Dare to Stay

by Jen McLaughlin

  Even if it killed me . . .

  Which it just might.

  Sweat stung my eyes, and my balls ached with the need to find my own orgasm, but I held it back through some miracle of nature. I had no idea how.

  But when her mouth fell open, and her eyes glazed over, and her cheeks blossomed into a rosy red, I was right there with her when she came for the fourth, and final, time. I drove inside her, pleasure taking over my whole body, and collapsed on top of her, making sure to keep my weight off her as I soared into my own orgasm.

  Her arms and legs held me just as tight as before, and her breathing matched mine, breath for breath. “Wow. Is it always like that?”

  “No.” I kissed her forehead and settled on top of her more firmly. “Never.”

  Satisfaction crossed her eyes before they drifted shut.

  I buried my face in her neck and finally let my eyes close, too, needing to savor this moment. In a lifetime of murder, sex, and betrayal—this one second of serenity was the thing that kept me alive. Holding Molly in my arms, my body relaxed, my soul complete, my heart pounding steadily, and my mind numb from pain.

  Too bad it didn’t last forever, this feeling.

  Nothing ever did, except death.

  Her breathing settled, her grip on me relaxed, and so I pulled out of her and climbed out of the bed slowly. She didn’t awaken, but rolled over on her side, her face lost in peaceful slumber. And she didn’t move again. Not even as I removed the condom, collected all my clothes, and dressed.

  As I walked out the door, I couldn’t resist stealing one last glimpse at the angel I left behind. She was softer in her sleep, her features even more innocent in slumber, but instead of making me hesitate, it only cemented my decision. It was time to go.

  Before she really got hurt.

  I had packed my shit up earlier, so I grabbed the trash bag I’d used from under the bed, setting it down at the bottom of the stairs. I didn’t have much, just what she’d bought me, so it was lightweight. I cleaned up the bloodstains, sweating as I did so, but by the time I was finished, there were no signs of the mayhem I’d caused in her life. Once I walked out that door, she’d be free of me and all the shit that came with me.

  She’d thank me later.

  As I passed the dinner we never ate, and the cake we never cut, I hesitated. There, wrapped in a pretty green bow, was the gift she’d gotten me. Glancing over my shoulder like a guilty kid caught peeking under the tree on Christmas Eve, I stepped closer, sliding it across the table.

  With steady hands, I undid the bow carefully, almost sad to destroy it. I never got presents, which meant I certainly didn’t get presents this pretty. It was a shame to ruin it.

  But as I tore the wrapping paper off, excitement built.

  And when I opened the box, heart racing, it was as if the world stood still. There, in the box, was something I’d written off as lost days ago. All my clothes from the night she found me had been thrown out, and I’d assumed she’d tossed my jacket as well.

  I’d assumed wrong.

  In the box, folded with tender, loving care, was my jacket. It had been repaired in the spot where Lucas’s bullet had hit me, and it smelled clean. If it weren’t for the fact that I recognized every old stain and every little worn spot on it, I would have sworn she’d bought me a new one. But even better than that?

  She’d repaired mine, knowing how much it meant.

  And that was the most thoughtful thing anyone had ever done for me.

  Swallowing down the surge of emotion that hit me at such a thoughtful gesture, I set my bag down and shrugged into the jacket. It fit me like a glove, as it should, but somehow better. A faint meow caught my attention, so I walked over to the cat room and opened the door. Buttons came charging out, practically throwing himself at my feet and purring.

  Bending down, I petted his head and belly, just the way he liked it. He stared up at me with adoring yellow eyes, snorting out of his little heart-shaped nose. I couldn’t help but wonder, if I had grown up in a home like hers, with a cat like this, where birthdays mattered, and instead of punches you got hugs—would I be like her? Would I be soft and openhearted? Would I have been one of the good guys, instead of a killer?

  It didn’t matter, really, because I hadn’t.

  And I wasn’t.

