Owned: Book 4 in the Forever After series Read online

  Well, fuck!

  CHAPTER FIVE

  Tatum

  “You sir are the human version of period cramps.” – Tatum to Lucifer

  Avoidance has been my go-to word over the past week. And when I haven't been avoiding everywhere Lucifer or my dad could possibly think to look for me, I have been employing evasion tactics like a boss.

  Now, that's not to say I haven't crossed paths with my highly aggravating, too good looking to be ignored husband in the last seven days, or my fit to be tied father because I have. It's just that up until now, I've been faster at outrunning them, and more cunning at giving them the slip. My dad will tell you it isn't cunning, it's cowardice, but I try not to listen to him on the best of days, and especially not now, so whatever.

  The text messages and calls have become more demanding, more explicit with what he intends to do to me when I eventually come out of hiding and face him. We're up to ten, if not an even dozen per day. That's when he isn't stalking me at the firehouse, leaving notes for me to call him or else, or camping outside my house until all hours of the morning. And, no, before you say anything, it is not romantic. Stalking is never romantic, regardless of the fact that said stalker is hot as hell and can melt a woman's panties from a hundred yards away with a mere smirk.

  And let’s not get me started on my dad. He has been like a dog with a bone, demanding that I meet with him and his lawyer to look into an annulment. Dad is confident that Lucifer tricked me into marrying him, that he spiked my drink and dragged me to the altar, or something equally as ridiculous. And since I haven’t confirmed or denied any of his ridiculous assumptions thus far, dad is refusing to give up on the idea that this ‘temporary situation’ as he calls it can be resolved with the help of a few signed documents.

  My bestie, Scarlet has issued numerous warnings as to how stupid she thinks I'm being, and for the most part, I happen to concur. I know running from Lucifer is a fools’ errand. He's a goddamn bounty hunter for God's sake; he can find a needle in a haystack from three states away, he's that good at what he does. However, every time Scarlet starts in on me with one of her lectures, I can't help but be a wee bit offended. Okay, so a lot offended.

  I'm not an idiot like she thinks I am. In fact, I know exactly what I'm doing, and it's called buying time. Time for me to think. Time for me to plan. Time for me to decide what I really want without everyone breathing down my neck, telling me what to do. Not that I've had much of the aforementioned, or will since I can literally feel it slipping away from me.

  “Can you please, please, pretty please with a nipple tassel on top text your husband back and tell him to stop coming into work and scaring all my customers away?” Scarlet whines pathetically.

  I continue to strip out of my work uniform, which for the second day in a row is covered by questionable stains thanks to two of the patients my partner and I transported to hospital taking turns throwing up all over me, and ignore my soon-to-be-ex best friend.

  “Seriously, Tate. That hulking mountain of man meat is fucking with my tips, and I need those. I've got my eye on a magnificent pair of new-season Louboutin's that are calling my name. Imagine this; four inches of spiked, leopard print, peep-toe perfection, and in my size. Did you

  hear me? My size, Tate. Do you know how rare it is to find pretties to fit these clodhoppers? Hmm, do you?”

  Scarlet throws herself onto my bed. It's all drama, all the time with this one, but I wouldn't have it any other way. God, I love this girl.

  “How could I not know, Scar? What, with you telling me every other day and all,” I sigh, sliding my button up shirt off my shoulder, and launching it in the direction of my overflowing laundry hamper.

  Damn, I so have to do some laundry soon.

  A fluffy accent pillow hits me on the side of the head.

  “Shut it, biatch. You and your size sevens can kiss my ass. Fucking canoes, ruining my chances at full-blown addiction,” Scarlet mumbles under her breath. Unsuccessful, mind you.

  While I'm glad she's gotten off the topic of Lucifer and me, I'm just not in the mood to hear her complain about her genetically abnormal size ten feet; her words, not mine. I mean, honestly, for a woman so hung up on the size of her leg ends', Scarlet sure does have a metric butt ton of shoes. As in, enough to wear a different pair every day for three months.

  “So...” she grins evilly, crossing her arms behind her head, making herself comfortable. Oh, fuck me sideways. Scarlet getting comfortable can only mean one thing; she's settling in for the long haul.

