Page 25 of Gunner

“If you make stallion jokes, I swear I’m going to undo all my hard work and strangle you,” The fact he was joking was a good sign. He still looks rough, but not at death’s door like he did last night.

The sunlight streams onto the bed. I placed it there strategically because I love the morning light. It makes his eyes shine.

“Good god. I let you sleep with contacts in.”

“I survived.”

I get out of the chair, stretching out the nasty kink in my back. “How are you feeling?”

“Like I was sick as a dog, shot, and drugged.”

“Hmm. Apt.”

A man who has a good sense of humor—and he does, even if it’s ridiculously dry, who can be self-depreciating—can he be all bad?

Just a little bad can be too much.

“I want you to go straight to the clinic. I’ll take you myself.”

He glances around the room and seems to realize what time it is, on a weekday. “You have school.”

“I called in sick in the middle of the night. Left a message on the machine. They have a sub they’ll call in. It’ll be okay. The school has procedures in place for emergencies or getting sick in the night.”

His hands are on top of the sheets. I didn’t think it was possible for a man like him to look distinctly uncomfortable, but I watch his fingers clutch the sheets. “I don’t want to fuck with your life.”

I hold my laughter for all of two seconds before it explodes out of me in a very ungracious snort. “What? You can’t be serious! You’ve stalked me for god knows how long and you came to me half dead. What did you think that was going to accomplish?” He opens his mouth, but stops. He looks like he’s really considering that. I give him a pointed look. “Let me get your clothes. I washed your pants, and I’ve got an oversized sleep t-shirt you can wear. Your poor vest though, there was nothing I could do. I wiped off the blood as best I could, but it’ll probably need to be professionally cleaned.”

He shuts his eyes and nods.

I want to put my hand to his forehead and see if he’s still feverish, but I keep my limbs to myself now that he’s awake.

How decent of you.

“Do you feel up to eating? I can get you a banana and some toast. In my experience, it sits well in a sore tummy.” I wince, face getting hot again. “Sorry. I’m a kindergarten teacher.” Flustered, I clutch my hands together. “But you know that because you’re a creeper.”

His icy blue stare hits me hard.

Yeah. A kindergarten teacher who knows how to use a gun, can kick serious ass, sets traps, and seamlessly patches someone up with some serious nursing supplies that I had on hand for a rainy day.

I leave him with that before I meltdown. It’s too early in the morning for this.

I get his clothes and leave them on the foot of the bed. By the time I have a slice of toast golden brown and sparingly buttered and a banana ready, he walks into the kitchen. He’s so large in here. Out of place. It makes my heart beat against my ribs in a frantic bid to jump out and escape. It’s his size that truly gets me.

He strokes the vest he’s holding. It’s definitely ruined. He has his head bowed, but when he looks up at me, his eyes seem a little shiny.

“Here.” I set his plate down at the table.

What am I supposed to do? Make coffee and eat a muffin across from him? Stalker. Probable killer. Biker.

I wait for the chorus of internal alarms, but they never come. My danger meter is way off. Clearly, I wouldn’t know true north if a compass smacked me straight in the face.

He moves woodenly, easing himself down carefully. He has to be hurting. Every bone in his body is probably screaming at him. He feels pain. He bleeds.

That’s not emotion, it’s sensation.

I turn around because the last thing he needs to see is the internal argument showing on my face. I don’t have a mask that I can slam in place like he does. If he saw me judging him, I swear I’d pull his move and puke all over myself. I am not that person. I don’t have it in me to be cruel unless someone is threatening my life and freedom.

Isn’t he?

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