by Mazzy King
Even in the dim lighting, her cheeks flush, and she lowers her gaze to her plate. “No. I’m not perfect.”
I gape at her. “I’m sorry. I did say all my very solid reasons why you are out loud, right?”
“Perfectionism is an impossible pedestal,” she says softly. “I have my share of flaws, believe me.”
“Then you’re perfectly imperfect.” I set my empty plate on the nightstand, stack hers on top, and reach for her hand. She looks troubled, and that troubles me. I only meant to tell her how amazing she is, but it seems I’ve said the wrong thing. “I’m sorry, Isla. I didn’t mean to make you uncomfortable. I just—I think you’re fucking incredible, and I want you to know it.”
She smiles and touches my cheek. “It’s not you. I just—bad memories I’m trying to forget.”
Suspicion rouses in my chest. “We talking that ex of yours, here?”
She nods. I wait. After a few moments, she says, “He was someone who believed I should try to attain actual perfection, and he let me know in no uncertain terms each time I failed.”
I grit my teeth. “Did he…put his hands on you?” If that’s the case, then I really am going to track this prick down and fuck with him, bad.
“No. No physical abuse, ever. And no outright name-calling. It was, like…” She gazes off toward the window. “Subtle psychological destruction. Really…insidious. That’s the best way I can put it.”
It clicks, painfully. I clear my throat. “Actually, I know exactly what you mean. And I’m sorry. I know how fucked up that is.”
She shifts her luminous eyes to me. “You do? How?”
I give her a one-sided smile, but I know it doesn’t reach my eyes. “I’ve got my own bad memories I want to forget.”
Isla says nothing, stroking the back of my hand with the tips of her fingers.
I intertwine our hands. “I dated someone for a while who wanted me to fit into her idea of perfection, too. I guess I let her down. But you know what? I’m glad I did. She would have destroyed me. And…” I lift our hands to my lips and kiss her fingers. “I would never have found you.”
Isla draws in a deep breath. “What I feel for you, Gunner… It scares me. It’s so fast. It’s too fast. Right?”
“Time is bullshit,” I say with a shrug. “Or it is to me now, at least. Since I became a cop. Knowing I could die every time I go to work. It’s taught me to value how short life is.”
Isla swallows. “You could…die.”
Shit. Probably not a great thing to say considering what we went through today. Just goes to show how fucking jaded you can get doing this job.
“I possess a very particular and well-honed set of skills, you know,” I say with a little mocking grin I desperately hope will put her at ease. “And I don’t mean what just happened in this bed tonight. Me dying wouldn’t be the easiest feat to accomplish, I promise.”
Now it’s her turn for her smile not to reach her eyes.
“Hey.” I draw her into my arms, then reach out and turn off the light. The late November moonlight streams in through the parted curtains. “What’s on your mind?”
“I—I just…” She shivers. “Thinking about time. About risk. About today. I guess it’s catching up.”
“Today was nothing,” I tell her. “Just another day in the life. For me.”
“A day in…your life,” she repeats a little dully.
I feel like I keep saying the wrong thing. “I’m sorry, Isla. I’m not trying to make light of it or diminish your feelings. I just don’t want you to worry about me. Let’s take care of you.” I stroke her back and press my lips to the top of her head. “What can I do to relax you?”
“That,” she says softly. “Just—just hold me, Gunner.”
So I do. I tighten my arms around her and hold her tight, hoping she knows she’ll always be safe and warm and taken care of with me. And that her imperfections could not be more perfect in my eyes.
But the tighter I hold her, I realize as sleep steals over us both, the more it feels like she’s slipping away.
Chapter 8
Isla
I wake up in a cold sweat, my heart pounding, panic seizing my throat so tight I can’t breathe.
What was I dreaming of? All I can remember is how it feels—the terror, the pain. Not physical pain. An emotional one that cuts me deep, to the marrow. It’s the pain of loss, the death of a loved one.
There are tears on my cheeks. Fresh tears.
“Hey,” a deep voice says beside me. Warm hands touch my face, my neck, my back. I’m gathered into strong arms and held against an equally strong chest. Gradually, the room comes into view as I blink rapidly. I’m in my bedroom. It’s dawn. And the man holding me is strong and beautiful and brave. And alive.
For now…
I gulp.
Gunner tilts my face toward his, a crease of concern between his brows. “It’s all right,” he says softly, as if he knows just what was happening in my head. “It was just a dream, Isla. You’re okay.”
Was it just a dream? He said it himself. He could be killed every time he leaves the house. That sounds like an unbearable reality. How much time does he have left on his clock? By loving him—and goddammit, but I love him—that means when that clock runs out, it just might kill me, too.
A shotgun barrel appears in my mind, pointing at my face, over and over and over.
But instead of saying any of these things, I tell him, “I’m okay. Just a bad dream.”
He kisses my forehead, then glances at the clock on the nightstand. “Let’s get some more sleep. Then I’m taking you out to a big ol’ brunch. What’s your favorite thing to eat for brunch?”
A genuine, faint smile plays at my lips. “Probably battered French toast. With bacon.”
“Yup. That’s exactly what you’re getting.” He kisses my temple and tugs me back down.