  So I patted the cat one last time, picked up the trash bag, cast one last, longing look around the house I would never see again, and walked out the door. I didn’t bother to leave a note or an explanation. It was better this way, like ripping off the tape when someone taped your mouth shut. It hurt like a bitch to remove, but it was a hell of a lot better than dragging it out.

  It was over. I was leaving.

  And she’d be better off without me.

  CHAPTER 14

  MOLLY

  The early-morning sun shone in through the sheer purple curtains, and they drifted in the breeze from the heat coming out of the floor vent, and there was a stillness in the air that soothed me. I lay there, not moving, just watching the curtains blow, and couldn’t help but think that the curtains were a lot like me. Transparent. Vulnerable to the slightest force of movement. But they were strong, too.

  Sure, they might get tangled up on something, or tear, but they didn’t break. Didn’t bend. They stayed steady, doing their thing, and didn’t let anything stop them.

  And I was crazy because I was literally comparing myself to curtains.

  But what I was really trying to do was remind myself that I needed to keep Chris at a distance. He couldn’t give me what I needed out of life. I wasn’t exactly sure what it was I did want from a man, but it didn’t involve constant worrying, stress, police, and bullet holes. That much I knew.

  I needed a guy who could give me stability and help me get over my fear of falling in love. I needed a man who would go to work and come home at night . . . without bullet holes. I needed a man who would stay alive. Who wouldn’t leave me.

  He couldn’t give me those things. He’d never leave the gang, and I’d never be okay with being with someone who did the things he did. He knew it, and so did I.

  I just had to make sure my stupid heart remembered, too.

  Slowly, I worked up the nerve to roll over. I’d been trying to think of the perfect thing to say to Chris if I was wrong. I had something witty to say all planned out, something that would show him that the night we’d shared had been amazing but that I wouldn’t turn into some crazy chick because he gave me an orgasm or two . . . or more.

  Who was keeping track, anyway?

  But I shouldn’t have bothered. He wasn’t there. Not a huge surprise. Something told me he wasn’t exactly the stick-around-canoodling type of guy. He probably hit it, then quit it. I was now quit. So he was either in bed in his own room, or hiding downstairs to avoid me until he made up some excuse about why we had to forget that last night ever happened.

  Which was okay.

  That was fine.

  I didn’t need him staring at me with heart eyes because we had sex and he gave me the best—and first—orgasm of my entire life. I didn’t need him sitting on the bed, staring at me as if he’d die if he didn’t get another taste right now. Sure, maybe I thought staying in bed together all day and getting up only for cake was a great idea, but clearly he felt differently.

  More than likely, he was downstairs drinking some coffee, planning on how best to leave me. God knows he hadn’t hidden his desire to leave as soon as possible. And he was better now. A guy who could do what he did to me last night? Yeah, he was fighting fit.

  A fitting description, really.

  I sat up and hugged my knees, resting my cheek on them and staring at those curtains again. They still blew slightly, and the sun still shone, but the room seemed darker.

  Quieter.

  Too quiet.

  Nibbling on my lower lip, I climbe
d out of bed, threw on my robe, and opened the door. The faint scent of bleach greeted me, and Buttons sat there, staring up at me, looking almost . . . forlorn. I scooped him up under the belly and checked his paws for glass. They were clean and dry. In all the craziness of last night, I’d forgotten about the devastation and blood . . . and bodies.

  And Buttons.

  Hugging him close to my chest, I kissed him, bringing him with me. He snuggled into my chest, not minding the snuggles, for now. Tiptoeing, I made my way to Dad’s room. The door was open, and the room was empty. The bed was made, and there was no sign of Chris. Not even a loose article of clothing.

  Swallowing, I headed for the stairs, knowing what I would find, but also in denial. I’d known all along how he would do it. How this would end. And yet stupidly . . .

  I still hoped to be wrong.

  “Chris?” I called out, gripping the banister. “Are you down there?”

  Nothing. Just silence.

