Page 18 of Gunner

“I hope you’re ready to be buried in a mountain of food. You’re going to see so much lasagna and so many casseroles that you’ll wish you’d taken my advice. I won’t tell your president. He’ll figure out something’s up all on his own when all my gifts keep coming directed to you. I won’t just stop at baking. I’ll give you houseplants and then you’ll feel obligated to keep them alive, boxes of chocolates with sappy notes, cheesy rom com boxsets. And I’ll keep on going until you get bored and go looking to stalk a woman who’s a challenge.”

Heaven forbid, that my actions send him off to creep on someone else, but hopefully he might see that his behavior is not acceptable.

All I get is that lopsided, malicious smirk and a whole lot of nothing else, everything carefully controlled and dead. “Do your worst. Or your best. Either way, it’s not going to change anything. You already understand the inevitable.”

That you’re mine.

Mission accomplished, asshole. I flip him off. I can’t help it. It’s as childish.

“Enjoy playing Russian Roulette with the stuff I drop off. One in every six dishes might give you the worst food poisoning of your life.”

He leans against the brick wall, at ease, deceptively casual, all his potency barely leashed and simmering and I can’t help but wonder what it would be like to have his huge body covering mine, to be at his mercy, to have his long, thick erection pressed into me with one brutal stroke, claiming me, all his pent up furyand raw destruction a match for everything I’ve kept so carefully a secret.

He dips his head in a nod, eyes burning like a predator’s, like I just screamed all of that right in his face. “I’ll take my chances. I have a special talent for survival.”

Chapter 8

Gunner

It’s three in the morning, freezing cold and pouring with rain, and I’m standing in the shadows outside Diletta’s backdoor, only half bothering to conceal myself, sans balaclava. She knows who I am now so it’s pointless hiding my face.

I can’t ever remember being so sick in my life.

Despite her promise to poison me, it’s been five days, and she hasn’t come around to the clubhouse. No cookies, cakes, or dubious potted plants have materialized. For my part, I’ve stayed away from her. Maybe that’s why. She hasn’t needed to match my lowlife activities.

I’ve been following Lark and Penny everywhere. Penny has been sick for the past few days, so my services weren’t needed. I’ve never underestimated an opponent, but I did underestimate the power of a five-year-old’s germs which thanks to my close contact with her, are now running rampant in my body.

I spent the night in the club’s communal bathroom puking up everything I’ve eaten for the past month, but when Raiden asked me to help him with some VP shit in the morning, I did it without complaint. He’s still doing most of the club’s books. There’s no one here who’s as good with numbers. I occasionally fill in the gaps of what I was doing before. Mindlessly. Everything is mindless because only one person matters. When I’m not watching her, all I do is think about her. This afternoon, Tyrant asked me for a favor. A group of shitheads keeps cominginto one of our nightclubs and he wanted me to accompany Reaper and Crow to give them a warning about trying to push their pills there or anywhere in this town.

We were there for hours and unfortunately, I affirmed my hatred of public bathrooms by getting up close and personal with the disgusting place. Twice.

I bring my hand to my aching shoulder and when I pull away, my palm is scarlet in the darkness. I can smell the metallic scent of my own blood. Tonight has been a shitty night all round. I’m soaked through, still nauseous as fuck, dehydrated, and bleeding out because some punk ass college kid decided he wasn’t going to heed our warning.

It’s been a really, really shitass day.

Why am I even here right now instead of taking myself off to Archer’s clinic like Crow and Reaper wanted me to?

Because I don’t want this to be over. I’m an addict and I can’t stop.

Because when shit is awful, I want to fall back on the one thing that gives me comfort. Watching her. The woman who threatens both gunshots and chocolate chip cookies.

Because stupidly, it’s been a while since I’ve eaten a bullet. It’s an annoyance. It hurts. It’s worse that I already felt like shit. I’m drenched to the bone and probably going to catch pneumonia if I don’t bleed to death first.

Because I had this stupid notion that more than I needed or wanted medical assistance, I wanted her. I want comfort. I wantherto comfort me, even if I don’t deserve it.

I just wanted to be close.

I’m close, alright. Close to death’s door. The world is starting to black out, but at least it’s a relief from the raindrops pouring off my bowed head. My body is starting to numb out. Finally.

The back door bangs open. The motion sensor light floods the yard, illuminating my pathetic ass figure. My angel freezes. She’s got a fuzzy bathrobe thrown over her pajamas. Bare feet sticking out, she’s getting wet because of me. I don’t know why my brain focused on that detail when it should be more concerned with the fact I’m dying—or at least it feels like it.

The numbness spreads from my shoulder to my legs. They give out and with a dull crack, I’m on the ground. Still upright, hand pressed protectively against my shoulder, the blood flowing through my fingers shockingly hot against the freezing cold downpour. My stomach twists and rises up my throat, hotter than the blood. I turn my face to the side and retch up pretty much nothing but bile. I don’t know if it’s the stomach flu or the gunshot wound at this point.

I wipe my mouth, belatedly realizing that it was with my bloody hand. I spit as soon as I taste the salty metal on my lips.

“Holy fuck, Gunner. When I said that I- when I threatened you, I- I… did I curse you? You’re not looking so good.”

“Don’t feel so good either.” It’s strangely easy to be truthful with her if I turn it into a game. All of it’s just another lie anyway.

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