Page 8 of A Daddy for Christmas 2: Kitt

“I need a simple yes or no.”

“No!”

I pointed toward the chair he’d recently vacated. “Go sit down over there.”

He glared at me and couldn’t resist stomping past me to dramatically throw himself in the chair, showing me more of his bad attitude. He reminded me of a young, spoiled rotten teenager.

“What do you want from me?” He ran a hand through his pretty hair. “Who the fuck are you anyway?”

“I told you what I want. I want you. My name is Riordan Jeffries. I was hired by your brother, Jazz, and I work for a private detective agency. Is any of this sounding familiar?”

“I don’t know you. What the fuck?”

I came to stand over him and leaned down, tapping the tip of his nose with my finger. He swiped at my hand. “Stop all that cussing. And apologize.”

He folded his arms over his chest and stuck out his bottom lip.

“No apology? All right, suit yourself for now. But as I already told you, Kitt. I’m taking you back to your brother in Atlanta whether you like it or not. He’s going to convince you to go into protective custody.”

“Oh, no, he won’t!”

“That’s between the two of you. I’m just telling you what I’ve been paid to do.”

“So, you’re just going to kidnap me? I don’t have any say in any of this?”

“I’ve been sent by your legal guardian. It’s not a kidnapping.”

“Yes, it is! I’m almost twenty-one now!”

“No. He showed me the papers. You’re subject to his rules and his control until you’re legally of age and until the courts release the guardianship.”

“Fuck him! Fuck the courts and fuck you too!”

“Maybe later. In the meantime, what did I tell you about all that cussing?” I asked, leaning over him. “Now apologize.”

He huffed and puffed and few times and said, “Okay! Sorry. I apologize.”

“All right then. Only the courts can dismiss his guardianship, no matter how old you are. A doctor has stated that you’re mentally unstable and the court put your brother in charge.”

He glared at me like he was trying to peel off my skin with his gaze.

Suddenly, he flung himself out of the chair and sprinted toward the door again, but I got in front of him, putting a hand on his chest. I meant only to stop him from leaving, but he reacted like I’d punched him, reeling back and falling down into the chair and looking shocked. I could see he was trembling all over and his eyes had gone wide. It made me feel awful, because he seemed so young and vulnerable. I was trying to ignore the actual physical spark that hit me when I’d touched him again too. He was looking down at himself, like he’d maybe felt it the same time I did, and he looked back up at me with big, scared eyes.

“I’ve told you I’m not going to hurt you in any way, Kitt. I promise I won’t. I’m sorry if I scared you, and I didn’t mean to. But I can’t let you go.” I kept my voice low and soft, and he stopped shaking at least.

“Please,” he said in a voice so low I had to bend closer to hear him. He looked up at me with big, limpid eyes, brimming with tears. He was killing me. “Please let me go.”

“I’m sorry, but that’s not happening. I’m taking you back to Atlanta.”

“It’s not safe in Atlanta. There are people there who want to hurt me.”

“The police will put you in protective custody. You’ll be fine.”

“But it’s almost Christmas.”

Damn it, what the hell did that mean? I groaned on the inside—holidays didn’t mean all that much to me, but I still felt bad for him. Realistically speaking, he’d been running for a few weeks now, and he had been literally homeless since then, relying on the kindness of his friends and complete strangers—and their patience was obviously wearing thin from the state of him. It wasn’t like he’d be missing some grand Christmascelebration here. He had come up to my hotel room with me willingly and would have taken money in exchange for sex if I would have cooperated. His clothing looked a little shabby and he seemed exhausted. Going back home was absolutely the best thing for him.

I hated to see this happen to him, but this was part of the job. You couldn’t feel sorry for the ones you were after—it was a trap that would backfire on you every time. Once when I first started doing this job, I took pity on a young, sixteen-year-old high school girl from Tennessee, who had run away to be with her “boyfriend.” She begged me with tears in her eyes to let her just call him and say goodbye. When I gave in, she managed to somehow let him know where we were during their brief conversation, and he showed up with his buddy and a tire iron to get her. The fucker was thirty-five if he was a day, so I didn’t feel bad about leaving him and his buddy injured and crying on the floor of the hotel room, but it was all unnecessary and cost me time and a lot of money paid to the hotel manager to keep my name and my client’s name out of it.

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