Zero: A protective hero romantic suspense, page 3
Her stance is set, long ponytail motionless, and gun aimed at the target. Without thought, my feet take me to her stall where I pause, watching her exhale and pull the trigger.
Surprisingly, barely a muscle moves with the release. She’s accustomed to the weapon’s kick, and it makes me wonder just how long she has been coming to the range.
She places the clip on the tray in front of her, then the gun with the muzzle aimed downrange. Her body tenses the instant she senses me, and my gut tells me all the hairs on the back of her neck are standing at attention.
Turning slightly in my direction, she quirks one perfectly shaped eyebrow and stares at me. It’s difficult to make out her voice but I read her lips. “Can I help you?”
I’m deliberate and slow in forming the word no so she understands me over the gunfire.
Without taking her eyes off me, she presses the red button on the wall to bring the paper target sailing toward her. “What do you want?”
This time I catch fragments of her lilt and tone, but she still isn’t clearly audible. I don’t need the sound of her voice to know she’s on edge though she hides it well.
I shrug, not knowing how to answer. Do I want something from this woman?
No…well, yeah. If I’m to help, I need answers.
Yet, my normal approach—direct—might not be the best. She’s been through a lot and spends a lot of time perfecting her aim, maybe feeding a deep, dark need to shoot the shit out of something.
I don’t intend to make myself the target.
Her fingers pinch the corner of the target sheet but she hasn’t looked at it. No, she’s still fixed on me. Not impressed with my silence or likely the fact that I’m unperturbed by her direct nature.
I’m still standing here.
Unlike her, I take a long look at the tight cluster of bullet holes smattered within the orange ring at the head of the silhouette target, then the similar pattern at center mass. She follows my gaze, shifting her neck for a cursory glance before releasing the sheet.
The paper flutters backward, and she drops her hand and pivots to face me, expression blank. “Run along, now.”
Her words and tone are meant to be bland, but the tight lines around her usually plump mouth and the sharp narrowing of her eyes say this is a warning.
Undeterred, I jerk my chin toward the target practice sheet then down to the handgun. “Great shot. You been shooting for a long time?”
What the fuck? I sound like a creep.
She partially turns away from me to place the weapon in its case, clearly done here, and if I didn’t know better, I’d think she’s forgotten about me. But no, her rigid, on-alert posture says otherwise. She’s more than aware of my presence, and everything about her screams that I’m not welcome.
I’m scaring her. No, maybe scared isn’t the right word. I’m making her uneasy, and a fierce sense of urgency surges up my throat.
Any minute now and she’ll leave. Her departure will put me out of my misery, end this weird kind of torture, but I can’t let her leave. Not like this.
She picks up her case and turns to walk away. I shoot out a hand, readying to stop her but drop my arm. Touching her is the last thing I should do if I don’t want to freak her out even more.
“Morgan, wait.” My voice is loud and clear.
Her name on my lips. Every atom of her being freezes, her muscles tighten, and she’s ready to attack…or run.
We stand like that, face to face, for a beat, maybe two. Her eyes, steely and cold, slice through me before she brushes past me. Our near touch causes a sweep of adrenaline to prick at my nerve endings.
Dread like a cold bucket of ice water douses any flames of hope of getting her to talk to me as I watch her move like lightning, fast and electrifying, out the doors. I spooked her.
If I had the balls, I’d ask one of these guys to punch me in the sack, lay me out for that pathetic attempt at contact.
Usually my tragically bored demeanor works like a charm. Why would I mess with the tried and true and initiate conversation? Fuck my life.
A large man steps in front of me, wearing a T-shirt with the gun range logo on it. “Hey, you gonna shoot or not? You can’t stand here.”
He attempts to move me along by reaching for my arm. I hold it up in surrender, nod, then lope toward my assigned stall.
Rifles and guns aren’t my weapon of choice. I much prefer doing damage with a keyboard, hacking into mainframes and online files, destroying things from afar with a few quick strokes.
