Dare to Stay

by Jen McLaughlin

  “That doesn’t stop me from wishing it for you,” he said, letting go of me and stepping back. I immediately missed his touch, but I was also relieved it was gone. And, yeah, I knew that didn’t make much sense. None of this did. “Roast is in the oven. It’ll be ready soon.”

  “It smells delicious,” I said, turning away from him and taking a deep breath. It did nothing to calm my nerves or to ease the hollowness inside me that ached endlessly for his touch. “Is that pie I smell, too?”

  “Apple,” he answered distractedly as he picked through the bag of art supplies I’d brought home for him. “I remembered it was your favorite.”

  I blinked. “When did I tell you that?”

  “I don’t know,” he said, pulling out the pad and pencils. “A couple of years ago, I think. When I was painting your shutters blue.”

  I studied him, because I remembered the conversation now. His mother had been baking cherry pie, and he offered to bring me some, but I had told him I preferred apple. The sun had shone down on him, illuminating his hard brown eyes, and at the time I just wanted to go back inside, to safety, because the man slaving over painting my shutters had terrified me.

  Now, he did so even more, but in different ways.

  I wasn’t scared he might somehow snap and hurt me. I wasn’t frightened that he’d pull a gun on me and take my money, or my car, or even my life. Now I was frightened of my reaction to him, and worried if I would be able to take what I wanted—him—and not let myself get too close. Not get hurt.

  And that was a heck of a lot scarier than any uncertainty about my safety.

  “Oh. Right.” I smiled. “I forgot.”

  “I didn’t.” He set the art stuff down and studied me. It made my heart beat faster, and it made the desire I felt for him surge even higher . . . which was a disaster all on its own. “I remember everything you tell me.”

  I gripped the chair behind me, unable to look away. “Why?”

  “Because it’s you,” he said simply.

  It was enough.

  And it only made my desire to give in to my, well, desire all the more firmly footed. I wouldn’t fool myself into thinking that we could live happily ever after, but we could have some fun while we were together. “What are you going to draw?”

  “I told you already,” he said, his lips tilting up into one of those breathtaking smiles he rarely gave me. “Whatever inspires me.”

  “I really want to see your work. I bet it’s not so bad.”

  He snorted. “Why?”

  “I like art. Someone once drew me a picture.” I stepped closer. “That guy I told you about, who gives me things.”

  “The stalker, you mean?” he asked, opening the oven to peek into it. Buttons took a break from eating, hovering over the bowl to stare at Chris speculatively. “If I were you, I’d stop accepting anything from him. He sounds dangerous.”

  I shook my head. “I don’t think he is, though.”

  “Seeing as you’re the same woman who invited me into her house?” He shut the oven and dusted off his hands. Buttons went back to chowing down on the food Chris had given him. “No offense, but I think your danger radar is a little fucked-up. The guy’s a nut.”

  “I disagree.” I paused. “And the drawing was good.”

  “Then you’re lucky I’m not your stalker.” He grinned. “If I had been, you would have burned the drawing in the fireplace.”

  “I doubt that,” I murmured. “I think if you drew me something, I would love it.”

  “That’s because you haven’t seen my work,” he pointed out. “Speaking of work, how was yours today?”

  “Good. We were reading today. Tomorrow’s the last day before break, so the kids are antsy.”

  “Oh yeah?” He leaned on the counter and crossed his arms, and he actually acted as if he was interested. “How does that feel, teaching kids how to read?”

  “Pretty freaking amazing,” I admitted, smiling. “It’s my favorite part of the year. It starts with letters and memorizing sight words. But once we get to the part where they can pick up a book and actually read a few words on their own? It’s just . . . amazing.” I laughed. “I know I already said that, but it’s the best word for it, you know?”

  “I do.” He smiled. It lit up his face. “And that’s definitely amazing.”

  I swept my hair out of my face. “I mean, it’s not all glamour and reading. There’s things about being a kindergarten teacher that really suck.”

  “Like what?” he asked, crossing his ankles. “The crying and snot?”

