Dare to Stay

by Jen McLaughlin

  “Y-yes, of course,” I managed to say, not tearing my glance from his. The thing was, something about him commanded that I meet his stare. That I not back down. “But when you give blood, they give you juice and cookies, and you lost a lot of blood, so . . .”

  “So you followed protocol,” he finished for me, when it became clear I wasn’t going to. He took the cookie out of my hand, and his fingers brushed mine. My breath caught in my throat, and I jerked back right away. He smiled. “Good thinking.”

  “Thanks,” I said distractedly.

  I was too busy dealing with the way he made me feel to give him much more of a response. It was like I was a bottle of soda, all shaken up inside. If he twisted my lid, all that pressure would release, and I would explode all over the place. All over him.

  Okay, that sounded grosser than it was supposed to.

  But still.

  He might be hurt, but he had a strength and charisma that overshadowed his current weaknesses. I had a sinking suspicion that that’s what had gotten him as far as he had gotten already. When Chris O’Brien wanted something, all he had to do was cock a brow and quirk those lips up, and the world gave it to him.

  And if it didn’t? He took it, anyway.

  I’d be smart to remember that.

  He finished off his cookie and dusted his hands off. He leaned against my fridge, looking two seconds from sleep. “What next, Ms. Lachlan? Nap time? Story time?”

  “Shower time.” I eyed his bloody, torn shirt and jacket. His clothes had dried to his skin in some places, so I could only imagine it would hurt as much as ripping off a Band-Aid would . . . if not more. “I think the best way to get that shirt off is scissors. Do you mind?”

  His lids drifted closed. “I don’t give a damn. Do what you have to do. The quicker, the better, because all I want to do is sleep.”

  “Okay. Hold on.” I pulled the scissors out of the knife block and moved closer to him. So close that to look at him, I had to tip my head back. “Rest against the wall. I have a feeling this might hurt.”

  He squared his jaw, watching me through his lowered lashes. That shouldn’t have sent my pulse skyrocketing . . . but it did. “You won’t hurt me. I’ve been through much worse than removing a dried, bloody shirt, I assure you.”

  This up close and personal, I could smell his cologne, and the dimple in his chin looked even softer than ever before. I had this insane urge to press my pinkie against it, because I was pretty sure it would fit inside the dimple perfectly. But I didn’t. Because that would be insane. Ludicrous, even. And with him staring down at me, I noticed that his brown eyes had flecks of green in them. They were beautiful.

  “You ready?” I asked, my voice tight.

  “For you to take my clothes off?” A smirk lifted his lips, and the way he examined me—oh my God, the way he stared at me—made my heart race and my thighs tremble. He watched me as if I was about to be naked and underneath him. “I think so.”

  “I don’t,” I blurted. “I mean . . . okay.”

  Reaching up, I ran my hands over his shoulders and down his arms, removing his leather jacket. As I dragged my palms over his hard, muscular arms, he watched me, his nostrils flaring slightly. My breath caught in my throat, and I set the jacket aside, touching the hole in the shoulder. I could patch it up for him, if I had the right tools.

  And if I, you know, wanted to.

  I traced the bullet hole on the soft leather, sucking in a breath. What kind of life did he lead? I mean, I knew what kind of life he lived—but I didn’t know know. It was like watching a TV show or a cops-and-robbers movie . . . only for him? It was real.

  And now for me, too.

  Because he was in my home.

  “It’s ruined. There’s no way I can fix it without it being obvious.” Something in his voice told me he wasn’t happy about that. I had a feeling this jacket meant a lot more to him than something to provide him with warmth. “It’s trash now.”

  “Maybe. Maybe not.” I stared down at it. “Not everything that is scarred is incapable of being saved.”

  He watched me with heated eyes, his nostrils flaring, and stepped closer. As he did so, he froze, almost as if he didn’t mean to, and clenched his hands into fists. “Yeah, it is. If it’s broken and damaged, you can’t save it,” he growled.

  As I laid the jacket on the counter, a bloody piece of paper fell out. It was folded in quarters. Bending, I picked it up. “Do you need this?”

