Page 101 of Vega

I sat back. “Why?”

He stared at me, awake now.

“Are you not attracted to me?”

His jaw flexed. “Non sono mai stato così attratto da una donna in vita mia. (I’ve never been more attracted to a woman in my life.)”

Every time he spoke to me in Italian, my pussy leaked.

I swallowed hard. “Then why did you stop?”

“Because I don’t want you giving yourself to me like this. I told you this.”

“Who said I wanted to have sex?”

His heated gaze locked with mine. “If you kept kissing me, there wasn’t going to be another option.”

While need crawled up my neck, I didn’t understand a man with that much restraint.

Vega got out of bed and headed for the bathroom.

A minute later, the shower started.

I stayed in his bed, furious at him and myself. His restraint made me feel unwanted and foolish. Maybe that was the point. Maybe he was playing me. I had seen enough documentaries to know men didn’t always look like monsters when they were preparing women for hell. This nigga could be grooming me for a cult, sex trafficking, or some nightmare I hadn’t thought of yet.

I hated that his control made me feel safer. That was exactly why I had to leave; before desire made me forget that I did not know this man.

I moved fast. In his closet, I found the cabinet where I had seen him put his guns before. I grabbed one, checked it the way I had learned years ago when I realized I needed to know how to handle a gun to protect myself.

Then I hurried to my room, pulled on pants and shoes, put the gun in the waistband, and tiptoed through the house, all while the shower kept running.

Since he had started letting me roam freely, I had seen him punch in the code for the front door. He tried to shield it with his body. But I had seen it. My fingers trembled as I entered it, and the lock released.

I slipped out of the front door. The high May temps hit me even though it was still morning. By the time I made it through the gated community and reached the street, I was already sweating. As I walked past a bus stop, I stared at the sign. It was PACE, not CTA, which meant I wasn’t in the city. I looked around, trying to place the suburb, but I couldn’t.

I had no phone or money, meaning the bus or an Uber was out of the question. So, I walked fast. Every few seconds, I looked over my shoulder. Vega stayed in the shower for almost thirty minutes every time. So, I knew I had some time.

Then a car slowed near the curb. My stomach dropped as the doors flew open. Three men jumped out and ran toward me.

I took off. I cut across somebody’s lawn, through a side yard, over wet grass, then into an alley. My breath burned. My legs shook. Behind me, footsteps pounded closer.

I slipped and went down hard, skinning my palm against concrete, but I scrambled up before they reached me.

That was when I remembered the gun. I pulled it out just as gunfire erupted behind me. I screamed and ducked behind a parked car. More shots cracked through the morning.

I peeked around the bumper and froze. Vega was barefoot, in shorts and no shirt, gun in hand, firing at the men who had chased me. He must have come after me half-dressed, straight from the shower.

They were shooting back. Vega dropped one, but another shot caught him in the leg. Vega grunted and went down behind a mailbox post, blood spreading dark through his shorts.

No one was looking at me. I could run. Freedom was right in front of me. I took three steps away. Then I looked back. One of the men rounded Vega’s cover, gun lifted, ready to put a bullet in his head.

Vega was going to die. My body turned before my mind agreed. I walked back toward the gunfire, lifted the gun with both hands, and pulled the trigger. The first shot hit the man in the back, and he stumbled. I fired again, and he dropped before he could finish Vega. The other man pointed his gun towards me just as I shot him too. I put two bullets in him and he fell near the curb.

The street went quiet except for my breathing. Vega looked at me like he couldn’t understand what he was seeing.

I ran to him and dropped to my knees as I grabbed his leg. Blood soaked through his shorts and ran down his leg. Without thinking, I tore the bottom of my shirt and wrapped it tightly around his thigh, pulling hard to make a tourniquet. My hands were shaking, but the bleeding began to slow.

For a second, Vega stared at me like he was trying to decide whether I was real. Then his hand shot out, grabbed the phone from the grass beside him, and he made a call.