Dare to Stay

by Jen McLaughlin

  I was next to the cat room, and Buttons was cowering in the corner, so I quickly shut the door. If he escaped in the fight, Molly would kill me. If, for some reason, it was too much for me to handle on my own, I’d run outside and draw the fire toward myself, giving Molly a chance to escape to safety. “If I run, wait till it’s clear, and then run in the opposite direction. Got it?”

  “Yes,” she called out from behind the couch.

  I breathed evenly, but it was harder than normal, considering the pure rage shooting through my veins. These fuckers thought they could threaten my woman—my woman—and get away with it? I would show them otherwise, and then I would show them again. No one messed with my Molly and lived to tell.

  It wasn’t until the thought crossed my mind that I realized I’d made a colossal mistake. Against all reason and logic and history, I’d let myself develop a weakness. I’d let Molly in, and I cared about her. I cared whether she lived or died. If anyone hurt her, I would hurt them back a million times worse. And after this, everyone would know about it, and she’d never be safe again.

  This was all my fault.

  CHAPTER 12

  MOLLY

  My heavy breathing was the only sound in my house, in and out, in and out, fast, uneven, and hard. I hid behind the couch, my cheek pressed against the wood floor so I could watch what happened without giving away my position. I knew, more than you would think I might know, that my hiding back here was critical to Chris’s concentration. I’d seen enough shoot-out movies to know a man under fire needed all his concentration, and so I needed to hide so Chris would know I was “safe.”

  But this wasn’t a movie, and it was all heart-stoppingly real.

  As I lay behind the couch, staring at the ever-growing puddle of thick red blood under the intruder’s body, bile rose in the back of my throat and tickled my gag reflex. I slammed my hand over my mouth, willing the urge to go away. My heart was pounding so fast it felt like it would surely go right through my ribs and chest and splatter against the back of the sofa.

  And Chris . . .

  I focused on him, terrified I was about to watch him die.

  Just moments before, I had been seconds from kissing him, and now he was fighting to save his life. To save my life. To keep us both alive. And I was useless.

  I didn’t know how to fight.

  I’d never even held a gun before that night in the alley when I’d touched his. And I certainly didn’t know how to kill a guy. He’d been so fast out there, when the man came in. He’d pushed me out of the way and fired off shots before I even knew what had happened. And the sound that came out of that man . . .

  I would never forget it.

  Part groan. Part choke. Part dying breath.

  Chris pulled the trigger again, and I jumped, smacking the back of my head against the wall behind me so hard it hurt badly enough that I saw stars. For a second, I thought maybe I’d gotten hit. But another man crumbled to the floor, next to the first, and he made the same sickening sound as the other.

  His last dying breath.

  This one had taken a bullet to the throat, right above the clavicle, and he choked as he tried to breathe and failed. His blood splattered the floor and the wall behind him like a sick, twisted imitation of artwork. And no matter how hard I tried, I couldn’t look away from it. It was like staring at a cloud, trying to decipher its shape, because it had to mean something.

  Like his last message to the world.

  Shots fired from outside, and Chris staggered back, so I finally tore my gaze from the sick painting in time to see him curse, almost trip over his own feet, and get another shot off all within the space of a second. The man was like some kind of action hero, and despite the fact that this was life or death, and the fact that there were literally dead men lying on my floors, staining them forever, I couldn’t look away from him.

  He was beautiful, even now, in this moment.

  Growling, he fired the gun again, blood wetting the sleeve of his blue button-up shirt as he did so. He didn’t even look fazed. Just kept fighting. Another guy staggered back out the door, falling parallel to it after taking a shot to the chest. He blinked, pain all over his face, and choked on blood. He looked terrified. Terrified and alone.

  Chris stalked over and stepped on his throat, cutting off his air supply. The man’s eyes widened, but he didn’t even bother to fight.

  Probably because he knew it was pointless.

  “Who sent you?” Chris snarled, letting up his pressure on the man’s windpipe.