But after my epic fail with Morgan, I’m in the mood to annihilate something.
3
MORGAN
Fingers shaking, I push my palm down on the small disc-like plastic and curl my fingers over the lip of the bottle, trying to open it once again. I don’t have a good grip on the lid and drop my hands to my sides as I grind my teeth on a growl.
“For crying out loud.” My jaw aches.
This is so frustrating. My hands are too clammy to get any real traction. Anxiety, worry, fear—pick out a troubled emotion because all of them apply—crank my internal temperature to a near hell-like level. And this June Florida weather doesn’t help.
I’m jittery and desperate as my feet shuffle against the melting asphalt. Who the hell was that guy? And how did he know my name?
Apprehensively, I glance around the parking lot of the shooting range and force my muscles to loosen. I’m alone. Randy Poole isn’t lurking out here, waiting to pounce.
I need to calm the hell down, especially if I’m going to confront that asshole. Trying once more, I put everything into twisting the top off the bottle and finally—yes—the lid springs free.
White pills tumble onto my palm, and I pop two into my mouth. The chalky substance sticks to my tongue and coats my throat but I’m long since past the gag phase. Taking them without water no longer bothers me.
And what does that say about me? I’m so desperate, in need of something to relax me, that I can’t even wait for water to wash down the pills?
Bzzz. Bzzz.
My phone vibrates on the hood of the car, and with my nervous feet shambling, I peer down at the screen while still clutching the bottle with all my might. It’s a text from my cousin Zach’s wife.
Not now.
Paige: Hey, lady! How are you?
I swipe up on the screen, flicking away the text and Paige’s warmth and cheer. Its disappearance does nothing to ease the self-disgust infecting my insides. I’m a piece of shit to ignore her.
This isn’t the first time. And it would be fine if I replied at some point today, but I won’t. Though I want to. I just can’t bring myself to do it.
Another text comes in, and I tug on the end of my ponytail. The pain skittering along my scalp and into my neck does nothing to distract the guilt rappelling up my spine, settling in to feast on my bones and muscles.
Paige: It’s been too long. Let me know when you’re free to chat.
Been too long? More like barely a week since I spoke to Zach, and Paige, briefly. It’s plain to see those two are a tag team because only a handful of days go by before one of them contacts me.
After…
After the incident, they flew down from Toronto and stayed here for several months. It was a big deal, and the gesture wasn’t lost on me no matter how traumatized I was.
They’re busy, successful people, and they lived out of a hotel for weeks, running their businesses from here all because of me. They thought they could help, make a difference, and I suppose on some level they did.
But as time dragged on and I refused to cooperate, they started dropping hints that they’d take me home with them if I didn’t get help.
I couldn’t leave.
Wouldn’t.
It felt too much like defeat, and I’d already lost.
Even if Toronto was my birthplace and home, I hadn’t lived there in years and aside from Zach, Paige, and Nan, my grandmother, there was nothing there for me.
Ugh, I’m a horrible person. I’m lucky to have family that cares. Paige’s text… She’s worried. We’re friends, and she means well.
The trick to getting rid of them, getting them to go back to their lives, was to finally relent and see a therapist. Doc Newman helped, sort of. Then she no longer did, or more like I stopped trying the things she suggested.
Ugh, why can’t I be grateful to have family and friends who take the time to think about me, to reach out?
I can’t. I can’t when it feels like I’m being treated like a child or a china doll that must be handled with care.
Enough of this.
My hand tightens on the bottle and the other yanks once more on my ponytail. I can’t focus on Paige or Zach or any of that right now. One thing at a time.
The creep inside the gun range needs to be my sole focus.
The phone easily slips into the back pocket of my jeans, and some of the tension eases in my shoulders with it now out of sight. Or maybe the Xanax is working its magic.
Nah, that’s too fast. This stuff is good, but not that good.
