Page 89 of The Unfinished Line

Angry voices filtered through the closed door.

One, I realized, in my blinking wakefulness, was Dillon’s. The other I did not know.

It was morning. The day was bright, the skyline of London visible through the bedroom window. In my midnight arrival, I hadn’t really familiarized myself with Dillon’s apartment. Bedroom. Bathroom. That’s pretty much as far as I’d gotten.

I would have liked to have had a moment to examine my surroundings. To take in the simplicity that was just Dillon. The navy blue comforter that matched the open curtains. The streamline furniture sparsely stationed against the walls: bed, dresser, single bedside table. There was a framed photo—Dillon and Seren as young teenagers, piggyback and laughing—and a smaller print tucked into the corner of the frame—a man, young and handsome, holding a toddler with white blonde hair. It was Dillon’s father, no doubt, and I would have liked to look closer, but the voices had grown louder, and the altercation more intense.

“You’re a bloody selfish cunt, Sinc! Don’t you dare tell me to tone it down!” came the unfamiliar voice, thick with what I’d recently come to recognize as a Northern English accent. “You think it’s fair, marra, to disappear—leave us all thinking you’re belly up, floating around with the driftwood off some Japanese beach—and then just turn up and carry on? I had to hear it from Seren that you’d resurfaced—”

“Sam,” Dillon’s tone was softer, more placating, “I was going to call you today. Now just hear me for a moment—”

“Don’t you try to put the lid on me, man!”

Unable to find my leggings—I might have left them in the hall—I rummaged through Dillon’s dresser, finding a pair of shorts and t-shirt to pull on.

“Seven bloody days, Sinc! I even called Kelsey, for fuck’s sake!”

Whatever pacifying attempt Dillon made backfired.

“You think you can shush me? If you didn’t want me radgie on your doorstep, you should have thought about that before—”

“Simmer, mate—”

There was some kind of scuffle, and a muffled thud, before I heard Dillon curse.

“Damn you, Hunt!”

Barefoot, my hair still haloed in a rat’s nest, I rushed out the bedroom to find Dillon pinned against her entryway wall. The woman, not much taller than me, but twice my weight in muscle, had her forearm jammed against Dillon’s chest, and her other arm drawn back, promising another blow.

“Swing again at me, man—let’s have a bloody go!”

I don’t know what I was thinking. Dillon probably could have held her own—though in the woman’s fury, the stranger definitely seemed to have the upper hand. But in the split second I had to make a decision, I lunged forward, grabbing the woman by her waist, and knocked her legs out from under her with a forceful sweep of my foot, tumbling us both to the ground.

Five years in LA and two self-defense classes later, it turned out to be my stunt training forSand Seekersthat actually served as a practical application.

“What the—” outraged, the woman bellowed beneath me, but I pressed her firmer into the hardwood floor.

“Hey!” I’d managed to get a grip on her tightly spiraled hair. “Chill out!”

“Kam…” Dillon dropped to her knees beside me. “It’s all right—honest, let her go.”

Nothing seemed quiteall rightabout the way I was certain this thrashing, livid woman was going to get up and pummel the crap out of me, but I did as Dillon bade, and stepped off her, quickly backing away.

“You fucking wanker!” To my surprise, as the woman scrambled to her feet, she didn’t come after me, but instead bent over, fussing with her knee.

It took a moment to realize that she was realigning a prosthetic. I’d just blindside-dropped a woman to the ground, dislodging her bionic leg.

“I—I’m so…” I stopped. I mean, what? She’d had Dillon in a wall pin. What was I supposed to do?

Her slew of curses ceased abruptly as she turned dark eyes to me, her face shifting from fury into a delighted grin. “Oh my God.” She stood up straighter. “Dog shot by Addison Riley herself!”

“Sam—” Dillon tried to cut in.

“You, not a word,” the woman flicked a finger in Dillon’s direction, “I’m still of a mind to drill you into the floor.” But her tone was lifted, the lividity gone. She smiled at me. “You’re a lot cheekier than you look in photos. Stronger, too,” she laughed. “Gotta admit, fit as you are, you’d look even more lush coming out of my bedroom with a hickey on your neck, wearing my shirt backward.” She motioned to the tag sticking up from the reversed collar.

I’m sure I blushed crimson, because of course, pulling off nonchalance was not part of my readily available repertoire, and brought a hand to my neck.

“No, no, other side,” she winked, and then wagged her full brows at me. “Oh, never mind, both sides, maybe.”

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