Total pages in book: 70
Estimated words: 66515 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 333(@200wpm)___ 266(@250wpm)___ 222(@300wpm)
Estimated words: 66515 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 333(@200wpm)___ 266(@250wpm)___ 222(@300wpm)
“Anywhere?” I find myself asking, leaning into him.
His eyes soften. “Are you saying you’d go with me?”
“I—I don’t know.” My lashes lower then lift. “I want to trust you.”
“You can trust me, but if we run now, we’ll always be hunted. I don’t want that for you. I don’t want to bring that on you.”
I believe him. God, I believe him. “You really were setup?”
“I swear to you, on everything I am, on everything we are, that I was setup, but fuck, that means nothing to you, I know. How can it? I shouldn’t have ever proposed before I told you.”
“Why did you?”
“There was a part of me that believed when you found out, knowing you had that ring on your finger would matter.” A text dings in his pocket, and he curses. “There’s too much going on for me not to look.”
I nod, and he grabs his cell from his pocket, his gaze brushing the screen, tension radiating off of him. “Change of plans, baby,” he says, shoving his phone back into his pocket. “We’re leaving. Now. The owner of the cabin is on his way here.” He picks up the gun he’d given me and places it in my hand. “Keep that. I brought your purse. You can hide it there like we planned in the past.” He turns and heads toward the living room.
Like we planned in the past. Those words pull me back to him more than any other he’s spoken; they tell me why he wanted me to learn to handle and fire a gun. He never meant to hurt me. He was afraid for me. I race after him and find him tossing two duffle bags on the couch, one that is mine from my apartment.
“The owner?” I ask. “Do you know the owner?”
He rounds the couch and pulls a shoulder holster from under it, fitting it in place.
“He’s my mentor, and one of the few people I’ve ever trusted.”
“Then why are we leaving in the middle of a blizzard?” I ask.
“I don’t like unexpected visitors.” He reaches back under the couch and pulls out not one, but two guns that he attaches to his person.
I step in front of the coffee table. “But you know him. And how was it unexpected? He told you in advance, right?”
“So I wouldn’t shoot him before he walks in the door.” He sets my bag on the table. “I brought some of your clothes. Find your purse and make sure your gun is accessible.”
“What about the blizzard?” I ask again. “And I thought you trusted your mentor?”
“I don’t trust anyone with a price tag on both of our heads.”
I slide my purse strap across my chest and place the gun inside. “If he’s your mentor, is he better than you?”
“Used to be,” he says, zipping his bag.
“Used to be?”
“We’re well-matched now, too well-matched for comfort.”
“I don’t understand,” I say. “He’s your mentor. You trust him.”
He moves to stand in front of me, his hands back on my shoulders. “Relax, baby. I won’t let anything happen to you.”
“What about you? You can’t save me if you’re dead. I’m sold. Screw the blizzard. Let’s leave.”
“We won’t make it if he doesn’t want us to leave, not without a war. I need you to hide in the bedroom. There’s an extra gun in the nightstand drawer. Use it. Save the bullets in the one in your purse.”
“Am I going to need the bullets?”
“Go hide, baby, and I need you to remember this: trust no one but me. No one. I don’t care who they tell you they are. I don’t care what badge they show you. They come at you, you shoot first and ask questions later.”
“You’re scaring me.”
“I’m preparing you in case something goes wrong. Go, now.” He turns me to face in the opposite direction, and I do as he says. I rush forward, hurrying to the right, down a short hallway, I enter a bedroom, shutting and locking the door and taking in the small space. There’s just a bed, two nightstands, and a small, very small window that’s eye level, which strikes me as by design. No one is breaking in that tiny thing. I rush to the nightstand, where I open the drawer and pull out the gun, grateful for those classes. So much makes sense now.
My mind goes back to the past, to only a few weeks after Noah, no, Aaron and I had met, the two of us sitting on my couch, eating popcorn and watching the new JLo police drama.
“Do you know how to shoot?” he asks, pausing the show.
“I’ve never even touched a gun,” I say, “and I like it that way.”
“No woman should live alone in a city like Houston and not know how to shoot.”
“I’m afraid of guns,” I say. “I’m not shooting one. I don’t want to own one.”