My fingers tighten around the cylindrical tube, reminding me to check how many I have left. I squint and cup my hand over my brow to block out the sun as I look inside the bottle. Shit. There aren’t nearly enough pills.
At this rate, now that I need to up the dose to get the same effect, I’ll run out long before I’m due for a refill.
Refill? What am I thinking? Doctor Newman stressed she wouldn’t prescribe any more. If I felt like I needed more—hell, yes—then I’d have to start seeing her again. And even at that, she wasn’t going to simply write another prescription. She wasn’t convinced I needed the Xanax, and she worried I was using them as a crutch.
Fuck.
I don’t know if I can do it without them. Newman helped with the anxiety and fear, but nothing touches the guilt. Only the pills and who am I kidding? They only help to numb things, make me forget for a time. Not forever. I’ll never forget.
Sweat drips down my back and I fidget with the lid, taking way too long to close it, and when the front door of the gun range opens, I nearly drop the bottle. I shudder at the thought of the few pills I have left scattering across the ground and miraculously secure the top before whipping my gaze in the direction of the entrance.
My body loosens at the sight of two guys sauntering outside, laughing. It isn’t him, and I’m filled with a mixture of relief and dread. I don’t have all day but can wait another hour, maybe even two if I have to. Surely, he won’t be that long.
Nervously, I tap the bottle on my thigh and the pills rattle like the tick tock of time running out. I’ve got to do something about my dwindling Xanax. I pull my phone from my pocket and scroll through my contacts, looking for Mickey’s number. He only gave it to me days ago, so it should still be good. I shudder at the memory of that conversation, how I said too much.
The bar had already closed and most of the staff had gone for the night. I was the only one cleaning up and Shug waited for me at the door, to walk me to my car. Mickey hung around as if sensing my need, and normally, I’d have insisted he leave. But this time, I didn’t.
I was supposed to be casual, just ask him a few questions to find out if he could get Xanax and if so, how much. What an idiot. I was out of my depth. Like a python coiled around its prey, every one of my quivering breaths gave me away and Mickey gladly squeezed tighter, knowing just how close I was to the edge.
Mickey’s voice filters through the phone line, yanking me back to the parking lot. Voicemail. “Yo. You know what to do.”
I hit the red icon and end the call before the beep kicks in. I’m not leaving a message; I’ll keep an eye out for him at the bar. It’s safer that way. I don’t need a record of me calling a known drug dealer.
Movement by the building causes me to glance up.
It’s him.
He’s broad and muscular, but his height was one of the first things I noticed. He was easily one of the tallest guys there, though in his distressed jeans and combat boots, he fit in, just another guy at the range.
Only he isn’t.
His beard is thick and heavy and virile. I’m not one for facial hair, but his beard, cut fairly close to his strong jawline, doesn’t not appeal to me…
I can’t explain the pull I have to him.
The sensation isn’t a good thing, and definitely not safe. No, he could be dangerous.
Body tightening, I ready to confront him but hesitate. Am I really going to do this?
I’m no wilting flower and will speak up when needed, though I try not to get in people’s faces. Yet I can’t let this go. I’m tired of rigging my front door with my hair to alert me to intruders and always looking over my shoulder.
This guy knew my name.
The police say I’m safe, politely skirting around calling me paranoid, and yet I can’t shake the feeling things aren’t over. Something more is out there.
No, he’s out there, and I wouldn’t be surprised if one day he shows up at my door, looking to finish what he started.
I sweep a hand behind my back and check that my gun is safely tucked in my waistband. It’s risky to do this here of all places, but ironically safer than anywhere else.
The guys inside the shooting range know me. I wouldn’t call us friends, but I’ve been coming here for months, trained with them, and got my certification here. And most importantly, without a doubt, if I get into trouble with this guy and yell, the guys will barrel out that door to help me. I know this because only a month ago, I nearly got my ass banned from the range.
