Lock You Down (Rivers Brothers 2)

"The door to the parking garage is broken," I told her, hearing something akin to an accusation in my voice. How can you be so careless? Don't you know you're something worth protecting? I didn't know where that possessive inner voice came from, but it was now a part of me, apparently.

"Oh, yeah. It's been like that since I moved in," she said, shrugging a shoulder.

"You live in a shitty area, Reagan. You can't leave things unlocked."

"It's not that bad," she insisted, shaking her head. "There's a lot of gentrifying going on. When I was looking around, the real estate agent told me this was an up-and-coming neighborhood. A lot of developers are snatching up the old buildings, turning them around."

"Yeah, fucking great. There will be a Whole Foods and Starbucks on every corner. Won't do you any good if you get mugged when you leave your apartment building."

"Are you always so paranoid?" she asked, lips twitching.

"I'm not paranoid. I see a threat. I point it out. That's not paranoia. That's basic observation skills."

"Nixon, what are you even doing here?" she asked.

"We need to talk about some shit."

"I think we've done enough talking."

"No, we've done enough sniping at each other. This is different."

"I'm not entirely sure you can have a whole conversation without snapping at someone," she said, but her lips were curving up like she maybe found that trait endearing.

The fucking freak.

"I can try," I told her, feeling my own lips curl up. "No fucking promises, though."

"Everything alright, Reagan?" another female voice asked, making me turn to find her in the apartment across the hall, the two of them each getting half of the massive space. She was well into her sixties with a shock of long gray hair and bright blue eyes.

"Hey, Allegra. Yes. This man is here to give me a stern talking-to," she told the woman, eyes dancing.

Allegra's eyes moved down and up my body slowly before settling on my face for a long second. Then, turning back to Reagan, she declared, "And maybe if you're lucky, a spanking." Her eyes went wicked, her brows wiggling as she backed into her own apartment, closing the door.

"See?" Reagan said, smile big. "I don't need a working security door. I have Allegra."

"Yeah, I'm sure she's real terrifying. What's she gonna do, stab a burglar with a knitting needle?"

To that, I was granted a laugh. "You're mean."

"You like it," I shot back, stepping forward as she moved out of the way, silently inviting me in.

Reagan's apartment was a lot like her office at work. Very stark white with minimal accents, most of them in neutrals. Whites, beiges, a hint of green here and there. Between the color scheme and the giant windows lining one whole side of the space, it was almost startlingly bright.

Apparently, Reagan wasn't one for giant couches you could sink into, for knick-knacks and clutter.

Whatever she did own seemed to be tucked away in closets or storage units, leaving the place utilitarian clean.

"What's with the weird fucking shelves?" I heard myself ask, realizing too late that I maybe should have found a nicer way to say that.

Thankfully, she just snorted at the wording as she moved over toward the wall, putting her hand on one of the many eight-inch white shelves staggered up the wall, leading up to longer shelves that lined the entire room.

"These aren't shelves. They're steps."

"Babe, you're small, but you're not that small."

I got another chuckle at that, and I realized it was one of the best sounds I'd ever heard.

"They're clearly not for me. They're for Mal."

"Mal?" I repeated.

"It's short for Malicious Little Fuckwad," she told me, positively beaming at the admission. "He's a dumpster cat I picked up from the first week I started at the office. He both thinks he doesn't need me for anything but also expects me to wait on him hand and foot."

As if he realized we were talking about him, a massive gray and white extremely fluffy cat sauntered into the room, tail high in the air, side-eyeing me while also acting as though I didn't exist.

"He's got an attitude problem," she told me, smiling down at Mal as he whacked his backend into her leg before disappearing under the couch, though I wasn't sure how the giant fluff ball fit.

"Think you have a thing for that personality trait," I told her, smirking.

"Apparently," she admitted, giving me hope. "Want something to drink?" she asked, waving a hand toward her kitchen, all white and stainless steel, the kind of clean that suggested she never used it. The only item that pointed to her actually spending any time there was the big bowl of peaches on the island that separated it from the rest of the space.

"Is that your whiskey?" I asked, nodding toward her glass bar cart.

"You want to try it?" she asked, sounding pleased in my interest.