  “So, what?” I return as I pull my favorite pair of yoga pants up my aching legs.

  Today was a long day that tested every ounce of my rapidly disappearing patience. As a paramedic for the Waterfield Fire Department, I work a rotation of three nights on, two days off, one day on, another day off. It's a grueling schedule that leaves me exhausted and bitchy. Now, don't get me wrong, I love my job. Nothing is more rewarding than saving lives and kicking ass. But there are occasions - today being one of them - that I wish I had gone to beauty school like my sister, Jayla.

  Yeah. I could get down with ten to four shifts, five days a week if the most taxing aspect of my job was deciding how to make a sixty-eight-year-old retiree look forty for her granddaughter's wedding.

  “So, my little ray of hangry sunshine, what are you going to do about the buff Adonis that provides half the women in town with X-rated rub-reel material?”

  “Ew, can you be more disgusting?” I shudder at the image of women getting off to fantasies of my husband.

  “I think we both know the answer to that is, yes,” Scarlet sing-songs.

  “Well, can you not? Just the thought of Mrs. Krilljack flicking the bean to visions of Lucifer naked is horrifying,” I fake-gag, referring to my elderly eighty-year-old neighbor.

  Waggling her eyebrows at me, Scarlet giggles uproariously. “Oh, but you so know she does. I've got to tell you, babe, if I didn't have my eye on my own sexy hunk-o burning-love, I'd be totally dreaming about your hubby while I dip into the honey pot.”

  “Sweet mother of fuck, Scar," I groan. "That is way too much TMI.”

  Sometimes I find myself asking, why the hell I haven't rendered Scarlet permanently mute. I have the skills to do it, and the equipment too. Hmm, that idea merits further thought, I mused, dropping onto the bed beside her.

  “There's no such thing as TMI between besties. And anyway, you love me despite my pottymouth and wonderfully filthy imagination.”

  That depends on the day, but I don't tell her as much.

  “What's going on with you and Locke-o-love, anyway?” I ask, steering the conversation away from me and my man issues.

  Scarlet rolls her eyes and scoffs. “Nice Segway there. And for your information, nothing. Nada. Zip. Zilch. I still cease to exist to my stubborn future baby daddy.”

  “You do know, it's kind of a pre-requisite that Locke knows he's going to be the father of your offspring, right?”

  “Po-tay-toes, po-tah-toes,” Scarlet quips. “I figure he'll get the message loud and clear when I'm riding his love wand from here to the land of climax.”

  “And where does, Violet factor into your grand plan of impregnation?” I question, bringing up Locke's utterly adorable six-year-old daughter.

  With a smile wider than the Grand Canyon, Scarlet shares, “The other day when I picked her up from school, she asked me when I was going to hurry the hell up and put a ring on it. So my guess is, my little hellion, is totally down for her daddy knocking me up.”

  Scarlet has played a huge part in Violet's life since a few weeks after she was born. Violet's mom wanted nothing to do with children and babies, least of all her own. Leticia took off, leaving her screaming infant daughter in the strong, loving arms of her father only days after delivery, and hasn't looked back since.

  As far as Locke is concerned, good riddance. Luckily for him, Locke has enough support around him in the form of his sister, Zara, his twin brothers, Rhodes, and Slade, his youngest brother, Paxton, his dad, Chase, step-mom, Ashleigh, and most importantly, Scarlet that Violet hasn't felt the fallout of what it means to not have her mom around. But that's not to say, Violet hasn't asked about her; she has. With increasing frequency lately, too.

  Dropping her head onto my shoulder, Scarlet heaves out a deep breath. “That kid kills me. She asked about Bitchticia again yesterday.” See, what did I tell you? “I was torn between telling her that her mom was an evil troll that didn't deserve the handsome prince and shooting myself in the foot to get out of talking about her. Fuck,” she hisses. “That wicked wench seriously fucks with my mojo, even from afar.”

  Leticia, or Bitchticia as Scarlet likes to call her lives in upstate New York with her current sugar daddy - a seventy-two-year-old media mogul - but honestly, anywhere this side of hell is too close for Scarlet's liking.