It was just a dream, I tell myself, fighting against the quivers threatening to overtake me.
But it wasn’t just a dream, and that’s the trouble. It’s too real.
I can’t stop seeing down that damn shotgun barrel.
I lie awake beside him for what feels like hours, but eventually, I drift off. I’m rudely awakened when I hear the bleating of a cell phone.
Gunner jerks awake and immediately leans over to paw for his jeans on the floor. He pulls his cell phone from his pocket. “Hansen,” he says in a clipped tone that gives nothing away about the fact he was just dead asleep.
Based on that tone and that greeting, I’m guessing that’s work on the other line.
“Yeah.” He smacks a hand to his forehead, then swipes his palm down his face. “Yeah, I’ll be right in.” He hangs up the phone, and my heart sinks a little at the sad smile he gives me. “Well…think we can raincheck brunch? I’m needed in a meeting this morning.”
“Of course.” I pause. “Work?” It’s a silly question since I already know the answer.
He nods and runs a finger down my cheek. “Yeah. I’m helping out Gang Unit with some UC stuff.”
“UC?”
“Undercover,” he clarifies. “Kinda like yesterday.”
I could die every time I go to work.
He gets out of bed and dresses quickly. I stand and pull on my sweater and leggings, feeling the same strangling feeling that overtook me in my sleep creep over me again.
We walk to my front door, and Gunner turns, pulling me into his arms. He cups my cheek.
“Isla. You’re not okay.”
I swallow. “I…I’ve got a lot on my mind.”
He frowns a little. “Do you want to talk about it after my meeting?”
“I think…I need a little time,” I murmur. “To think.”
“I understand.” He strokes a thumb down my cheek. “I’m here for you. You know that, right?”
As long as you’re alive…
I nod. “Yes. I know that.”
Worry flashes through his eyes, making them stormier than ever. He kisses
me. “I’ll call you later, all right?”
I nod again and watch him walk to his car. The thought flits through my mind it could be the last time.
The strangling feeling grips me again. I step back inside the house and shut the door.
Yesterday after he left the first time, I felt fine. I felt on fire, due to the incredible kiss we shared before he went. I showered and started cooking, anticipating his return, and felt great.
And after a night of the most amazing sex I’ve ever had, I should feel even better. But I don’t. I’m terrified. I thought I was ready to love again, and I already know I love Gunner. I feel it deep down in my soul, like it’s a fact. But I almost died yesterday. And he could have died yesterday. He could die today. Tomorrow. Every time he goes to work. And that scares me. Guns and danger and threats and violence are a part of his everyday life, his profession. My everyday life, my profession? Those involve shampoo, wax, eyelash extensions, hair color, and makeup.
I know what bad love feels like. It’s not love. And what I feel for Gunner feels good and true. But I don’t know if I’m strong enough to be with someone whose chances of dying are higher than the average joe.
Maybe it’s the fear talking. Maybe I’m losing my mind. Maybe I’m a terrible coward. Maybe I’ve been programmed to believe I don’t deserve real love because I’m perfectly imperfect.
Maybe I don’t know who I am or what I want anymore.
In the kitchen, I drop to the floor and burst into tears.
It’s been five days since I asked Gunner for space. Five days since I started the worst emotional struggle of my life since leaving my terrible relationship. Five days that have felt like five months.
I’ve taken some time this week to myself. My clients understood. I explained what had happened at the bank—they all saw the news and were shocked to know I was there—and that I was pretty shaken up and seeking some help. Being the lovely women they are, they encouraged me to take all the time I need to get back to feeling better.
I needed to get myself some help. I love myself enough to recognize the signs of trauma—when you endure something awful for a long time and you pull yourself out, you stay vigilantly on the lookout for anything that resembles that turmoil. After I left my last relationship, I was in therapy twice a week for a year. Now I go once a month. But the day Gunner walked out of my house and I broke down in my kitchen, I knew it was time to send up an S.O.S.
I called my therapist and had an appointment right away, and I’ve seen her every day since, including today. I walk into the house, back from our session, and everything we discussed floats around in my head. The first two days, we talked about the bank. The third and fourth days, we talked about my past relationship and what I’ve come to terms with and what I clearly haven’t come to terms with.
Today, the fifth day, we talked about Gunner.
The hostage situation at the bank shook something loose in my brain. Something that brought out the old me, the terrified one, the one who never thought she was good enough for anything, the one who thought she deserved the psychological abuse she took before. It made me frightened and ready to walk away from something pure and good—Gunner.
I explained to Gunner in a text that I was having a really hard time, and that I needed a few days to get my thoughts together. He told me to take all the time I needed, but even through the phone, I could tell I’d hurt him, and that killed me.
But like flight attendants tell you before every flight, in the event of an emergency, you can’t help anyone else until you put your own oxygen mask on. And this is me doing that.
I just hope he’ll be willing to listen when I’m ready to talk. And if he’s not…I’ll totally understand.