  “Go . . . to . . . hell . . .” Then the dying guy laughed, choked on blood . . . and died.

  And there it was again.

  That sound.

  “Son of a fucking bitch,” Chris growled, rising to his feet and pointing the weapon outside again. He stood there, scanning the perimeter, and ran his hand down his face, still holding the gun. “Shit, shit, shit. Stay back there. Don’t come out.”

  I nodded, but he couldn’t see me, so I tried to answer.

  All that came out was a pathetic squeak.

  It was, it appeared, enough. He walked outside, dragging a body with him as he went. After a few minutes, he came back, grabbed another dead guy’s foot, and dragged him, too. It was then, in my shock, that I realized what he was doing. After killing those men without a sign of hesitation . . .

  He was cleaning up the mess.

  But what would he do with them?

  He came back for the last body, his face a cold, hard mask as he collected that one, too. I couldn’t believe he was the same guy who had held me in his arms moments before, or that no one had called the cops or reported the noise. But then again, we lived pretty far apart in this community.

  I couldn’t see any other houses from mine besides his father’s . . .

  And no one was there. Even if they were, they certainly wouldn’t call the police.

  Chris disappeared back out into the night again, and a car started and pulled away. It was then that I realized . . . he’d left. He’d left me, and I was alone and too scared to come out, and I couldn’t breathe back here, because he’d left me.

  The risk of cops showing up must have been enough to send him running.

  I knelt there, hiding, trying not to panic, and attempted to even out my breaths, but they grew faster and more uneven with each inhalation and exhalation. It was like I was those men, about to die, and nothing I did would stop it.

  Nothing would give me oxygen.

  I was going to suffocate back here, behind my couch, and no one and nothing would ever find me. Because Chris was gone, and I was alone, and oh my God.

  A hand latched down on my shoulder and yanked me out, and I screamed. A man held me—his front to my back—so I had no way of seeing my attacker, but that didn’t stop me from trying to escape. My fists flailed back, and I kicked backward, too, fighting to get away from whoever was trying to finish me off. I refused to go down without a fight, or at least getting some DNA under my—

  “Molly, Jesus. It’s me.” Chris didn’t let go, but his voice held a new wariness I’d never heard from him before. “It’s Chris.”

  “C-Chris.” I stopped fighting immediately, sagging against him. “I thought you left. I thought you were gone.”

  He tightened his grip on me, and what once felt threatening turned soothing. “I wouldn’t leave you with this mess. Are you fucking kidding me?”

  I dropped my head against his shoulder, my breathing finally calming. Funny. I had watched Chris literally kill three men, right in front of me, but it was his touch that soothed me and pulled me out of my panic-induced state. In his arms, I felt safe.

  “It’s just that—” I glanced down and gasped. In all the craziness, I’d forgotten he’d been shot. “I . . . You . . . I . . . your arm. It’s bleeding.”

  “It’s nothing. Just a graze. It doesn
’t even need stitches.” Gently, he turned me to face him, his face no longer the cold, emotionless mask he wore as a killer. Instead, he appeared to be worried, sad, angry, and maybe . . . guilty? He smoothed my hair out of my face, his bloodstained hands impossibly gentle on my skin. “I’m so sorry. I’ll clean this up, and I’ll go.”

  “Go?” I shook my head and gripped his wrists. “No. No. Why?”

  His jaw tightened, and he made an irritated sound. “How can you ask me that?”

  “How can I not?” I answered breathlessly, still holding on to him, as if by doing so I could somehow make him stay. “Why?”

  “Look around you, Princess,” he snarled, his voice harder than I’d ever heard it before. It sent chills down my spine, but not enough to make me afraid of him. I was way beyond that point. He wouldn’t hurt me. “See the destruction? The death? The fucking blood? That’s my life.”