  “Yeah. Tears over broken crayons, and fights between friends. And the vomiting, and lice.” I winced and scratched my head at the mere word. “Those pale little buggers are literally from the devil, I kid you not. I wouldn’t wish them on my worst enemy.”

  He uncrossed his arms. “I would, and I wouldn’t even feel bad about it after.”

  A laugh bubbled out of me. He was nothing if not honest. “Have you ever had them?”

  “Yeah.” He scrunched his nose. “Once, as a kid.” After a second’s hesitation, he added, “Pops shaved off my hair, even though I was growing it out, because he didn’t want Ma to have to deal with the combing.”

  “Ah.” I studied him. He said it so calmly, like it didn’t matter, but something told me there was more to the story than met the naked eye. “Did you ask him not to?”

  “I didn’t exactly get a say in the matter, Princess,” he said, twisting his lips.

  I nodded. So his childhood had been one of those.

  Over the years, I’d seen a lot of kids who felt like they didn’t have a voice in their own homes. It never ceased to sadden me. For some reason, I hadn’t thought Chris had been one of those kids. He’d always seemed so put together and laid-back. And Mr. O’Brien was always smiling and cracking jokes. Didn’t seem to have an exasperated bone in his body. “How’d you feel about that?”

  He gaped at me as if I’d magically grown two heads, like he always did when I brought his emotions into the conversation. “I felt fucking fine about it. I was a kid. What the hell did I know about anything?”

  “Just because you’re young doesn’t mean your desires don’t count,” I said slowly. It was something I said to my kids, in different words, so it was a sentiment I was familiar with expressing. “When you’re a kid, you have to bow down to your parents’ wishes, obviously, since they’re the adults, but it doesn’t make your wishes any less important, no matter what your age. You’re as much your own person at six as you are at twenty-six.”

  Not even so much as a hint of emotion crossed his face. “Is that how old you are?”

  “I—yes.” I frowned at the change of topic. Also, how was it that we hadn’t already crossed this territory? Then again, up until I invited him into my home, we hadn’t exactly chatted a lot. “How old are you?”

  “Twenty-eight.” He scratched the back of his head and shifted his feet. “Almost twenty-nine.”

  “When?”

  He lifted a shoulder. “Tomorrow, I guess.”

  “You guess?” My jaw dropped. I couldn’t help it. He acted like tomorrow was just any other day, and it was his birthday. When my father was still alive, he went out of his way to make every single birthday better than the last. It had been the one day I anticipated the most every year. Not because of presents or cake, but because it had always been a wonderful day spent in the company of the person I loved the most: my dad. Since his death, it was the day I felt the absence of his company the most, too. “Is it, or isn’t it, your birthday tomorrow?”

  “It is.” Again, with the shoulder shrug. “It’s not a big deal, though. Just another day.”

  “No, it’s not.”

  His brow furrowed. “Yes. It is.”

  “What’s your favorite cake?”

  He blinked. “I don’t know. C
hocolate, I guess.”

  “I’m getting you a cake and making you dinner tomorrow.” I pointed a finger at him. “And you’re going to like it. Capisce?”

  “As much as I like it when you boss me around?” He shoved off the counter and came closer, each step cockier than the last. “What makes you think I’ll still be here tomorrow, Princess?”

  “Because I refuse to let you leave before we celebrate your birthday.” I nibbled on my lower lip. “It’s the least I can do after all you’ve done around here.”

  “What the—?” Something dark fleeted across his expression. “You’ve got it all wrong. I’m not the one who’s done shit that deserves thanks.”

  I held my hands out. “But—”

  He approached, his shoulders tight. “You’re the one who invited me into your home, not the other way around. You literally saved my life. What did I do? Fix a few things? Make sure a table didn’t wobble? It was nothing in comparison to what you did for me.”

  I swallowed and shook my head, trying to find the right words to express how I felt. It was a lot harder than it should have been. Tentatively, I placed my hand on his chest, right over his heart, which he was so certain was blackened and dead.

