine in a surprise kiss that has my head reeling.

  I jerk roughly away, knocking her hands from my shirt. Glaring, I demand, “What the fuck was that?”

  She shrugs, tucking her hands into her pockets nonchalantly. “Figured it was the best way to get you to shut up and stop your ridiculous tirade.”

  Christ, she’s weird, and why do my fucking lips tingle?

  My reflexes are lightning quick—ask anyone in the professional hockey league—and my hands shoot out to grasp the sides of her neck. My thumbs under her jaw, I draw her into me and I’m strangely satisfied when I see her eyes flare wide with both fear and excitement.

  I pull her right up so our noses are almost touching. Tipping my head to the side, I hover so our lips are almost touching.

  Her breath wafts out and feathers over my mouth before it hitches back in again.

  “Tilden?” I whisper and marvel at the way her eyes go half-mast. Christ… is she turned on?

  My dick twitches. Something is happening here.

  “Yes?” she murmurs, as if caught in a spell.

  I lean in, touch my lips to hers with no more force than if it were a butterfly landing on her lush mouth. A stuttering breath escapes her, and it’s sexy as fuck. It certainly makes it hard not to crush my mouth against hers, but I hold strong.

  “You’ve got the day to get my yard cleaned up, or I’m calling the police.”

  Realization that I’m not kissing but threatening her hits, and those hands are back at my chest, this time pushing me hard.

  I’m ready for it, and I don’t move.

  Not for several seconds, anyway. I hold her in place, our lips still fluttering against each other’s before I drop my hands.

  I step back, smile, and give her a tiny salute because I’ve taken back control of this game.

  “End of day,” I remind her. “But if you choose not to, I’ll be here watching them arrest you. I bet you look good in cuffs.”

  Yeah, that last line might have been laced with innuendo, but I’m also dead serious. She better stop fucking with me because while she thinks I’m an asshole now, she hasn’t seen anything yet.

  And yet, as I walk away, I realize it’s not sitting right with me. Not the threats to call the police—I stand by those, as I want my yard cleaned up. But I’ve learned a bit about Tilden Marshall. She’s devious and stubborn, and she won’t willingly do it. I need the leverage of criminal prosecution to ensure her compliance.

  But that kiss doesn’t sit right with me.

  It takes a lot to catch me off guard. It takes even more to surprise me. But the fact that she grabbed me…

  She kissed me first.

  She made a bold-as-fuck move, and it has me wondering… has me curious about the type of woman who would have that much confidence in herself.

  That my body reacted to her is puzzling, as she’s not generally my type. Supermodel-like women in skimpy clothes are more my speed.

  Add on that she irritates the living fuck out of me, and it makes her an even greater curiosity.

  I guess what bothers me most is how hard it was not to kiss her back. That I actually struggled with giving up my leverage and threats just to see what she really tasted like.

  This scares me. It’s the first time I’ve seen a glimpse of the old Coen Highsmith. The man who existed prior to the crash.

  He’s the one who would have laughed at a woman who turned his backyard into a wildlife refuge and hung neon bird feeders in his trees.

  The man I once was would have kissed the fuck out of her, and if she’d been willing, would have carried her off to bed right then and there.

  As I walk back toward the copse of trees that separates my property from hers, the reality that I’m still struggling not to turn around is what bothers me most of all.

  CHAPTER 7

  Coen

  After my confrontation with Tilden this morning, I changed into running gear and hit the trails. Now that I know how her property sits adjacent to mine, I suppose it’s possible these trails cross back and forth over our land.

  When I returned home, sweaty and out of breath, I was disappointed not to see her in my yard, cleaning up. Part of me wants another confrontation, and admittedly, a part of me wants her to do it so I don’t have to call the police.

  Not that I really have proof that she did it, but we both know she did.

  After a shower, I rummage through my refrigerator for lunch but find only a pack of deli chicken, two apples, and a dozen or so protein drinks.

  I’m starved, and I don’t feel like a grocery run just to get some lunch. I know there are a handful of restaurants in downtown Coudersport, more than a few with the words bar and grill tacked on the end.

  While I can’t hide forever, I’ll try to stay anonymous as long as I can. Not everyone would recognize me—clearly Tilden doesn’t—but there will be some who do, and then it will spread around town. I want to avoid that for as long as I can so I don’t have to talk about hockey or my career.

  I trade my contacts for glasses and don a Cabela’s ball cap. Someone would have to know my face well to recognize me. If I can avoid such people, I’ll be golden, but my desire to try out a restaurant wins over my need to hide.