  I shook my head again. “You don’t know this was because of you. It could have been a random—”

  “It wasn’t. They’re in black with black leather vests, so they’re from Bitter Hill.” He let me go, and I almost fell over. I hadn’t realized how much he was supporting me until he let go. “They came because I’m here, and they’ll keep coming unless I leave. So no matter what you say, or how you say it, it won’t change my mind. I’m gone.”

  “You saved my life. If you hadn’t done the things you did, I would be dead right now.” I lifted my chin. “We’d both be dead.”

  “Jesus Christ. Don’t you see? The only reason your life needed to be saved was because of me.” He held his arms out, chest rising and falling, eyes flashing with anger. “I did this to your home, Molly. Me.”

  “No,” I whispered, knowing as I did so that it was useless. He’d made his mind up, and nothing I said would change it. “Please.”

  He fisted his hands at his sides, looking at me as if I’d shot him instead of asked him to stay. “Stop doing this. Stop asking me to stay, dammit.”

  My heart wrenched, because I knew he meant it. There was no doubt in my mind. But I didn’t want him to go. He might be right, and he might be endangering me by being here, but I didn’t care. Shaking my head, I threw myself into his arms. “No.”

  He caught me, staggering back, surprise clearly written on his expression. “Molly, I—”

  Before he could finish that sentence, which would more than likely be all the reasons why I should hate him and he should go, I kissed him. After days of buildup and thick tension, I finally did it. The second our lips touched, it was like everything in the world became clearer.

  Instead of sending me into a panic because I was kissing Chris O’Brien . . .

  Everything just made sense. Like it was meant to happen all along.

  He growled low in his throat and cupped the back of my head, threading his fingers through my hair as he took over the kiss, splaying his other hand midback, stealing control from me. I didn’t mind, though. I was too far gone in the way his lips felt against mine, all powerful and domineering, and the way he held me, like I was some precious, priceless item he was scared to break.

  And in his arms, I felt that way.

  He ended the kiss, resting his forehead on mine, breathing heavily. Knowing I did that to him, made him lose his impervious control, only made me all the hotter for him. “Shit. Molly, I can’t. We can’t.”

  “Yes.” I gripped his shirt with both fists, right above his chest, and tugged him closer. His erection pressed against my stomach, so I knew very well that we could. “We can. And we are. Kiss me.”

  He didn’t budge, but his jaw certainly got harder. How did he do that? “I don’t want to hurt you.”

  “What makes you think I’m the type of girl to get hurt? I told you the other night that I’m not exactly looking for forever. I meant it,” I shot back, licking my lips. Knowing I affected him, made him want me, sent a boldness coursing through my veins that I’d never experienced before. And it felt good. “I’ll take care of me, and you take care of you.”

  He shifted his weight a little bit, and he moved toward me as he did so. As clearly as I could feel the hard muscles of his pecs under my fists, I could surely taste victory on the tip of my tongue, but I would rather taste him. “I’m no good.”

  “Let me decide that.” I tightened my grip on his shirt, yanking him down again. “I’ll let you know once we’re finished if I agree.”

  His lips slid into a familiar smirk, and he gripped my hair with a tight fist, pulling ever so slightly as his hand dipped lower, stopping just short of my butt. “Oh, I have no doubt I’ll be good at that. That’s not what I’m talking about, and you know it.”

  “No, I don’t.” I licked my impossibly dry lips. “So show me.”

  He lowered his face to mine, stopping just short of kissing me. Our breath mingled, and his lips brushed mine in a mockery of a kiss. “You’re going to regret this.”

  “So let me.”

  Something in him seemed to snap, and he closed the distance between us, capturing my mouth in a breathtaking kiss that wiped every other mediocre kiss with mediocre men I’d ever had from my memory. All that remained was this—us—and nothing else mattered. Not the past, or even the future. No matter what he said.

  He growled deep in his throat, which was easily the most primal, sexy thing I’d ever heard, and backed me against the wall as his mouth devoured mine. When I gasped, his tongue slipped inside, and I did more than gasp that time. Groaning in reply, I slid my hands up his shoulders and buried them in his hair, holding on securely.

