Page 26 of Gunner

Call me a dumbass, but I don’t think he is. I don’t get that vibe at all.

What if he wasn’t watching me because he was getting his rocks off about it? What if he was out there because he thought he was keeping me safe? Guarding me like he guards Penny?

I try and push that sense of unease out of my mind. There’s no way that my past could have caught up with me here. I make coffee in record slow time, spilling grounds and cream, making a huge mess. I normally drink it Italian style, my morning espresso black. But I feel I need to be as American as I can in front of this man. No one could ever tell that English isn’t my mother tongue unless they listened very carefully—and even then, they might not notice.

“Would you like some ginger tea?” I ask while the coffee’s percolating.

“Sounds vomit inducing.”

“It’s supposed to have the opposite effect, actually.”

“Just some water.” He pushes back his chair. “Let me get it. You don’t have to serve me.”

I snort laugh again. I can’t help it. “If you get out of that chair, I’m giving you a second dose of what I gave you last night. Sit still. Don’t hurt your shoulder. I’m more than capable of pouring a glass of water.”

I’m barely capable. My hands are trembling.

I have to lean in to set it down in front of him. Alright, I don’thaveto, but I do it anyway. By all rights, he should smell anything but good. Blood and sickness, medicine and sleep, but he doesn’t.

There is that signature metallic scent of blood, but amazingly, there’s motor oil and gas, leather and fresh laundry. My laundry soap. He smells like I do.

My face is only a few inches away from the shell of his ear. It’s a new angle. I can see another, larger scar that some of the dark ink on his scalp obscures. Almost like he was grazed by a bullet.

My heart speeds up again knowing how close he could have been to death. Even last night, that bullet could have done far more damage if it was a few inches off. I nearly drop the water. His hand shoots out, grasps the bottom of the glass away from my fingers, and steadies it.

I stumble away, trying to distract myself at the counter. I want to think about anything but how this feels so strange, foreign, and not… wrong. Try having your stalker sleep in yourbed, laundering his clothes, nursing him, and then feeding him breakfast at your table in the morning. It’s half what normal people do and half what they should never do, all of it excruciatinglyreal.

“I should have changed that bandage before you got dressed.”

“You don’t have to do that. Lend me your phone and I’ll call a few of my club brothers to get me.”

My phone is on the counter only a few inches away. It’s the longest distance as my fingers wrap around it, far more reluctant than they should be.

I try to make my face blank before I set it down beside his plate. He hasn’t touched anything yet. “Two, three, nine, seven, five, two, one.”

He puts in the passcode seamlessly. I wouldn’t be surprised if he knew it. Is he a hacker too, as well as a stalker? If he was, wouldn’t he realize that my background is false? My father might have paid someone a lot of money to set it up, but surely, there has to be something there that would tip off anyone who knew what they were looking for.

I put distance between us, leaning against the counter and sipping my coffee. I like to let it cool. It’s too hot right now and burns my tongue. I drink it anyway.

His deep voice rumbles through the kitchen. “I need a ride. Now. Archer’s… You can, but if you put a scratch on it… twenty-one eighty-two Fourteenth Street.”

He ends the call, all business, the whole thing having taken less than a minute. Whoever was on the other end was probably waiting to hear from him. I doubt he’d been alonewhen whatever happened to him last night went down. I can imagine him getting shot, giving the punk hell, then taking off on his bike, riding through the pouring rain even though that’s dangerous, and coming right here. Parking a few blocks away. Leaking blood and hope with every step.

I rub at the pain in my chest with my hand before I know what I’m doing. I turn and study his side profile. At least he’s eating now. He takes a bite of toast and cracks the banana.

“You should be more careful.” I have zero right to utter that statement, but there it is.

He peels the banana slowly. It’s still slightly green. No spots. Just the way I like them.

“Your life matters.”

The way he peels that fucking fruit should not be so hot, but I’m fascinated by the slow, methodical working of his massive, inked hands. I have to tear my eyes away before I start imagining them peeling me out of my clothes and working my body into a fit of ecstasy, driving me mad with as he keeps me on the edge forhoursbefore he lets me come.

“Does it matter to you?”

Thank fuck I hadn’t taken a sip of coffee yet. I would have sprayed it across the kitchen. “I don’t know you, Gunner. I know that you think you know me, but there’s only so much you can learn from watching someone. Even on paper, that’s not who I really am.”

He removes the banana right from the peel, holding the naked fruit. Why is that so hot? I jam my thighs together to try to stop the burn from spreading higher up. I think this is supposedto work the other way around, him getting turned on watching me, but it’s the strange, methodical, preciseness of his actions.

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