  “I take it you settled on...” I'm cut off by the sound of my cell clattering across the top of my nightstand.

  “You going to answer that?” Scarlet, not so subtly prompts, quirking her perfectly sculpted eyebrow at me.

  “Nope,” I shake my head.

  “Well, I've gotta bounce. Dray called me this morning and asked me to pick up a shift tonight.”

  Scarlet has been working at Tainted, a high-end (if there is such a thing) strip club, owned by our other best friend, Dray. It isn't her ideal job, far from it actually. However, to fund her borderline disturbing shoe fetish, and because work for a college graduate with an Ancient History major is slim, Scarlet decided to take up an illustrious career in stripping, instead.

  I shake my head at her as Scarlet jiggles her DD-cup boobs into a tank top made to house much smaller assets. “I thought, Dray only had you on Thursday, Friday, and

&nbsp
; Saturday nights these days?”

  “He did,” she smirks. “But apparently he got a last minute booking for a bachelor party. With Anastasia out with the flu, Courtney dealing with whatever the hell it is she deals with when she's calling out of work, and Britney still learning the ropes, that only leaves me, Bridget, and Ginny who know how to work a pole.”

  “Why Dray still keeps Courtney around is beyond me,” I sigh.

  “Um...because she flashes her gash for cash and the boys love it?” Scarlet smirks wickedly.

  “Yeah, that sounds about right.” Dray seriously needs to scout more talent because if the best he has to offer some nights is, Courtney, who offers backroom blowjobs for fifty bucks, his staff leave a lot to be desired.

  In saying that, Scarlet is probably the most naturally talented stripper this side of the Mason-Dixon. She's five-foot-nine has boobs for days, an ass J-Lo would be jealous of, and legs I would die for. Not to mention, she is stunningly beautiful, too. Her waist-length wavy blonde hair is almost white. Add to that, her cat-like gold eyes with bright green flecks interspersed throughout are so unique they are truly captivating.

  Scarlet's the whole package. Intelligent, funny, with a heart of gold, so honestly, I don't understand why Locke hasn't thrown her over his shoulder and dragged her off to his man-cave yet. I suppose it could have something to do with the epic amount of sass she's capable of wielding as a weapon and her filthy mouth, but who am I to judge? I can be just as bad, if not worse.

  “Any who, Princess Perky. I suggest you eat a Snickers to stave off the hangry bitch you're gearing up to be, and call that fine as hell husband of yours back. Truthfully, babe, his stalker tendencies are going to manifest into straight up kidnapping ones if you don't talk to him soon.”

  She's right, but that doesn't mean I'm finished making him suffer just yet.

  “You do remember how this all began, right?” I prod, sitting up hugging my pillow to my chest.

  “Yep,” she chirps.

  “So then you should understand why I'm entitled to draw out Lucifer’s punishment for, at least, another week, and my dad’s probably two.”

  “See, that's where you lose me,” she says, swiping on a thin coat of mascara. “I totally understand why you're pissed; I would be too. Letting your dad know you two are married was a dick move, but it isn't the end of the world.”

  The hell it isn't. Obviously, Scarlet needs to be reintroduced to my father because she's apparently forgotten what an over-protective ass he can be when he goes full-alpha, flicking the you'll-touch-my-baby-girl-over-my-dead-body switch.

  “And as for your dad; he loves you, Tate. He’s worried about you, and your questionable mental status.”

  “Oh, go suck a bag of dicks. There’s nothing wrong with my mental state, and you know it,” I snap while trying to hide a grin.

  “Uh-huh. Then if that’s the case, then I suppose you won’t run screaming like a crazy person when I tell you your hubby is standing in the doorway, and he does not look happy,” she smirks, flouncing out of the room past a scowling Lucifer.”

  “Oh, shit,” I murmur under my breath when I see how apt Scarlet’s description of his mood is.

  “Oh, shit is right, sweetheart,” he rumbles menacingly. “Now, we can do this the easy way or the hard way. It’s up to you.”

  Slinking further back onto the mattress, I gulp and ask, “Is there a third option? Like, say, you go home and wait until I decide to call you?”