It’s Thursday afternoon, and I decide to spend some time reading a good book. I picked up a romance from a local author who’s exploded in popularity, Violet Sweet. I attended her book signing last month, and there was an incredible moment where this guy came in quoting her book and professing his love for her in front of everyone. It helped me believe good, true love exists. I’ve read all of her books since then, and am about to dive into her newest, the one she was signing at the event. Remembering that day puts a smile on my face as I boil some water for tea.
I’ve just sat down in my favorite comfy chair by the window, my tea steeping in the mug, when the doorbell rings.
Curious—and a little irritated my quiet time is being interrupted when I really need it—I peek through the peephole. The guy standing on the other side is a tall, really good-looking guy—and I know him. From where?
That’s right—he was one of the cops at the bank. The one Gunner talked to a lot. His partner, I think.
What’s he doing here?
I open the door. “Um, hi.”
The man smiles at me, but it’s a pretty somber one. “Miss Gregory? I’m Officer Jaxson Rivers. We met briefly last week after the situation at the bank.”
“Yes, of course. Um…how can I help you?”
He hesitates. The smile drops off his face.
“If it’s all right with you, I’d like to come in and have a chat.”
“About…about the bank? I never did give a statement.” I pull my sweater more tightly around me as an icy breeze gusts up around him. Or maybe it’s just me, because the thought of having to talk about what happened that day makes me feel ill and cold. “I guess we can do that.”
“Sure, I can take a statement,” Officer Rivers says, “but…actually, I’d like to talk to you about Gunner.”
Chapter 9
Gunner
A week is not a long time. Seven days, one hundred sixty-eight hours. Sometimes, it feels like it goes by in the blink of an eye. Usually that’s a good thing.
But sometimes, it feels like it goes by at the speed of a fucking snail. And that sucks. Especially when you’re hurting.
As I am.
It’s been a week since Isla asked me for space, telling me she needed to figure some things out. I respect that—how could I not? But I’m also just a man. As the days continue to pile up with no word from her, the heavier my heart grows, and the more I wonder if the answer to my question—there’s got to be someone out there who can handle everything that comes with loving a cop, right?—is really and truly…no.
Maybe it’s the badge, or love. But not both. Not for me.
I’m trying hard not to wallow. I’m getting out and doing things, and in fact, I’m just getting home now from playing basketball with some of my friends. I’m trying hard to respect her need for space. I’m trying hard not to take it personally. But…it hurts.
I love her, and it hurts.
I suppose I loved her the second our eyes met when I walked in the bank. When I knew, watching that asshole point a shotgun at her face, that I would die first before I let anything happen to her. When we kissed for the first time inside her house. I’m old enough and have lived enough life to know what’s love and what’s lust. And while I have plenty of lust for Isla, it’s all underscored by love.
And just when I think I’m ready to give my heart away to the one woman who deserves it…I might be on the verge of getting it broken.
I groan at my own pathetic state as I grab a bottle of water from the fridge and guzzle it down. It’s late afternoon. Some of the guys I played ball with suggested we go out for steaks and brews tonight at the new place that opened up. They’re all married or in serious relationships, so none of them are going to be up to any bullshit. Just guy time, and maybe some red meat and craft beer will help get my mind off my heartache.
I strip off my shirt and am about to head to the shower when my doorbell rings. I live in a small, split-level house in a quiet suburb minutes from the city. A lot of guys in the department live out here, preferring the peace to the excitement of the city. Plus, it’s a little awkward to be shopping at Target and running into someone you once arrested.
I find my cell and access the app connected to my security system. No way in hell do I
ever answer the door without getting a good look at who’s standing on my doorstep.
I almost drop the phone.
It’s Isla, wearing a charcoal-gray North Face jacket, a scarf, and her hair blows in the wind.
Should I answer? Why didn’t she call? What do I do?
I groan at my idiocy again. “Stop acting like a twelve-year-old nerd, for starters.” I clear my throat. I’m a sweaty mess from playing ball, and I’m shirtless. My gym tee’s hanging out of the back pocket of my athletic shorts, but it’s too sweaty and wrinkled to bother with. Damn. If only she’d come ten minutes from now.
It’s cold, Hansen! Answer the fucking door and stop stalling.
I open the door.
Her jade-green eyes go wide and rove over my body. Okay, so maybe going shirtless was a good option. I just hope I don’t stink.
And, fuck, but it’s so good to see her. She looks beautiful. She’s physically here. I want her in my arms so badly, but… She might be here to break up with me, once and for all, in person. I keep my hands to myself.
“Isla,” I say softly, unable to keep the yearning out of my voice. “Wow. I didn’t realize you were coming by.” Well, no shit, Sherlock.
She gives me a smile that makes me weak. “I know. I didn’t call. I took a chance that you might be home. Looks like you just got in.”
“I was playing basketball at the gym,” I say. “You have great timing.” The cold air makes my nipples hard, and her eyes go wider. She’s still standing in the cold, you asshole. “Fuck, I’m sorry. You want to come in?”
She nods and I hold the door, stepping back to let her in. I lead her up the short flight of stairs. To the left is a hallway that leads to the master bedroom, a spare room, and the guest bathroom. To the right and front of the house is the living room. Toward the back of the house on the right is the kitchen and dining area. What’s better? The kitchen feels like a natural gathering place, but the living room feels more homey.
