by Kayla Oliver
Which means she’s in danger. Because someone with escalating violence toward women is a dangerous animal. And he’s pretty much decided to let the world take her out considering he posted nude photos of her online along with her personal information and who knows what other slurs.
I shudder at the thought of this girl running for her life from guys who will rape her and possibly worse when they find her. Though I’ve heard it said that some women see rape as worse than death.
But how can I help her?
Wait, why do I want to help her?
Why am I so deeply invested in this stranger?
Because this is injustice to a degree I can’t ignore. I bring down the bad guys. I haul them in, make sure they are judged. But this guy will likely get away scot-free even if this girl winds up floating in the Sound.
That’s not right.
I imagine she’s curled up in a ball in that shitty motel, terrified at every sound and shadow. And I decide I’m going to do something about Arlo. Maybe not today. Maybe not tomorrow. But he’s going to get what’s coming to him. And I’m going to give it to him.
Sleep doesn’t come easily.
I toss and turn and finally fall into a light, fitful sleep filled with uneasy dreams of a beautiful blonde floating facedown in icy water. Every time, I forget to analyze the surroundings. I rush in to help, hoping she’s still alive and I can revive her.
But every time I get to her in the frigid water, I turn her over and her eyes are blank, staring up at the skies like she’s holding the entire world responsible for this whole terrible mess.
And as I cradle her lifeless body to my chest in waist-deep freezing water, I hear the pop pop pop of the gun and feel the slugs tearing into my back.
And my blood spills out over her and into the water in a widening puddle that stains the water dark as I feel life draining from me.
Chapter Seven
Addie
I wake before the sun, and the whole wretched ordeal comes back. And I bolt out of bed and grab the meager few belongings I have. I need to get out of here. I have to run before someone finds out I’m here.
I leave without a backward glance and stop at my truck. And I make a snap decision. I’ll leave it here. The owner of this motel will have it towed eventually, but likely not today. So the trail will go cold here.
I walk around the truck, feeling my heart breaking as I leave it behind and head toward the bus stop I’d seen.
I glance back and see the manager peeking out from the office, a phone in his hand. I face forward quickly and half run to the stop. He has to know it was me.
But he won’t know where I went.
At the bus stop, I struggle to breathe easy. I stand next to the little shelter and wait, glad it isn’t raining. I don’t mind the rain, but I’ve got no umbrella.
And as if I’ve cursed myself, the heavens open up and let free a torrent of rain. I stand under it, wondering if I should even bother getting under the bus stop shelter.
My hair plasters to my head, and I look up, feeling each drop patting my face and hating that everything in my life seems to be falling to pieces and I have no way to fix any of it.
A truck pulls up beside me and stops. My heart pounds and I realize I know that truck; it’s my I-5 companion. My guardian angel. And I recognize the man driving it. The man from the store last night. He leans over and opens the door.
“I’ll take you wherever you want to go,” he says gruffly as I hesitate.
“Are you a cop?” I ask, my voice little more than a whisper I’m sure he won’t be able to hear over the rain.
He gives a laugh that sounds more like the grinding fall of rocks down a dry concrete canal. “No.”
Still, I hesitate. “You know who I am.” It’s an accusation when I should be begging him to keep my secret and running as far and fast from him as I can. Anger is not a good idea right now. Not with someone who has my secret.
“And I know you’re in trouble.” He’s patient, as if he expected me to fight him on this.
“You’re a good guy?” I ask and instantly feel stupid. Of course he’ll say he is, even if he’s not. That’s how he’d get me to trust him if he had terrible things planned for me.
But he shakes his head no. “Not exactly,” he says in that same gruff tone. “But you’re in no danger from me.”
And I do something I haven’t done in a long time; I trust my gut. I get in the truck and close the door behind me. Pulling on my seat belt, I look over at him. “Thank you,” I say softly, and he nods, facing forward to stare at the road.
“Where to?” he asks, and I realize he’s waiting for me.
“I…” All the kindness he’s showing me when all I expected hate and violence from the whole world wells up in my throat and chokes off my words. Tears spill down my cheeks.
I’d prepared myself for hate. For ridicule. And even for perverted glances, stares, people not respecting my personal space or body. But kindness? Not on my life.
He doesn’t look at me, and I’m thankful he doesn’t seem to have noticed I’m crying. But he glances at me, then faces forward again. The truck moves. He says nothing, doesn’t acknowledge that I’m over here trying my best to get back in control of my stupid emotions.
I appreciate that he’s ignoring my tears rather than offering empty words that will inevitably make me feel worse.
A few deep breaths later and I feel confident I can talk, if in a wavering voice. “You’re not going to tell anyone, right?” How can I trust him? He’s fucking gorgeous, and pretty people can’t be trusted. I learned that in LA. Arlo was good-looking too.
He glances at me.
“No.” The single word is sharp, and I wonder if he’s just the kind of person who doesn’t say much unless he’s got something to say. He’s not trying to fill the silence with empty words that would feel patronizing.
And his response is comforting. I don’t trust him. I don’t trust anyone. But I also don’t feel like he’d lie right to my face, either. My gut still says he’s okay.