It was reckless. I knew better but pointed my gun at an asshole who hit on me. Fletch, the owner, was on the floor when it happened. He yelled cease fire, told me to drop the gun and leave. I should’ve been banned for life not just that day, but instead he had my back. That’s why even though I wanted to, I didn’t do the same to this stranger earlier today.
Now we’re outside. Things are different.
The man is almost to his car when I stop my wandering thoughts and focus on his broad, retreating back.
That bastard doesn’t know what’s coming, and I charge after him, balling my hands at my sides so tightly the plastic bottle buckles. It’s too late to stop and put it away. I’ve got the element of surprise because he hasn’t noticed me with his head down, staring at his phone.
I scurry to catch up and jump in front of him. “Hey. Who the hell are you?”
A scowl ghosts his brow as he tips his head up to face me. Leather and spice infiltrate my nostrils and weaken my knees. The same smell from inside the range when he’d approached me.
This is his scent.
A smoky pungent aroma, hinting at tobacco and tar, and mixing with a sweet, warm, woodsy spice. Clove. It reminds me of Christmas. My father. Nan. Zach.
I blink at the wet sting at the back of my eyes, battling the urge to look away. We’re a few feet apart and yet, I’m taken aback by all of him.
His face, this close, without the ear and eye protection. His dove-gray T-shirt does crazy things to his icy green gaze. The amber rings around his pupils burn and widen ever so slightly before he shutters all emotion.
A wave of confidence or ease washes over me, so much like how I feel only moments before pulling the trigger. My stance strong, grip firm, breathing steady. It’s the only time I feel in control since the shooting.
Boosted with bravado or more likely the pills, I step closer, relishing in the stir of calm languidly floating through my veins. “What do you want from me?”
He smiles—not really a genuine one but more satisfied or smug—as if he can see right through me, and I shiver.
“I don’t want anything from you.” Without the disturbance of firing guns, I hear him clearly.
His voice is deep and gravelly. A rumble. And in return, there’s a strange involuntary clench low in my core followed by a flash of recognition. Like I’ve felt this, or been with him, before.
But how? I’ve never seen this man before today.
Warmth coasts through me as I stand there, staring at him. I try a glare but doubt I’m pulling it off. The muscles in my arms and legs unspool and my knees unlock, loosening like jelly.
He studies me, eyes pensive and intense, and runs a large hand through his thick brown hair, longer and wavy on top. There’s this wild and wiry feel about him and his eyes… I want to say they’re fevered but that’s ludicrous and if so, I should back the fuck away from him.
Get out of here.
But I don’t want to and I won’t run. Talk about ludicrous.
I don’t know what to make of him; still I’m unafraid.
Why am I here? Oh yeah… I want answers and he isn’t saying anything. Nearly all of my questions are unanswered.
“How do you know my name?” I frown at the tone of my voice. It’s all wrong. Too relaxed. I blow out a breath and pull off the baseball cap. The cool air on my sweaty head is welcomed.
He reaches out a hand but stops, like he did earlier, inside, thinking better of it. “Are you okay?”
I shouldn’t have taken the Xanax. Wrong move. I’m no match for this guy, and the edges of my world soften.
“Did Randy send you? Are you working with him?” I slide a hand to my back and touch the gun. Not because I feel threatened, just because.
He watches my hand drop back at my side, and something flashes in those hauntingly green eyes of his as if he knows I’m armed and that I’m not afraid to use it. Good.
I don’t like guns. Hate them, but since the robbery…
I’ll do whatever it takes.
“I’m not working with Randy.” He slowly slips his phone into the front pocket of his jeans and raises both hands into the air, making sure I’m aware that he’s unarmed. “But you could say that’s why I’m here.”
Something large and sharp lodges in my throat. I hadn’t expected his answer or for him to admit to anything to do with Randy. He clearly knows what I’m talking about, who Randy is. Now what?
“What the hell does that mean?” I don’t realize I’ve pulled out my gun until I follow the dip of his gaze to where the barrel presses into his stomach.
