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Unless you got therapy.
The thought is so out of pocket, I almost shut the laptop, get up and walk away.
I type my details into the contact form and hit enter. Fuck.
My phone rings on the coffee table, and I grab it, frowning at the lack of Caller ID.
“Who is this?” I answer.
“Who is this?” The person on the other end asks. It’s a male voice, gritty, but altered to be impossibly deep.
I set the laptop aside and rise, gripping the phone to my ear. “Who the fuck is this?” I repeat.
“I think you know who it is, Carter.” A pause. “Or should I call you Savage?” The tone is mocking.
It’s him. Davis. “What do you want?”
“You didn’t think you could run for long, did you? Or hide like a rat?”
“I’m not hiding,” I say. “Come pay me a visit. We can talk man-to-man.”
“Pay you a visit,” the voice says. “I’m not going to pay you anything, given that you’re the one in my debt.” And then the line goes dead.
I hit the button to call the number back, but it clicks and doesn’t go through. There isn’t even a voicemail message. A burner phone.
I’m already on my way to the door. I burst out onto the porch and glare around, scanning my surroundings for any threat. The field to my left is empty, the trees could potentially hide an attacker, but that’s the least of my worries.
I dial Hannah’s number.
“Hey,” she answers, her voice a squeak.
“Are you okay?” I ask, charging back into the house. I open the feed that shows me the view of the front of her apartment.
“I mean, apart from being sore from the past three days? I’m great, actually.” Her voice softens. “I miss you. I can’t wait to see you tonight.”
“I’ll be there in half an hour. Lock your door. Don’t leave the house.”
“I—”
“See you soon.” And then I hang up, grab my shit, and head for my SUV.
Thirty-Three
HANNAH
The past three weeks have been a blur of good memories, excitement, and anxiety. Savage spends every night at my apartment now. We fall asleep together, him cuddling me, and I wake up to morning sex and coffee right after. It’s honestly a dream come true.
The only thing that taints it is the fact that my plane ticket is booked, my bags are half-packed, and I can’t stop hoping that Savage will ask me to stay.
It’s ridiculous, given that he doesn’t want that and I’m not meant to either, but the time I’ve spent with him is the happiest I’ve been in my life.
I sit behind the counter in the library, the phone in my hand, smiling at the rubbery buttons like a goof.
“You’re in an awfully good mood lately,” Irma says, patting her curls. “You got me worried that you’re going to stay in Heatstroke.”
“Delightful as always, Irma.”
“Well, whatever do you mean?”