“Where are we going?” I ask, my voice stronger now.
His jaw clenches; I see the ripple in his cheek before he grinds out the words. “My place.”
My heart slams in my chest before picking up to a gallop.
“I was going to go to a motel.” I hate that it almost sounds like a question. I need to get better at speaking my mind. Arlo beat me down and refused to let me give voice to my opinions and ideas.
“You’re safer with me.”
The words send a shiver down my spine. Does he think people are out to hurt me? Are people out to hurt me? I know Arlo told people to call the cops if they see me, but I’m only afraid of cops because I don’t want anyone to know where I am.
“What’s your name?” I ask.
“Cliff.” He’s tight, guarded, and I have a feeling that’s just who he is.
“I’m Addie.” Of course he knows.
We pull up before an apartment building. It’s nice, even in the rain. He parks and I reach down to unbuckle my belt. And find no button to release it. Panic wells up in me, and I begin to struggle with it.
“Sorry,” he growls, and the belt releases. He holds up his keys, and I see a plain fob-looking device with a button in the center.
“So you arrest people and transport them?” I ask, struggling to understand the man I’m about to enter the home of.
He nods, and we get out of the truck. I follow, wanting to ask more questions. But he motions me to hurry up, and I run after him into his building. We take the elevator and walk down a hall that sickeningly reminds me of the hall I’d run from Arlo down. Like the one I first saw this giant in.
We stop before room 508, and he unlocks it. He pushes me in with a heavy hand on my shoulder, then scans the hallway before closing and locking the door behind us.
The place is neat and clean. It doesn’t feel lived in. But it’s nice, airy, and bright, and I wander to the sliding glass doors. They g
ive way to a balcony, and I open the door and step out. I see a body of water, and my heart dances in my chest.
“That’s the Puget Sound, right?” I ask, and he gives a gruff sound of agreement. Wandering back in, I look around and decide I like the place. He disappears into the kitchen and I follow him, running my fingertips on the smooth walls.
Part of me is worried I’ll be a burden on him. “I’ll pay you what I would have to stay in a motel,” I say, and he shakes his head. But I don’t want to owe anyone anything. I know better. I’ll pay.
No one can track me here, though. He’s right—it’s a safe place to hide out.
Chapter Eight
Cliff
It’s strange to have someone in my space. She’s wandering around, her large eyes taking in everything even as sadness clouds her features. The black hair is startling, an odd change but not a bad one. I know what she’s doing. Trying to hide, trying to look different.
I grab the gun from the hidden spot and turn to her. She winces back, her eyes large and terrified.
I take it by the barrel and offer it out to her.
She stares at it, then up at me, her whole body pressing back to the wall. “I don’t know how to use that,” she whispers.
Well, fuck.
I close the gap between us. “This is the safety.” I click it. “Leave it on until you’re ready to shoot.” Clicking it back on, I look down at her, realizing she’s so close I can feel the body heat radiating off her tall frame. Her scent—soft, sweet, and clean with the sting of fresh hair dye—surrounds my senses and clouds my thinking.
“Don’t shoot unless you mean to kill,” I tell her, and she winces again.
Damn it.
I set the gun on the table and grab her shoulders and give her a rough shake. She stares up at me, terror in her eyes.
“If it’s your life or theirs, fucking fight with everything you’ve got,” I snarl, and she nods, her eyes never leaving mine. She pulls out of my grip and picks up the gun gingerly by the handle.
“What do I do?” she asks, her wide eyes trusting as she studies me.
I step behind her and wrap her hands around the stock the right way. With her pressed close to my body, I feel the sexy curve of her ass pressed to my cock and keep tight control over my body.
With my chin over her shoulder, I make her stretch her arms out as we aim the gun. “Line up the sights,” I say.
“This?” she says, her finger moving to point at the front sight.
“And this,” I say, pointing to the back one. “Put that front one in this groove and you’ll hit what you’re aiming at.”
She holds the gun, her finger straying to the safety. But she doesn’t touch it. “So safety, line up, pull the trigger.”
“Squeeze the trigger,” I correct.
“Squeeze the trigger,” she repeats like she’s committing every detail to memory. She lowers the gun. “Thank you,” she whispers, her body leaning back into me like she needs the support.
I slide a hand around her belly, worried she’s about to faint. Her voice sounds breathy, like she’s not feeling well. Or like she’s feeling really good.
“Don’t,” I say, and she turns around to look up at me in surprise, her pretty lips parting a little.
“Don’t what?” she asks, looking confused.
“Get attached,” I say, looking away from her. With quick steps, I head to my bedroom and close my door. I need to change. Need to bring my pulse down. Need to stop thinking about how nice her ass felt pressed to my cock. Need to stop thinking about how long it’s been since I had a woman in my bed.
Too fucking long, obviously. But I can’t get involved with this girl. That’s not what I’m going for. I’m not trying to replace the bastard in her life. I’ll keep her safe. I’ll protect her. But I’m not going to let her fall in love with me.
