Page 113 of Gunner

Setting me down on the floor, Gunner reached over to turn on the shower, and I tried to look in the mirror.

“Baby, no.”

He turned me around to face him.

“Talk to me, baby.”

I couldn’t. Not yet. I didn’t know what to say. I was sure they took my silence as guilt or remorse. The truth was, the reason I hadn’t said anything was because I didn’t feel guilty. Or remorseful.

Not for murdering a rapist.

What I felt guilty about was that I didn’t feel guilty.

How did I explain that I wasn’t sorry?

How did I explain that I would do it again without batting an eye?

What did that say about me?

Who was I that I could murder a man without feeling bad?

Gunner held my hands in his while he searched the cabinet. For what, I wasn’t sure. I wanted to ask him. I had the ability to speak. I just chose not to.

Not yet.

Locating the metal nail file with the thin sharpened end, he held my hand over the sink. Using the pointed end, he scraped under my fingernails, removing any trace of skin and DNA that might be hidden there. I could have told him I didn’t scratch Greg. I didn’t think to.

After he was done with each nail, Gunner stripped my clothes off me, and I stood there waiting. The absence of remorse, more than the act of killing itself, was what truly disturbed me; the cold indifference was chilling.

“Come on, baby.”

Gunner took my hand again and led me into the shower, and I followed without wavering. I knew he was thinking the worst, but I couldn’t bring myself to utter the words to tell him I was ok.

Because I wasn’t ok.

But not for the reasons he thought.

Caught up in my own thoughts and feelings, I hadn’t realized Gunner had stripped to get in the shower with me. He stood in front of me as naked as I was, and I let my eyes roam over his body.

He was beautiful.

His shoulders were broad and covered in ink. The hard ridges of his chest gleamed in the fluorescent light of the bathroom. His sculpted abs taunted me, tempting me to reach my hand out and trace each valley.

But I couldn’t. I was supposed to be in shock. Full of guilt and stunned into silence. I wasn’t supposed to be ok.

How would Gunner see me once he learned the truth? My silence wasn’t from shame about Greg’s death, but from aparalyzing fear of Gunner’s judgment; each breath felt heavy with dread, the weight of his potential condemnation stifling my words.

Gunner tilted my head back, allowing the water to run down my back. His gentle hands ran through my hair, absorbing the water. When he pulled away, I wanted to cry out. Tell him not to let me go.

He grabbed the bottle of shampoo and squirted some into his palms. Rubbing his hands together forcibly, then returning to my scalp, he washed my hair, and my eyes closed on their own.

I felt the tears well up behind my lids. No one had ever taken such care of me. He washed my hair three times before grabbing a clip from the vanity and piling it up on my head out of his way.

Switching to my body wash, he repeated the steps he’d taken with the shampoo. Only this time, his hands roamed over my body. Starting at my neck, he caressed over my shoulders and down my arms. Lifting one arm and washing between my fingers before moving to the other.

He ran his soapy hands over my breasts, and my nipples puckered. My arms hung at my sides, and I had to consciously keep them there, to stop them from lifting so my hands could span the width of his chest. I wanted to run my fingers through his hair. It took all my effort to resist leaning forward and pressing my lips against his neck.

I wanted him. Judging by the solid length that bobbed between us, he wanted me too. My eyes focused on his length, and he tipped my head up, forcing me to look at him.

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