  He snatched it out of my fingers and shoved it in his jeans. “Yes. It’s mine.”

  “All right.” I bit down on my lip and leaned closer, staring at the gaping hole in his shirt. Moving closer, I eyed his shoulder. I could see the spot where the bullet hit, went through, and didn’t come out. The back of his shirt didn’t have a hole. “The bullet . . . ?”

  “Is gone. I took it out in the pharmacy.”

  I swallowed the bile trying to rise in my throat. It tasted awful and felt even worse. “You took it out . . . yourself . . .”

  A laugh came out of him. Harsh. Hard. Sexy. “Yeah. Not the first time, Princess.”

  “I told you not to call me that.”

  “I know.” He smirked at me. “But I don’t listen to orders well.”

  Obviously.

  I picked up the scissors and grabbed the hem of his cotton shirt. When I did so, my knuckles brushed against the fly of his jeans, and he was hard. Oh God. Not hard. But . . . hard. Okay, I know that didn’t make any sense, but he was so close, and my knuckles were touching him, and he was right there staring at me. Everything about this man was stone. Rock solid. I bet he never even cried as a baby. Just came out, surveyed the world, and settled in for the ride until he was old enough to wreak some havoc.

  And he hadn’t stopped since.

  Taking a deep breath, I positioned the scissors at the center of his shirt. My knuckles brushed against the cool button of his jeans, and my pinkies ran along his . . . yeah. His penis. He jerked a bit, as if he hadn’t been expecting it, and I didn’t blame him. Neither had I. “I’m so sorry—”

  “Shut up; stop apologizing.” He clenched his teeth. “And just fucking do it already.”

  Heat suffused my cheeks. Without another word, I cut right up the center of his shirt. Each squeeze of the scissors had my fingers brushing up against his hard, tattooed skin. I couldn’t look away from it as I uncovered it. It was better than unwrapping any present I’d ever gotten . . . and more dangerous, too.

  Because this man, this present I unwrapped, was deadly.

  And when I lifted my face to his, and our eyes met, he watched me like I was the next thing he wanted to wreak havoc on. And that didn’t scare me as much as it should.

  Instead, it made me feel alive in a way I’d never felt before.

  “Molly,” he breathed, his chest rising and falling.

  I swallowed and made one more cut. It had me level with his chest, and I could see his nipples. They, like the rest of him, were hard. Both nipples had silver rings in them, and they matched the one he used to wear in his eyebrow, but he’d taken it out a few months ago. Although in retrospect, it seemed more likely it had been ripped out in a fight, rather than removed of his own free will. I could also make out the black Sons of Steel Row ink above his heart, claiming him for life. “Head back.”

  He gritted his teeth but tilted his head back, exposing his neck to me. I could see the spot on his eyebrow I’d been thinking of seconds ago, and the angry red scar that had been left behind. I ached to ask him what had happened. I’d liked it on him.

  It had been edgy. Sexy.

  Just like him.

  I took the last cut, which would finish off the shirt, and set the scissors aside. The dark cotton shirt hung open, and I stepped back. Aside from the fact that he was bloody and bruised and a killer . . . he was the prettiest present I’d ever gotten.r />
  Hard muscles. Dark ink. Cold metal. A six-pack that could have been carved by the Roman gods themselves. And as if that wasn’t enough, his hard jaw—

  A disgruntled sound escaped him. “Princess?”

  “Uh . . .” I jerked out of my thoughts, slamming my gaze into his. The heat in his, and the inescapable power, had me stumbling back a step, pressing a hand to my stomach. It hollowed out in response immediately. “Yeah?”

  He smirked, and it was, hands down, the sexiest smirk to ever grace this planet. “If you don’t stop looking at me like that, I’ll show you every damn reason you should—and you’ll fucking love it.”

  CHAPTER 5

  CHRIS

  Jesus Christ, the woman would try the patience of a damn saint, and I was so far—the furthest thing—from one that it was truly laughable. If I hadn’t been in so much pain, I would have laughed my ass off right then. This whole day had been like some alternate reality for me. I’d tried to kill my best friend, realized I’d become something I didn’t want to be, and gotten my ass saved by a princess, all in less than twenty-four hours.