***
On the other side of the wall, I hear her crying and curse under my breath. Since I’d brought her over here this morning, she’s held together pretty well. She cruised through my collection of paperbacks and decided to read curled up in the window seat of the bay windows overlooking the Sound.
I’d put her in the spare bedroom, suddenly glad for what has always felt like a waste of space. I never use the guest room anymore. I’d gotten the apartment with the foresight that I’d have guys crashing regularly.
They did for a while.
But I’ve been working so hard and so much these last few months since Dakin and Camille got together, I just haven’t had the time for hanging out.
Not knowing what to do is a shitty feeling. Should I try to comfort her? Or let her cry it out? She didn’t seem mad before that I ignored her when she was crying. I don’t feel like she’s doing it to manipulate me. The poor thing has been through the ringer. She’s earned a good cry if that’s what makes her feel better.
But I’ve got another idea.
I walk into her room, my eyes already adjusted to the dark. She’s curled up in bed and doesn’t hear me come in. When I’m at her bedside, she suddenly notices me and sits up.
I clamp a hand over her face and press her down into the bed, pinning her with my body. Her face is wet with tears, and she cries out, the sound muffled by my hand.
“No one will hear you scream,” I growl, and her whole body goes stiff. She needs to do more. She needs to fucking fight. I told her to fucking fight with everything she’s got.
I back off, letting her go, but block her door. She’s on her feet in an instant. She throws a wild punch at me with all the finesse of a drunk panda bear.
I easily grab her fist and see the flash of surprise in her eyes before I twist her arm behind her back and push her upper body down on the bed, bending her over.
She whimpers, and I know I’m hurting her, but just a little bit. It’s a warning. Suddenly she shifts, and again, I’m aware of her ass against my cock.
“Teach me,” she says in that haunting, raspy voice. “Please.”
“Good girl,” I growl, releasing her with effort.
She stands up as I back off a step. I expect to see hate in her features, some bitterness for what I just put her through. That was part of my intent, to make sure to push her away and think I’m a monster.
But there’s no hate, no anger. She’s bright-eyed, bouncing on her feet like a boxer, shaking out her wrist. And I know I’m in deep shit. I like this girl.
Chapter Nine
Addie
That feeling—a fluttering excitement—I’d felt when he’d pushed me down and shocked his hips tight to my ass becomes a hum in my core as he looks me up and down.
I’m worried he’s going to turn me down. “I’ll pay you,” I say as the ache in my wrist dulls to nothing. “Please teach me.” What he knows could save my life. Because he’d proven that I won’t always have a gun.
And when he’d told me no one would hear me scream, I was conflicted. Part of me was terrified, of course. He’s terrifying, even though something whispers deep inside me that he’d never hurt me.
I shake my wrist. Okay, he might hurt me, but that was to prove a point. And he proved his point all right. I need to know how to protect myself. He knows how.
I hold my breath, hoping he’ll decide to help me one more time.
And the thought that he had all the power in the world to take advantage of me or hurt me floods my mind. He chose to let me go. My cheeks sting pink as I notice my panties are a bit more damp than they should be.
The feelings he inspires in me are confusing, and exciting, even contradictory. He’s an enigma. But I sense good in him. He doesn’t hesitate to act. But his intentions to me seem pure, kind even.
And he’d told me not to get attached.
Well, that ship might have already sailed.
And I never want to let anyone scare me again. Not him, not the guys back home. Not Arlo.
“Fine.” He’s gruff, and my heart skips in my chest.
“That hold you had me in,” I say, b
ut he shakes his head. I push on anyway. “How could I have gotten out of it?”
“Kick.” He’s not offering much more.
So I step between him and the bed, offering my arm behind my back again. “Show me,” I say, and he grabs my hand and drops me in an instant.
I hit the bed, my breath leaving in a whoosh as my body responds to him. It feels like every nerve has hummed to life. I’m turned on and excited, but also curious about the hold.
He’d said kick.
I bring my foot up and he grunts, his whole body tensing. And I realize what I’ve done. “Oh, god, I’m sorry,” I say as his hand releases mine, but his weight pins me as he doubles over.
I put my hand over his where his fingers are splayed on the rumpled bedspread. Slipping my fingers between his because it feels natural, I turn my head to the side and see he’s a bit red.
“That’ll work on women too?” I ask, feeling bad I’d just kicked him in the balls, pretty damn hard.
“Yeah,” he grunts, his breath tight.
“I’m sorry,” I whisper, feeling bad I’d hurt him when he’s here helping me. I wiggle a little, feeling his weight pressing me into the bed. It feels… good. Really good. I’m warm and there’s a tingling low in my belly.
Suddenly, his weight is gone and I’m free.
“What about when you were on top of me with your hand on my mouth?” I ask, standing up and turning to face him once more. But some part of me is sorry he’s gone.
He takes my right hand and shows me with his; palm flat, fingers curled just on themselves. I mimic it with my hand, and he stands in front of me, his hand covering my mouth. With his other hand, he takes my wrist and moves my hand fast and hard toward his nose in an upward motion.
“That’ll break his nose and blind him,” he says powerfully in the dark. He releases me, and I nod. “That’s enough for tonight,” he says.
