“Right? Guy acts like my dad most days.” I shake my head at the thought, but her small smile catches my attention. “What?”
“That’s oddly specific for someone who doesn’t like the guy.”
My mouth drops a bit, but I close it before I have a full-on jaw drop.
“What? Boys talk. They mentioned his age once, and I did the math. I’m good at remembering things. That’s all.”
She pulls her lips into her mouth as she hums at my words and nods as if that explains everything. Which it does. It’s nothing more than me just remembering a simple fact.
I turn back to the show and ignore my roomie… for all of ten seconds before she opens her mouth again.
“So, what did he do before all this?”
“Four years Army, then six in DSS, the Diplomatic Security Service. Would have kept up with it, too, but he got tired of the bullshit and the Hounds found him first.” I say it as if the teacher asked me how many bones are in the body.
“And his real name?”
“Dixon Hobbs. I overheard one of the brothers call him that when they went over taxes or something a while back.” Just more facts that mean nothing. But when I look at her again, I roll my eyes as she tries to hold in another smile. “What now?”
“Just that you know a lot about him.”
I cross my arms and look forward. “I told you—boys talk. I listen. That’s all there is. Ask me about any other brother and I’d know the same.”
“Right.”
I turn on her quickly and fling my arms out. “Seriously. The guy’s friends with my dad. And I have a good relationship with my pops. So don’t go thinking I’ve got a daddy kink or some shit.”
She holds up her hands to ward off any attack I might send her way. “Whoa—never said all that.”
I nod at her and sit back in my seat, crossing my arms once more as I glare at whatever Ross is saying to Rachel. I know this episode but have no clue what’s being said right now.
“Butyoudid.” I can hear the smirk in her voice, but I refuse to look and confirm it.
“Whatever.” I stand and march to the trash can. Her chuckle follows me as I pick up the trash, stuffing it into the overflowing bag before tying it off. I would love to yank the door open, but I don’t want to put a hole in the wall. The landlord will try to claim more damages, this one true, and I don’t want to give him any more money.
Surprisingly, he lowered our rent and even gave us a month free because we “overpaid” when he was harassing us about issues with the place. I know Kooper had something to do with it. And I would fight him on it, but it worked in my favor. Why push it?
I stomp down the stairs and walk down three units to toss our trash away. I could just set it outside the door—we pay for “trash services,” as they call it—but I need the walk. Actually, I need more than that right now.
The thought of me and Kooper in any capacity beyond hating each other makes my skin crawl. He’s an asshole. Overbearing. Cocky. Not my type in the slightest. In a certain light, sure, he could be considered hot. But then he opens his mouth and ruins everything.
When I get back to my place, the TV is off and Natalie’s door is shut. She’s studying or napping. Either way, I’m free to do what I want. I change quickly, pick out my favorite playlist, write her a note, and head back out.
I don’t have a routine for when I work out or anything. I’m not training for a marathon like Jules, so I can eat my weight in nachos. Despite what people think, I have a very healthy relationship with my body and my look. My mom taught me the value of loving yourself in all shapes and sizes from the day I was born. If I put on a few pounds? Awesome. If I lose some? Awesome too. I’ve been a size four to a size twelve. I go up and down depending on whatever’s going on in life. I don’t have an eating disorder, and I’m not anorexic. I eat when I’m hungry, and sometimes I overeat. Other times, I live off Red Bull and gummy bears. There’s no rhyme or reason for what I do, at least not one I’ve ever found.
I also work out because I get bored, and with all the sugary treats I eat and drink, I need to release the energy. If I were a painter or a writer or something, I’d use that as my outlet, but I’m not that creative. I can color between the lines and do a retelling ofCinderellafor bedtime, but that’s about it.
Some days, I lift; others, I join a spin class. Today, I’ve got no plans to stay inside and just want out. So I’m running. I’m sure Kooper is tracking me, the asshole.
I don’t know why Nat’s words bugged me so much. I’ve never seen Kooper as anything but annoying. He seems to be everywhere and nowhere all at once lately. Before I went to college, he was just the bad lighting near the pool tables at the club. Now, he seems to have his own blue light special overhead that pops up more than I expect him to.
When he first told me he was my babysitter, I was pissed. I thought I would have a tail everywhere. But true to his word, he’s kept it to the minimum since I follow the rules.Which, while annoying, are not the worst I’ve dealt with. And the longer it goes on, the more I actually give him some credit for being ballsy enough to just tell me what’s going on and not sneak about. He might be the first person to ever just call a spade a spade around me. Everyone else plays games and keeps secrets. Even my dad.
To this day, Dad has never acknowledged that he put Kooper on babysitting duty. I’ve tried to give him ample opportunities from the smooth wording I drop, but nada. He either knows I know or doesn’t. The entire club knows Kooper is my solo bodyguard, but I’ve really got no clue if anyone knows that I’m in on the details.
I won’t say it out loud, and I sure as hell won’t tell him to his face, but a part of me is impressed by the way Kooper handles me and my shit. It’s not with kid gloves. He doesn’t give me the princess treatment. He doesn’t treat me as anything, really. I’m just a job. One who isn’t left in the dark on the big things. Small things like how my landlord went from a prick to a nice guy aren’t my concern. But the big things, like knowing he can see the route I run today and get involved if needed, it’s… nice.
Dad takes care of me, but I know he has a lot going on. He literally carries the weight of the Hounds on his shoulders. I tried on his vest as a kid, and it weighs a fucking ton from what I remember. Of course, I was four and have never been allowed to try it on again after he saw me wearing it that one time. He smiled, took a picture, and then told me it wasn’t for me. Just like being in the club.