  I had a feeling I was pulling on it, but at this point I didn’t care. I was too far gone, with just a simple kiss and a wall. Which was ridiculous . . .

  But oh so amazing, as well.

  He slammed his hands on my butt, almost slapping it, and lifted me, insinuating himself between my legs with the easiest of gestures. It was so practiced, so natural, that I knew, I just knew, he’d done it a million times before. He was as experienced as I was inexperienced, and could probably do this with his eyes closed.

  That bothered me, but at the same time . . .

  I felt like, for him, this was special. Which was so utterly naïve. I wasn’t special to him. He didn’t give a damn about me, short of the way that most people cared for others. I was just another girl he was going to screw . . .

  And oh my God, he knew what he was doing.

  He rolled his hips into me, and even though we both had clothes on, multiple layers between us, it was magical. He deepened the kiss, his hands still gripping my butt, and did it again. It sent a surge of pleasure coursing through me, and I yanked on his hair.

  He broke the kiss off, blinking down at me. “What’s wrong?”

  “Nothing. God, nothing.” I tugged again punishingly, my breath escaping in a whoosh. “Don’t stop. Give me more.”

  He laughed, and it was deeper than I’d ever heard him laugh before. Like, Benedict Cumberbatch deep. “Damn, Princess. You’ve got a naughty streak a mile wide.”

  “Chris.” I moved my hips in a figure-eight motion, desperate for the release I knew he could give me. “Oh my God, yes. Hurry.”

  The laugh faded away into a smirk, which gave way to such a look of . . . of . . . possession, it should have scared the crap out of me. But instead, it sent a surge of answering need and submission inside of me that I didn’t know I was capable of.

  He slammed me against the wall even more securely, and slid his hand inside my pants, pressing against the spot where I ached for him most. “You have no idea how long I’ve waited for this. If you had any clue, you wouldn’t be telling me to fucking hurry.”

  I let go of his hair and dug my fingers into his shoulders, grasping on to him with all ten nails. He hissed. “It hasn’t even been a week,” I said, grinning when he pressed into me even harder. I had no idea where this recklessly open side of me came f
rom . . . but I liked it. “Don’t be so dramatic.”

  “A week?” He laughed and ran his thumb over my clitoris. It was so close to what I needed, but not close enough. “Try years. Fucking years.”

  “I—”

  He kissed me again, taking all words and thoughts out of my head. Pulling back, he ran his finger down my cheek. “I get it. You need satisfaction.” He smirked again and traced my clit in one big sweeping circle. “I can give you that, but I’ll be damned if I hurry with getting mine. I’m going to explore every”—he pressed his thumb against me—“fucking”—this time he rubbed my clitoris, hard and slow—“inch.” He bit down on my neck and moved his fingers in circles, pumping his hips against me at the same time. His hard erection was impossibly huge against me. “Slowly.”

  I sucked in a deep breath, but it wasn’t enough.

  I needed . . . needed . . .

  He thrust against me again, his lips pressed against the side of my throat, right under my ear, kissing me tenderly as his thumb circled my clitoris. It was all I required to go flying . . . right into my first orgasm.

  I gasped and clung to Chris, my eyes open but seeing nothing.

  My whole body hummed with pleasure, from my toes to the tips of my fingers, releasing this euphoric energy that I’d never even imagined was possible. Arching my back, I rubbed against his erection, which only made the searing pleasure even more amazing. “Oh my God.”

  “Shit.” He buried his face in my neck, his own breathing uneasy, and he pumped against me with his hips. “That was the hottest fucking thing I’ve ever seen, Princess.”

  I dropped my head against the wall, still holding on to him for dear life. I didn’t say anything, because I didn’t know what to say to that. I mean, what do you say to someone who thinks your orgasm is hot? Thank you? or Glad you enjoyed it. Hey, I did, too.