Page 33 of Between the Devil and the Deep Blue Sea

With Gage, my morning fears wash down the drain and I step out refreshed and sated.

“Love you,” I tell him, towel drying my hair.

“That’ll never get old. Love you too, baby. Loved you as a kid. I’ll love you for the rest of our lives.”

“You’ve said that,” I tease.

His face sobers. “I know, but I need to make sure you believe it.” That’s on me, his doubt. I’ve earned it. I’ll take it. And I’ll do whatever it takes to give him back the confidence in me that I have in him. That I’ve always had in him—I just forgot for a while there.

At five to seven we roll into Smitty’s. The guard is already on premises. He stops us to check our IDs. Gage assures him he’ll be the one dropping me off every day in this specific truck.

We walk around to the back of the store, where I unlock the door. Our resident tabby and her brood acknowledge our presence by greeting us with ameowbut nothing more. Gage helps by flicking on the lights in the back room, flooding the space in an almost brash, garish light as compared to the soft greenish hue of the security light.

The rest of start of shift goes smoothly. Since we cut it so close to opening, having to traverse through Virginia Beach morning rush hour, I wasn’t sure what to expect when we pulled in.

Now that we have an idea of how long we have to spend in traffic, we’ll be able to time our departures better—or have a little less frantic orgasmic morning sex. Who am I kidding? I live with Gage St. James. There’s no such thing aslesssex.

He helps me load the cold cases, the first section with beer and soda. The second with juices and water. And lastly to fill stock on shelves wherever necessary. It’s nice to have his help, seeing as I had to open the store to customers only a few minutes after our arrival.

But he’s not fooling anyone, especially not me. He doesn’t want to leave. And I can’t blame him, as I’m not so keen for him to go.

Though finally at a little after nine, he receives a phone call from Boss. A shipping issue. They—Boss, Duke and Gage—own a shipping company together, employing several of the brothers.

“Yeah,” I hear him grumble, then he turns to me. “I gotta go. Computer’s at the hotel.”

“I’ll be safe, babe.”

“Sure, I know. But I’ll be here at three.” He bends in to kiss me, gripping the back of my neck to pull me closer. I grip his shirt at his shoulders. It takes a great deal of effort for me not to moan out my approval of his substantial lip prowess, which would be embarrassing considering April, one of our regulars, walks in mid-embrace.

“Livvy, you’re back,” she calls and all I can do is laugh.

“You wanted to come back,” he whispers, then lets me go.

Just as promised, promptly at three o’clock Gage shows up to help me finish my end of shift as the subsequent girl on duty runs through her start of shift checklist.

The next couple of days go exactly as the first. And with Gage beginning to calm, he stays only a short time.

This morning, he stays only long enough for a cup of coffee and a mini make-out session.

“Love you, baby,” he says. “Be here at three.”

“Love you, too.”

We don’t leave one another or hang up the phone without sayingI love you. It’s because we do, but it’s also because of what we don’t say, that you just never know when it might be the last time you ever get to say it. I don’t like thinking those thoughts, but the world, at least our world, is too unpredictable.

I watch through the glass door as Gage’s truck pulls away. It’s hot out, even this early. The day’s going to be a scorcher. I grab a bottle of water from the cooler and walk it out to the security guard.

He’s a handsome guy, light brown hair, pretty blue eyes. Nothing like Gage’s eyes, but still pretty. He smiles. “Thanks.” And he wipes the condensation from the bottle across his forehead.

“Well, you can’t protect and serve if you’re suffering heatstroke.”

“Appreciate it.” Then he winks his pretty eye, unscrews the cap and takes a long drink of cool water—so long his Adam’s apple bobs up and down.

I leave him to it, walking back inside and behind the counter. An hour passes, three more customers come in, make their purchases and leave. We’ve been quiet for about fifteen minutes when a black SUV pulls in to the lot but not up to a pump.

No. Way. I know that SUV. Michael drops out, his feet to the ground. Stunned, I lose precious seconds fumbling for the phone. Then, then it all happens so fast, yet simultaneously in slow motion.

Through the glass door, without even time for me to scream, I watch as Michael approaches the handsome rent-a-cop with gun lifted and fires three shots into his head and chest. I know he hit the man’s head when his brains splatter against the glass door.

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