  It wasn’t. I refused to believe that.

  “Chris.”

  He glanced down at my hand. “Molly.”

  I almost pulled it back, an apology on my lips, but I didn’t. “Don’t take that tone with me.”

  “Ah, there’s that biting schoolteacher version of you I love so much.” His tone was teasing, but his jaw was too tight for me to take his words as a joke. “Careful, though. I’m not one of your kids, and I might bite back.”

  I rolled my eyes. “Yeah. Sure you will.”

  “You seem to think I’m not the type of guy to do so.” He stepped closer, looming over me. I sucked in a breath, gripping his shirt tighter. “You’re so wrong. I’m not your friend, and I’m not being a good guy by staying here. I’m endangering you by my presence. If I was a ‘nice’ guy, I would have left days ago, but I stayed, because it’s nice being in a big house with a big bed and a pretty woman—and I’m a selfish prick who likes the creature comforts of home.”

  I lifted my chin stubbornly. “I like having you here. I . . . I like you.”

  “Don’t. Just fucking don’t.” He rubbed the back of his neck. “I get paid to kill people, while you teach little kids how to read and make the world a better place one classroom at a time. So, tell me, how in the hell could you possibly like me?”

  When he put it like that, it only drove home the point that my attraction toward him was insane. And that I needed to keep my distance, because no matter how long he stayed, or how much closer we got, physically, it wouldn’t stop him from leaving. And when he did, I would be alone again. But even knowing that . . .

  It wasn’t enough to make me stop.

  It was too late for that, and it was about time I admitted it, too.

  I might regret it when he left, and I might even get hurt, but the thing was, right now, I didn’t care. All that mattered to me was helping him. Making sure he was okay. Showing him someone cared about him, even if he didn’t want me to, and refusing to let myself waver from that, or regret it.

  After all, I’d have plenty of time for regrets once he was gone.

  “You only think you like me because of your desire to be the type of person your dad was,” he said, his tone even. “You’re mistaking compassion for affection.”

  “You’re wrong. This has nothing to do with my dad. Not anymore.” I fisted his shirt, not letting him back off this time. “I don’t know why I like you, but I know it’s not some imagined feeling to be written off by you. And you can’t change that.”

  “Then you’re going to get hurt.” He covered his hand with mine, and for a second, I thought he would forcibly remove my hand. Instead, he pressed it closer to his chest, and I could feel his racing heart under my palm. “It’s what I do. I hurt people.”

  “Not me.” I stepped closer, lifting my face to his. “You wouldn’t hurt me.”

  A laugh escaped him. It sounded harsh. “You have no idea just what I could do to you, Princess.”

  “So show me.” My heart picked up speed, but I ignored it. “I’m not scared.”

  “You should be.” He backed me into the counter, his large hard body looming over mine. With his free hand, he gripped my chin and tilted it up to him. His hold was unyielding yet somehow gentle. “You should be fucking frightened.”

  My pulse raced, and I couldn’t seem to get enough oxygen to fill my lungs, but I’d never felt more alive than I did in this moment. All my life, I’d been getting by. Going from moment to moment—and this was what I was missing. If he thought I was willing to throw it all away and pretend I didn’t want him, he was crazy.

  This feeling, this rush, was too intoxicating to deny anymore.

  I was done trying.

  We might not have long together, and there was no chance for this to be more than just sex, but I was willing to accept that, if he was. “Show me.” I lifted my face to his, refusing to cower or shy away. “I dare you.”

  His fingers shifted on my chin, and he pressed even closer. “You have no idea what the hell you’re doing right now. This is all some silly little game to you, and you think you can win. I’ll let you in on a secret: I don’t play fair. If you go up against me—you’ll fucking lose. And it’ll hurt.”

  “Maybe that’s a risk I’m willing to take.” I gripped his hip with my other hand but accidentally touched something hard. Something that felt a lot like a gun. “And that’s my choice to make.”

