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As I shuffle into the kitchen to eat, I hear Hunter’s phone go off and he enters a muffled conversation with someone.
I barely notice. I have a plateful of eggs and bacon and I’m hoovering it while standing over the kitchen sink. I barely even use silverware.
Then I see something that makes the half-chewed bite of eggs and bacon fall out of my mouth and land in my kitchen sink with a plop; through my kitchen window, which affords me a lovely view of the busy street outside my building, along with a laundromat and a convenience store whose cashier often doubles as the neighborhood drug dealer, I see a familiar car parked on the street. Jay’s car.
Just then, Hunter comes out of the bedroom, fully dressed. He has his gun in his hand and he’s checking it over.
“I have to go. Club stuff. Shouldn’t take long,” he says. “Yolanda’s still at the doctor’s. Are you good to watch Charlie? He should stay asleep until I get back.”
Several competing thoughts run through my mind in that moment. I should tell Hunter; tell him he can’t go, tell him I’m afraid, tell him the truth about the break-in and everything nightmarish about my life. But that could cost me our relationship.
Then I remember my gun. It’s still exactly where I left it, and, if Jay tries anything — like a reenactment of the break-in I’m sure he orchestrated last night — I’ll be more than justified in defending myself with that weapon.
“Em, is there something wrong?” He says.
I shake my head and force a smile. “No, I’m still a little woozy from earlier. Go ahead, I’ll be fine to watch Charlie.”
After a kiss or five, he’s gone.
Some time passes where I just sit at the window, my gun out and on the counter within reach, while I sip coffee, eat bacon, and stare out the window, just waiting for an opportunity to shoot my stalker ex-boyfriend.
Nothing happens.
Except eventually duty calls, and I find myself back at my desk, my gun beside me, my fingertips dancing across the keyboard as I summon from memory a version of my paper that I hope is passable enough to get me a good grade.
Page after page appears on the screen. It turns out that the potent combination of multiple orgasms and mortal terror is great for productivity.
I continue working on my paper, my fingers flying across the keyboard as I pour out everything I can remember about my research. The words flow more easily now, fueled by a combination of adrenaline, caffeine, and post-orgasmic clarity. I'm making good progress, but as the hours tick by, exhaustion creeps in.
My vision blurs, the words on the screen swimming before my eyes. I blink hard, trying to refocus, but it's getting harder to concentrate. My head feels heavy, nodding forward before I jerk it back up. I tell myself I just need to finish this section, just one more paragraph...
The next thing I know, my cheek is pressed against the cool surface of my desk. I must have dozed off. I sit up slowly, rubbing my eyes and trying to orient myself. How long was I out? The room is darker now, the afternoon light fading.
Suddenly, a heavy, ominous knock at the door jolts me fully awake. My heart leaps into my throat. Who could that be? Hunter wouldn't knock like that, and neither would anyone else I know.
The knock comes again, more insistent this time, as if someone is throwing all of their weight into my door.
I freeze, my eyes darting to the gun on the desk beside me.
Another knock that’s just short of a full-out attempt to break down the door. It shakes in its frame with the force of the blow. Through the heavy wood, I hear two muffled, manly voices.
With my heart in my throat, I grab my gun and rise from my chair.
Chapter Forty-Seven
Hunter
Just as I pull up to the clubhouse and sling my leg off my bike, I get a text from Diesel. About to have my job interview. Wish me luck.
I want to throw my phone in rage.
First, Havoc and Mayhem call me in because it’s time to execute the hit, and now one of my closest friends is about to be an innocent bystander to a shooting.
And since when is Diesel ever an innocent fucking bystander? It feels wrong to even think of him that way.
Somehow, I have to delay this mission long enough so that my friend doesn’t get caught in the crossfire and so he has enough time to get the information about what men Moretti has sent to town and where they’re hiding out.
I feel about as clueless right now as when I first plucked Charlie from my brother’s house.