  My ribs felt like they were split in half, and my shoulder stung like a bitch, and even worse than all that shit? My cock was hard and aching from her soft touches.

  And she didn’t even have a clue about it.

  There was no way she was doing it on purpose, trying to seduce me. And even if she was, despite my words, it would get her nowhere. I refused to dirty her.

  She deserved a prince. Not a villain.

  That’s why I kept calling her Princess. Not because I thought she was spoiled, or a brat, but because it was a constant reminder to myself that she was too good for me and always had been. She was like Rapunzel, at the top of the tower, draped in silks and diamonds and pearls, and I was Flynn, stealing what I could to survive. Rapunzel might end up with Flynn, but that was a fairy tale, not real life. There was no world where the two of us ended up together.

  And, yeah. So what if I liked Disney movies? They were a break from my world of death and destruction. But if she thought I’d admit my love for those kid movies . . .

  She was sadly mistaken. I’d die first.

  She backed up and wrapped her arms around herself, her cheeks bright pink. Even that made her more charming, and more approachable, instead of making me more aware of just how out of my league she was. “You keep saying all these things to me, but I don’t think you intend to follow through.”

  I lifted a shoulder. It hurt like a bitch. “I won’t be here long enough to do so, so I guess we’ll never find out.”

  “You don’t have to leave first thing,” she said, still hugging herself. She’d stopped backing away from me, but she still seemed nervous. Good. She should be. “Take the day to sleep and recover. I won’t even be here most of the day tomorrow, so you’ll have the place to yourself, and no reason to run off.”

  I eyed her hand. It still bothered me that she hadn’t tended to it yet, and I would be doing it as soon as she stopped fussing over me. “Where are you going?”

  “I have some stuff to do,” she said evasively, not turning my way. “But I’ll be back around four. You could spend the day, maybe another night, and reenter the world of fighting and shoot-outs a bit more rested.”

  More than likely, I would run for it before Scotty’s lies imploded all around me. I wasn’t sure what I was doing yet, but if I stayed, I’d more than likely end up dead. I couldn’t trust Scotty now that I knew he was a cop. “We’ll see,” I said.

  Biting down on her lip, she came closer again. Her shirt was high necked, so there was no sign of cleavage or even any skin, but I couldn’t look away from her chest as it rose and fell. The closer she got to me, the harder it did so. And my own damn body didn’t miss that. Too bad I wouldn’t give it what it wanted.

  Or her.

  She might not want to admit it, and might have no intentions of following through on it—much like me—but she wanted me. Everything about her screamed it, from the way she lingered over my chest and abs to the nervous chewing of her bottom lip as she reached out to remove my shirt. Her quick breaths. Her pink cheeks.

  It was all there, screaming for me to take her.

  But I couldn’t. Wouldn’t.

  Something brushed against my ankle, and I glanced down. It was a little orange fur ball that I would recognize anywhere as hers. It had a smooshed-in face and a heart-shaped nose. It meowed up at me, rubbing its face against my leg. “Cute cat.”

  A smile lifted her lips, and it was the most beautiful thing I’d ever witnessed. “Thanks. His name is Buttons. He showed up on my doorstep one day, out of the blue.”

  “Weird,” I said, keeping my voice even as she tore the shirt away from my bruised, bleeding skin. “Like a stray?”

  “Like a present,” she said, her voice softening.

  I gritted my teeth. “From who?”

  She slowly lifted my shirt away from my skin. It hurt worse than it should have, because she was so damn tender about the whole thing. She should have just ripped it off to get it over with, because tenderness was a luxury I didn’t deserve.

  “I don’t know.” She shot me a quick glance. I stared back at her, raising a brow. “Every once in a while, something shows up on my step with a line of a poem. It’s been going on for a couple of years now, like a continued, drawn-out love story.”

  “Love story?” I snorted. “Sounds more like you have a stalker.”