  He gritted his teeth and shook his head. “Yeah, but it’s my choice to decide whether or not I’m willing to let you. And I’m not. Keep your distance, Molly. Guys like me aren’t made for girls like you. I would rip you apart.”

  With that, he pushed off me and walked away, not looking back. “Chris—”

  “Dinner’s ready,” he said, his tone final and cold as he opened the oven. “And this discussion is over. I said all I need to say.”

  I watched him take the roast out, yank off the oven mitts, and cut into the meat with precise strokes. Every single slice was the same size as the last. I wrapped my arms around myself, knowing exactly why he was so comfortable with a knife.

  How many people had he killed? Five? Ten? Twenty? A hundred?

  I couldn’t help but wonder if they haunted him at night. If he ever wished he’d chosen a different life or a different job. Heck, if he ever wished he were a different person. I did, sometimes. I was pretty sure most people did, to some degree. But Chris just seemed so . . . so . . . certain who he was, and who he was supposed to be, and he didn’t seem to have a single regret. Did he have any dreams? Hopes? Goals?

  Did he even dream at night at all?

  “I’ll stay,” he said softly, setting the knife down. “One more day.”

  I swallowed. “And your birthday dinner?”

  “I—” He hesitated and turned to me. He seemed more in control again, and it was as if I hadn’t been in his arms moments before, practically begging him to kiss me. “I don’t really see the point at all, but if it makes you happy, we can do it. Whatever you want, Princess.”

  I want you. “Great. What’s your favorite meal?”

  “I don’t have a favorite meal,” he said slowly, staring at me oddly.

  I crossed my arms. “Chris—”

  “Fine. Steak and baked potatoes.”

  “Good choice.” I forced a smile, but my entire body was all wound up into a tight little ball. “Wine? Beer? Whiskey?”

  He lifted a shoulder. “Whatever you want.”

  “It’ll be fun. You’ll see.”

  He eyed me like he was torn between kissing me, strangling me, and laughing. Maybe all of the above. “Yeah. Fun.”

&
nbsp; And I had a feeling, for better or for worse . . .

  It was going to be one hell of a birthday.

  CHAPTER 11

  CHRIS

  The next evening, I let my fingers and hands do all the work, watching as the black charcoal spread across previously unblemished drawing paper. My strokes were soft and smooth, guided by sheer instinct as I visualized the picture, despite the guilt racking me. I should have left that morning, after she went to work to make the world a better place, and in turn made her life a better place.

  I should’ve promised to still be here when she got home, waved good-bye, and broken that promise after I drank some coffee, grabbed my shit, and got the hell outta her life. But when she begged me to stay, so she could make me a birthday dinner of all things, I—like the fucking fool I was—hadn’t been able to say no to those bright hazel eyes. Some things would never change.

  When it came to Molly Lachlan, I would always be a sucker.

  She could ask me to rip the skin off my own back, and I would do it for her. It was pathetic. My one weakness. And weaknesses could be exploited. Shit, I would know. When Lucas had inexplicably fallen for the lovely Heidi Greene, the first thing I did was use her against him. And it had almost worked.

  In my world, weakness was—well, weakness.

  And it got you killed.

  The only reason I was still alive today was because I didn’t let anyone get too close, and I didn’t give a damn about anyone or anything but myself.

  Molly was, and had always been, the exception.

  The only reason she was safe was because no one had a clue about it. The only one who had even an inkling of my true feelings for her had been Lucas. And he wouldn’t be talking to anyone, because he was “dead.”

  I stopped my strokes, taking a second to study my work.

  Kissable lips that were fully fleshed out pouted up at me, and a soft chin with a hard jawline that hinted of a hidden stubborn streak complemented them as well in charcoal as it did in real life. Wide, hauntingly beautiful eyes watched me with a warmth that I’d managed to get across on paper, and once I colored them in, they would truly represent the life that flowed within them. Sharp cheekbones sliced across the smooth paper, lending a depth to the drawing that complemented the soft waves of hair falling around her fragile, angelic face. It was, in my skeptical opinion, my best work yet.