  The hopeful tone in my voice turns into a yelp when Lucifer walks into my bedroom and shakes his head. “You’re all out of options, baby. You either come with me now willingly, or I pick you up and carry you out of here. You’ve got five seconds to make your choice.”

  I’ll give you one guess which one I picked.

  CHAPTER SiX

  Lucifer

  “Did you know, if you line all your exes up in a row, you have a flow chart of your mental illness?” – Something to ponder

  “Don't even think about it,” I growled, pulling Tatum through the front door behind me.

  Whether she likes it or not, we're going to sit down and talk this shit out. A week without my wife is too long. A week without being able to touch her, to kiss her, to be inside her beautiful body was fucking torture. So, I'm done. Done waiting for her to get her head together. Done waiting for her to return my calls. Done fucking waiting, period.

  Tatum attempts to tug her wrist from my grip. It's cute really; her thinking she can get away from me. “Listen, you overgrown man-child. It's obvious that you're in the middle of some psychotic episode, but I hardly think dragging me off to your lair is going to help any.”

  Spinning around to face her, I give Tatum my best icy glare, to which she merely cocks her eyebrow at me and plasters on a cute smirk. “Can you just shut the hell up for one goddamn second.”

  My wife tips her head to the side as if she's actually considering it, before saying, “Um, I could, but where would be the fun in that?”

  Jesus fucking Christ, I know why her dad drinks now. Dealing with the O'Neil women is no joke. Granted, Tatum is now a Givens after she married me, but she still shares DNA with three of the most annoying women I know, so there's that.

  Striding into the house, I look around and try to see my house through her eyes.

  I bought this place a few months after my first wife, Savannah died, not able to stay in the home we shared for a minute longer than absolutely necessary. Until today, I hadn't given much thought to if Tatum liked my place, if it was somewhere she could see herself living. I suppose I should have, though, which is why I'm giving it a more critical once-over now.

  This house was an empty shell when I bought it. Something I appreciated greatly. I wanted a place I could make my own, design how I wanted, and I did. It took a fuck ton longer than expected, but in the end, the results spoke for themselves. The place was fucking perfect if I don't say so myself.

  Downstairs consisted of a large living and dining room, separated by a low line entertainment unit I'd repurposed as a makeshift bar. My eighty-inch TV is mounted on the far wall above the wood burning fireplace, the rest of the furniture arranged around an enormous central coffee table. Two recliners, a sectional, and a couple of side tables is about the extent of it, along with a solid mahogany dining table with twelve chairs off to the right. A large hall connects the front door to the eat-in kitchen. While most of the living space is on the left side of the house, a small bathroom is located under the stairs to the right, along with my home office and my man-cave as the boys like to call it.

  The double sliding doors that cut my man-cave off from the hall were designed and handcrafted by a buddy of mine - a master carpenter by trade. He spent three weeks carving those heavy as hell bastards, and it was worth every penny. The room isn't small, probably the size of a two-car garage, housing a full-sized pool table, full bar that takes up half one wall, four theater chairs, an Xbox, and a hundred and fifty-inch projection screen. And while this room is the shit, I should have given more thought to who I told about its existence. Especially since after finding out about it the boys have started organizing poker and football nights here.

  My kitchen, while not to my liking was the last thing on my list of renovations. It was a sore point for me since I didn't have the first fucking clue how to remodel it. That's where Ebonee came in. A friend of Tatum and Scarlet's, Ebonee went to school to train as an interior designer. She warned me at the time that her forte was redecorating, not remodeling, but I was desperate, so I took a chance on her regardless.

  So you can imagine my shock and disgust when I ended up with a kitchen out of Home Beautiful when all I'd wanted was something functional. I mean, shit. The thing may be a woman's wet dream, but at the time, I was a single man living alone, and now I had to worry about spontaneous vaginal growth.

  Eggshell walls - that's what Ebonee calls the color - are offset by light charcoal baseboards. The stainless steel appliances rock, which is the only positive in the whole room as far as I'm concerned. Lace, fucking lace curtains block the neighbors on my left side from seeing in, but that's about all those things are good for. Pots and pans hang on a timber rack - another of my buddy's creations – suspended from the ceiling above a doubled-sized wooden butcher block in the center of my U-shaped kitchen.