Page 60 of Brutal Obsession

And when I touch her, I no longer feel alone. I’m not sweltering in an open flame, battling to impress an unassailable woman who’s haunted my every waking hour for months. Years.

Instead, touching her feels right, like we both belong in each other’s arms.

The emotion unsettles me. I don’t want to analyze it. I just want to stretch Harper’s tight pussy for a few—or several—uninterrupted hours so we can both move the fuck on with our lives.

Premonition breaks my focus on Harper. My nose twitches, and my shoulders stiffen like I’m being poked.

Someone’s close by, watching.

I force my body to relax. If they know I’ve sensed them, they’ll bolt before I get the chance to clock their face.

My eyes skate through the throngs of foot traffic and cars gliding past on Waikiki’s main avenue. A black Ford idling half a block up the road catches my attention.

On a street full of cars with windows down, sunroofs open, and convertible tops back, this car stands out. The blacked-out windows on the passenger side is rolled down an inch, with cigarette smoke drifting out of the narrow opening.

Uneasiness cracks open in the pit of my stomach.

Two men dressed like tourists in Hawaiian shirts, khaki pants, and shades step out of the car. Their faces, hardened and marked by years of violence, give them away. I’ve tucked guns into my waistband enough times to know when someone’s packing.

The armed men slip toward a side entrance of the restaurant, and I duck through the front doors almost as fast.

The crack in my stomach widens.

I left my gun in the car.

Fuck.

Servers are bussing tables and turning chairs upside down, while others sweep and mop. Harper’s behind the bar cataloguing receipts when the unmistakable pop-pop-pop of a modified semi-automatic shatters the air.

Harper is no stranger to gunfire. At the first pop, she grabs the employee nearest to her and shoves them down behind the counter before dropping out of sight as terror overtakes the place. People dive under furniture, scrabbling, scared. Every violent impulse I’ve had the past two months flares to life.

I flatten myself against a cool brick wall. The two gunmen stalk into the room, heads swiveling, searching. They can’t see me, and they won’t.

Not until it’s too late.

“Evening.” The bigger of the men addresses the room, waving his weapon around like a hand. “We’re looking for somebody you know. Cough her up, or we kill every single one of you.”

While Bozo’s enjoying his five minutes of fame, I drop low and skirt around a group of booths, still out of sight.

I just need to get close enough.

Gunfire trills, and screams pierce the air.

My gut clenches, but none of the screams are Harper’s, and that’s all I fucking care about.

The thought of one of these fuckers hurting Harper inflates the rage that bolsters my fingers as I wrap my fist around the center leg of a nearby four-top table. The gunmen, still preoccupied with the terrified, trembling staff members of Dish Waikiki, are unprepared for what’s coming.

If I were in my right mind, I would have waited a few more seconds for the perfect opening. Instead, the moment the big one steps toward the bar, I go fucking ballistic.

Ripping the table off the ground, I hurl it toward them one-handed.

The force of the throw reveals itself a moment later when the table connects with the back of the second gunman’s head. A grunt of pain and surprise folds in with thethwackof wood and metal against skull. The guy goes down with the table, the resonance of the crash bouncing through the space. His submachine gun skids left toward the hallway that leads to the restrooms.

His partner whips back in time to see him fall, but not in time to catch me. I duck low again, silently working my way down the left aisle to get as close to the fallen man as I can.

“Which one of you motherfuckers did that?” Bozo’s tone is laced with acid.

We’re five minutes away from a Dish Waikiki massacre if I don’t get my hands on that gun.

---