  I paused halfway down the stairs, because the aftermath of last night’s gun battle . . . it was gone. My foyer had never been so clean. The spot where the blood had congealed on the floor, and a broken vase had been littered around it like a kind of broken crown, was wiped clean. Everything was perfect, as if it had never happened. As if no one had died there.

  But they had. I’d watched them.

  All three of them.

  If not for the fact that I’d woken up naked and pleasantly sore, and for the lingering scent of bleach in the air, I might think I’d dreamt the whole thing. Buttons squirmed, and I set him down, now that I knew it was safe for him to wander the house. He meowed and walked into the kitchen. Hugging my robe tighter, I came down the stairs the rest of the way, walking carefully in case a piece of glass had been missed. I shouldn’t have bothered.

  My house was spotless.

  And completely, heartbreakingly, painfully empty.

  Chris had left. I was alone again. I should probably be relieved or something, since I’d just been thinking about how he couldn’t give me what I wanted out of life, and how it would never work out between us, but whatever. Something about Chris had made me happy, and knowing he was gone didn’t make me happy.

  “Chris?” I called out one last time, clinging to that last bit of hope that after last night, he hadn’t left without a word. That our night together had meant something to him . . . like it had to me. “Are you here?”

  No one answered.

  Straightening my spine, I lifted my chin and walked into the kitchen. If I meant nothing to him, and last night had been a good-bye of sorts, then, whatever. If he could walk away so easily, without a doubt or hesitation—heck, without a good-bye—I could let him. I’d be fine. Great. Wonderful. Fantastic.

  And if I said it in enough ways . . .

  Maybe I’d believe it eventually.

  Making my way over to my Keurig, I frowned at the food we’d never eaten, which I’d completely forgotten about, and the cake I hadn’t even lit up for him. Some birthday.

  No dinner. No cake. No presents.

  Just sex with a side order of death.

  Shaking my head, I ignored the mess. I wasn’t cleaning up a thing until I had coffee in me. As I pushed the brew button, I turned around and surveyed the house. Every sign of the fight was gone, and all that remained was . . . nothing. As I turned back around, I noticed the open present. Swallowing, I made my way over, wondering if he’d left me a note there. A good-bye. A thank-you. A hate letter. Something.

  It was empty.

  He’d taken his jacket and left. He was gone.

  It wasn’t until then, seeing his missing jacket, that I knew I was right. There was no hope for us. With his actions today, he’d made it quite clear that he and I didn’t mix. That we could never, would never, work out. But still . . .

  Deep down, I hadn’t believed him.

  Guess I did now.

  The Keurig made its last churning sound when it was finished, so I grabbed my coffee and sat down, facing the door. And I stared at it, waiting for . . . for . . .

  Nothing. He wouldn’t come back.

  He was finished with me, and nothing I did would change that. I’d probably never see him again. Never watch that hesitant smile cross his face. Never hear him laugh or see him almost jump in surprise as he did so. As if he couldn’t believe that something had caused him to share his amusement with others. Something told me he didn’t laugh much in his other life.

  The one without me.

  And that only made me even sadder.

  A guy like Chris, with the life he’d been born into, did he really stand a chance at being happy? At laughing over nothing and walking hand in hand with a woman he loved? Did those guys in that lifestyle get to do that? Or was it all kill or be killed and shoot-outs and bullets? Did he ever get to, I don’t know, have fun?

  He’d never had a birthday party. Didn’t even know what a stinking party favor was or what to do with it. What kind of full-grown man had never had those things?

  What kind of man lived in darkness, without a sliver of light?

  I think that was what bothered me the most.

  He didn’t know how to be happy. The fact that every ounce of humanity I showed him surprised him made me want to cry—and I wasn’t much of a crier anymore. But it was like he didn’t know life could be enjoyable, or that people could be nice just because they wanted to be. Or that laughter felt good.

  That sharing your time with someone could make your heart pound and your pulse quicken, and you didn’t need death and blood and adrenaline to feel alive.

