Page 5 of Dean

“Is that your stuff?” he asks, and I nod sadly.

“Who did this?” Dean asks, his hand tightening around me.

“My roommates.”

“Why?” he asks, and I feel my cheeks flame.

I don’t want to tell him. I worry he might literally kill someone, like a protective papa bear.

“Not telling you, Dean,” I murmur.

“Why do you always have to be so stubborn?”

“I’m not stubborn. I just know what I want and I don’t want you getting involved in this.”

His fingers clench on my arm. “Avery, just say the word and I’ll make them disappear,” Dean says lowly, and the seriousness in his voice makes my entire body tremble. God, there’s nothing like talking about murder to get my libido going.

“No one is making anyone disappear,” I say sternly and then move toward my stuff, whisperingI hate themunder my breath and biting back tears.

I fall to my knees, quickly going through everything to see what’s gone. Not much, thankfully. I have enough clothes left and one pair of heels, which were tucked into the bottom of the bag. But there are things missing, like one of my favorite dresses and another pair ofhigh-heeled boots. It will take years to replace them on my salary and with my school debt.

Fuckers.

Like hell I’m going to go back into that shitty apartment and ask where they tossed them—not that I think they merely threw them out. They probably cut them to pieces and burned them. But in the grand scheme of things, a few missing items of clothing and some art supplies from college are not a big deal. I’m just glad I escaped with only a bruised cheekbone and nothing else.

When closed-minded people don’t understand something, they lash out. Some even become violent. I could have lost my life.

I could be dead.

“Is that all of it?” Dean asks, and I sigh, swiping at my damp eyes, feeling a lump in my throat. Hateful, mean-spirited douchebags. I should never have moved in here. But at the time, I’d been straight out of college and desperate. And they seemed…nice-ish.

I hadn’t realized what a bunch of bigoted assholes they were deep down. But over time, I should have seen the signs, the red flags. I probably did, yet chose to overlook them in favor of keeping a roof over my head. And then last night, I let my guard down.

Huge mistake.

“Yeah. That’s it. Pathetic, right?” I ask, grabbing the large plastic bag and cramming my clothing back inside as best I can. How embarrassing is this, that Dean has seen me reduced to this?

Fucking pathetic.

“No, not pathetic. You’re not even close,” he says, hefting the box into his arms. “Come on. Let’s get you something to eat and then we can head to my place and get you situated. This place is a shithole anyway.”

Ugh, well, I don’t feel much like eating, not when my stuff was just ransacked by strangers. I feel violated somehow—like I let them see a piece of me they didn’t deserve to know.

I blink rapidly, sniffling loudly and feeling like I want to curl in on myself as we make our way back to the car. I just want to have a good cry, but I don’t want to break down in front of Dean. I don’t want himto think that I’m some fragile boy who needs protection. I can take care of myself, and have been for many, many years.

“Avery, hey, come here,” Dean says softly when he sees me hunched over in my seat, my head against the glass of the window.

I peek over at him through wet eyelashes and see that he’s pointing to the middle seat of the Impala, right next to him. And suddenly, my tears are forgotten.

“What?” I squeak out.

“Come here,” he reiterates.

“You mean, like right next to you?” I ask softly, and he nods.

Well, like hell I’m saying no to that. This is a once-in-a-lifetime opportunity.

Without a second thought, I unbuckle and scoot over to the middle seat, and he wraps that big arm around me again, pulling me into his side.

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