Page 17 of Gunner

“Oh? You think I won’t do it? Hmm.” I cross my arms and throw out my hip sassily. What am I even doing taunting a man like this? “I suppose there are other ways to get in. The same way that the women who hang around this place do. Or maybe, I should go work at one of the clubs owned by this organization. One thing you don’t know about me? I’m a very good dancer. I think that I’d be perfect for—”

His brows crash down over his eyes dangerously. My heartrate goes wild in my chest, pinging off my ribs. The sense of satisfaction I get at having finally riled this beast into showing an ounce of emotion is immense.

And crazy stupid.

He surges forward unexpectedly, wickedly fast for a man his size, but he doesn’t touch me. He stops with the cookies pressed between us. Literally touching us both. He’s throwing all sorts of heat and shade. My insides squirm as my breath catches.

“You’ll stay away from those places,” he grinds out, moderating himself even though he’s got to be so pissed, he’s probably seeing a haze of red. What makes a controlling, obsessive asshole angrier than the thought of other people seeing and setting hands on ‘his’ woman?

“Mmm, I don’t know. That’s the thing about free will.”

“That is not the thing. If I—”

“Whoa!” I’m done with letting him think he’s the one dictating the terms. “No. You’re not going to do anything about any decisions I make, because you won’t be involved. You have no say in it. You’re just a creeper with a voyeurism problem.” The whole time, we’ve been having this conversation basically in a corner, at low volume. I try and keep my voice down despite my rising anger, because we’re attracting attention and hiss, “Get help and cut it the fuck out, or I’ll go to your leader or whatever he calls himself. He doesn’t know, does he? You’re probably guarding his kid. I don’t think he’ll like any of that, but…” I shrug. “What do I know about you at all?”

If the threat hits home, he doesn’t let it show. His control is remarkable. It shouldn’t make me want to rise to the challenge of cracking him.

I don’t step back, because that would be breaking first. I’ve always had a problem with that. Showing weakness. I fucking hate it. Ask the men who kidnapped me years ago. They’ll be the first to tell you that I was anything but an ideal, meek, scared victim.

“What’s your name?” I ask, a savage curl to my lips. I’m more like a beast than this man, not the good kindergarten teacher I’ve made myself out to be. I hope no one is watching me right now, that I’m hidden enough back here, because anyone who recognized me would be shocked.

“Gunner.”

I can’t help it. I snort. “That’s something my kindergarten students would come up with. I don’t mean your little boys’ club name. I mean your real name.”

Yeah. I went there. Called a badass, rough group of bikers a little boys’ club like they don’t murder people and probably doall the foul things my father does when it comes to drugs and weapons. The cookout made the club seem like they’re a bunch of golden retrievers, and I know that a person can technically be both a fearful man and a soft, sweet, caring person who would do anything for those they love, but I also know that appearances are deceiving.

“If you’re not going to tell me your name, then tell me what color your eyes really are.”

He blinks. The cold, impossible bright blue doesn’t change, because that color is false. He’s for sure wearing contacts.

“Brown. Glasses ruin the badass biker aura, you know? Try pounding someone’s face in if you can’t find them because your glasses got knocked off and you can’t fucking see.”

That’s not it. From one person hiding to another, I can tell that this man has secrets past his biker shit. Probably past the stalking too.

Not stopping with the attitude just because he gave me one little bit of info that might not be false. “I’m not something you can add to your collection. A toy or a trophy. I’m a real person. I have feelings. I have thoughts. Dreams. A life. You are not a part of it. You might think you are, but you’re only standing on the outside, stealing. You’re a thief, Gunner with brown eyes.”

“Yes.”

His maddeningly easy confession makes me want to scream.

“I’m going to ask you nicely one more time and then it’s straight to your boss.” A smart woman would go to the cops. But what do I do? Set traps in my backyard, and come hereto threaten a dangerous, unhinged man in his own territory. I actually am intelligent, I swear. It was my abnormal upbringing that made me want to solve all my problems myself. “Cease and motherfucking desist, asshole.”

In one swift move, he lifts the container of cookies above my head, and with the barrier no longer in the way, he presses in. No part of him touches me, but he leans in and gets close enough to dip his head right near the shell of my ear and drag in a massive inhale.

I shiver as my inner cavewoman goes berserk.

He’s motherfuckingsmellingme.

“We both know that I’m not going to do that. So, if you want to tell my Prez, he’s right over there. Dead center, the little girl from the shoe store on his shoulders.”

It’s so tempting to ball my hand into a fist and plant it straight in the smug bastard’s face. It would be a vast improvement if his nose was slightly rearranged.

I rear back, keeping my hands to myself. Touching this guy isn’t a good idea. I don’t trust myself to stop. The feral part of me calls out to the distant animal in him. Fucked Up One meet Fucked Up Two. A pairing designed in and destined for hell.

“This isn’t a game. This is my life. You want to insert yourself where you don’t belong, don’t blame me for the consequences. I can be nice, Gunner. Seriously nice. I don’t think you’re ready for that level of non-debauchery.” I nearly wince. Why did I have to use that word?

He’s too much of a professional to let anything slip, but my desire is probably written all over my face. I’m not ashamed ofwho I am, but having it all out there when I’m trying to prove a point? Not my finest moment.

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