  Because he’d never had a birthday party, I couldn’t help but wonder if some of his behaviors stemmed from his parents. I knew from experience that most children who behaved like Chris—their parents, or whoever was raising them, were abusive. Ninety percent of the time that held true. Had he been abused? Was that why he was so alone?

  I was alone, too, but for different reasons.

  Because I didn’t want to lose anyone ever again.

  I stared at the door, lost in my thoughts, just thinking about Chris and his life—and mine, too. By the time I came back to myself and became aware of my surroundings, I’d been sitting at my kitchen table long enough that my back hurt, my coffee was as cold as it was untouched, my eyes were heavy, and half of my butt was asleep.

  And I was still, predictably, alone.

  Like always.

  Something brushed against my leg, and I glanced down. Buttons stared up at me, tail swishing, and I smiled. Reaching down, I picked him up and hugged him, closing my eyes. He rubbed his face against my shoulder, purring, and I smiled for the first time all day. Because he’d reminded me of something. I wasn’t alone. I was never alone.

  I had Buttons.

  “Hey, baby. You’ll never leave me, right?” I nuzzled his face with mine, laughing when he snorted. “I know what that noise means. You’re hungry. Aren’t you?”

  He hopped off me, walking toward the cat room, confident in my willingness to follow him. Sighing, I stood up slowly. My lower back pulled in protest, but I kept moving. My vigil over the front door was over. He obviously wasn’t coming back. Ever.

  Dumping my cold coffee into the sink, I went in the cat room, picked up Buttons’ bowl full of food, and set it down on the kitchen floor. As he dug in, my phone buzzed with a text message on the island. I picked it up right away, my heart racing. Maybe Chris—

  No. Not Chris. Hollie Yardley. My friend at work.

  Hey, I’m with Mary. We’re going out to lunch to celebrate freedom with mimosas and copious amounts of food and cake. Want in?

  No, thanks. I’ll just stay in and— I quit typing, staring at the screen. What was I going to stay in and do? Wait for Chris to return, when he clearly wasn’t going to? Miss him? Miss my dad? Enough already. I deleted the text and quickly typed. Sure! W
here and when?

  Really? Yay! Frank’s. Twelve.

  I smiled and typed. I’ll be there!

  Setting the phone down, I made quick work of throwing away last night’s dinner and the untouched cake. I didn’t want it or any reminder of what had been. I didn’t regret it, or him, but no matter how many times I reminded myself that it was for the better, it hurt that he’d found it so easy to walk away.

  I wasn’t naïve enough to think that sex had emotional significance to everyone—but for me, against all reason . . . it had. I hadn’t given myself to him lightly. I’d shared a part of myself with him that not many people had ever seen, or known, and that meant something. To me, anyway. Not to him.

  After all traces of last night were gone, including the empty present box, I stood in my kitchen, my breath uneven and my heart empty, and smoothly closed the drawer he’d fixed for me. Dusting my hands off, I headed upstairs and took a shower. As I washed away all traces of his touch, I blinked away tears, refusing to let them fall.

  And when I got out of the shower, I took special care with my clothes and makeup. By the time I was finished and walking out the door, on the outside, I looked as if I wasn’t missing Chris O’Brien and his soft touch at all. On the inside?

  Well, that was for me and me alone.

  —

  Four hours later, I came home, still smiling from the girls’ “night” out I’d just had. After actually, you know, going, it made me wonder what I’d been avoiding for so long. Yes, I was alone, and yes, I had only a cat by my side. But whose fault was that?

  Mine.

  It was time to let people in, to some extent. Make friends, stop hiding behind closed doors. I’d already made plans with the girls for a night out tomorrow. Dancing. Drinking. Being normal. No shoot-outs or blood. Just normal things normal people do.

  I smiled at Buttons, trying to decide what to do with the rest of my day. The sun was setting, and the house was as empty as it had been when I left it, and I . . . I . . . I missed Chris. So much.