  “No, I don’t think so.” She rolled half my shirt down my arm. I hissed because it pulled on the stitches. “It’s sweet. He never misses my birthday, or a holiday, and it’s become something I really look forward to. I wish I knew who he was.”

  I didn’t reply to that. There was nothing to say.

  She moved behind me, not seeming to mind my silence, her shoulder brushing against my bare back as she rolled the remainder of my shirt toward my injured side. I gritted my teeth—not because of the pain, but because her soft touches were going to be the death of me.

  After a lifetime of looking only to survive, I didn’t know what to do with this softness. No one had ever helped me heal. I’d been on my own for as long as I could remember. Ma hadn’t had a soft bone in her body. Half the time, she’d looked as if she enjoyed it when Pops punished me. Like she wanted to see it happen. After what I’d done to Lucas, I was just as bad as they were. I’d become my pops.

  How had I let myself fall so far?

  “Just pull it off,” I gritted out. “I’ll be fine.”

  She trailed her fingers over my back, and I stiffened. “You have so many scars. Are these all from fighting?”

  “Yeah.” I shrugged. “Most of them were caused by me being a stubborn jackass.”

  That was a lie.

  Most of them were from Pops.

  He used to love to beat me when I let him down, or if he was in a bad mood. Hell, he didn’t really need a reason, but, lucky for him, I let him down a lot as a kid. Even when I grew enough to fight back, I hadn’t. It was all about respect.

  In this life, if your lieutenant thought you deserved a beating—you fucking got a beating. And you didn’t fight back. Especially not if it was your pops dishing it out.

  But I wasn’t about to tell her all that. She didn’t need to know that Pops’s weapon of choice was his steel-tipped wooden cane. Or that for special occasions, he’d used his spiked belt to whip some sense into me.

  That was where most of the scars came from.

  No one knew who my pops really was, or our fucked-up family dynamics. Not even Lucas. Everyone thought Pops was this easygoing, laid-back asshole who had been in the Sons his whole life and deserved respect. And that wasn’t about to change now. I wasn’t a pussy-whipped bitch who would cry on someone’s shoulder when shown a bit of softness. Life was life. I was me. Pops was Pops. Nothing would change that.

&nbs
p; Not even Molly.

  The shirt hit the floor, and I stood there, bare chested in her fancy kitchen. She sucked in a breath and pressed her hand against a rigid scar on my back. I remembered that one all too well. I’d been eight, and Pops had had a bad day at work. He came home, found me eating my dinner, and screamed that I’d dropped a noodle on the floor. Next thing I knew, I was bleeding in my room, unable to move because he’d broken one of my ribs.

  Ma hadn’t even checked on me that night. I’d recovered in my room, alone with nothing but bread and milk for meals, while everyone else was told I had the chicken pox. It still hurt when I twisted too hard to the left. That was my life.

  “Are you done?” I asked between my clenched teeth, eyeing the opulent kitchen around us. Everything was state-of-the-art, perfectly matched. And lying on the counter—literally just lying there—were a diamond necklace and matching earrings.

  Easily worth a few grand, and she didn’t even lock them up in a safe.

  I had money stashed away, a little nest egg in case of emergencies, but it was nothing compared to this. To what she had. If I wanted to, all I had to do was grab a few of her shoes or necklaces, and I could be outta this town so fast, all you’d see would be a blur.

  “Yeah. I’m done.” She dropped her hand to her side and walked around me, heading for the living room. She didn’t glance back at me. She turned the sink on, sticking her hands under the running water. I watched the blood wash off her. If only it was so easy for me. “You’re next.”

  “Huh?”

  “To wash.” She scrubbed with soap, then backed away from the sink. “Go ahead.”

  I did as told. When I finished, she handed me a paper towel. I took it, our fingers brushing. “Thank you.”

  “You’re welcome,” she said softly. “Come on up. I’ll show you to your room and get you a towel and some clean clothes.”

  I followed her, grabbing the medical supplies off the counter as I did so. “You have men’s clothes in your house?”