Page 4 of Falling for a Killer

“Sit down on your hands right where you are.” A man appears from the hallway with a gun pointed in my direction, a ski-mask sloppily covering his face like he put it on in a rush. His rippling muscles are decorated in swirling tattoos that surround a giant wolf head on his chest, and the light grey sweats he’s wearing leave almost nothing to the imagination.

Was he just jacking off on my fucking couch, or does he just get his kicks scaring the shit out of people?

“No,” I blurt. “You’re in my fucking house,yousit down on your hands.”

He cocks it without blinking and steps closer. “Don’t make me shoot you.”

Fucking hell. Angry tears fill my eyes as I sit down, nestling my hands under my ass. I ran from one asshole with a gun straight into the arms of another.

This is karma, I’m just not sure for what. “There, I’m sitting. I’m clearly unarmed and you’re about a foot taller than me, so what did you think I was gonna do? Disarm you with an onion?”

His eyes drop to the grocery bag and then meet mine again. “I didn’t know what you had in your hands that could be used as a weapon,” he admits. “What are you doing here? No one was supposed to come here. The owners are out of the country.”

“Not all of us.” Slowly, I raise one hand just to wipe the tears from my face and slide it back underneath me as I get my shit together. If this is how it ends, this is how it ends. At least Ryan won’t get the satisfaction of doing it himself. “Who sent you here?”

“Stop crying.” He shifts uncomfortably. “I don’t like it when — what do you mean who sent me?”

Oh, a man told me to stop crying. Let me get right on that.

“If you want me to stop, maybe you should quit pissing me off. I’m not crying because I’m scared, I’m crying because I’m angry as hell that I just drove over thirteen hours to get away from an asshole with a gun only to find another one. And I’m asking who the hell sent you because no one —no one— knows about this place except for me, my sister, and our parents. Did Ryan put you up to this? Some enemy my parents made? Who?”

“Ryan?” I can see his perfect lips curl into a confused frown as he lowers the gun slightly. “I don’t know who that is, and I’m no one’s enemy. I just needed a place to crash.”

Great. This cabin stays vacant for decades except for the one time I actually need it. “Well go find somewhere else, big boy. This is my safe house.”

He huffs a laugh under his breath and finally lets his hand drop to his side so the gun isn’t pointed in my direction. “Who are you running from? Ex-boyfriend?”

I’ve already said too much, so I don’t answer him. “The better question is who the hell are you, how did you find out about thisplace, and why do you have a fucking ski-mask? Did you rob a bank, or was your nose just really cold from sticking it in places it shouldn’t be?”

“Did you forget I’m the one with a gun here, or do you really just not care?” He doesn’t wait for me to respond. “I’m obviously wearing a mask because I don’t want you to be able to identify me when you ultimately call the cops on me. If I had known you’d be here, I’d have been covered completely, but here we are.”

Yes, here we are. My eyes travel down his frame, betraying me. If his face is even half as attractive as his body, I’m in trouble. “Fuck the police. You would’ve shot me already if you were going to, and at this point? I don’t even care. I’m tired, I’m starving, and I just spent two days convincing myself that coming here was the best thing for me. If that means I die, then I die.” Standing up, I wave him off as he raises the gun again. “Tattoos are just as identifiable as your face, so either shoot me or take the mask off. I’m cooking dinner.”

He does neither, but keeps the gun trained on me as I walk over to the kitchen. When he finally lowers it again, I realize he really isn’t going to shoot me. “If I let you cook, you’re not going to stab me, are you?”

“I’m oh for one with kitchen knives, so I think you’re safe,” I mutter, moving around the psycho as I grab the bags from the front door and start unloading them. “This would be a good time for you to go find somewhere else to crash, though. I’ve got a really terrible short term memory and won’t remember your tattoos or your nipples in a few minutes.”

“My nipples? Why would you be looking at my nipples?” He moves in a little to watch me closer. “What are you making?”

He smells like soap and laundry detergent, lulling me into a false sense of security long enough to look up and meet his eyes.They’re beautiful and blue, almost familiar. “Your areolas are the same size. It’s annoying.”

I can see the confusion in his gaze again as he stares back at me, unblinking. “Are you insane?”

“Sweetie, there’s nothing you can do to me that hasn’t been done in the last year. A crazy guy holding me at gunpoint has become a regular Friday for me. Clearly you’re not leaving, so at least make yourself useful and chop this onion for me.” I toss it to him, surprised when he doesn’t let it fall to the floor, but that’s nothing compared to how shocked I am when he sets the gun aside to wash his hands and grab a knife.

“Definitely insane. Just my luck I guess. Karma is karma.” He’s muttering under his breath like he’s the one with screws loose and not me, but I’m half convinced this is a fever dream. Maybe I fell asleep behind the wheel of the Renegade and I’m in purgatory somewhere, or maybe I really just don’t care if I live or die.

I eyeball the gun for half a second before realizing that even if I could grab it and get a shot off before he figured out what I was doing, what would I do with his body? He’s a big boy. Easily 6’3, probably 250lbs of pure muscle. He looks like he could end me with his pinky finger.

Something about it makes my thighs clench.

Maybe he’s onto something.

Burying that thought, I rip open some ground beef and fire up the stove. Hey, at least I didn’t have to worry about making this place functional again. “Are you hungry, or was the dirty paper plate you left on the table a sign that you had dinner already?”

“Both. I’m always hungry. Are you going to tell me what we’re cooking or just order me around?”

The way he begins chopping up the onion tells me this isn’t his first time in a kitchen, which doesn’t help me at all. Fuck.

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