Page 37 of A Shot in the Dark
Wait,what?
I rifle through my memories, reaching for that one, but like a fantasy that fades with dawn, it drifts out of reach and dissolves.
I’m chewing on my lower lip, speculating the weirdness of Boots, bites, bonds, and belts that my life has so suddenly devolved into when Boots’ eyes open, flashing silver. “Fuuuck,” he sighs in appreciative greeting as he stretches. “Someone needs to protect you,” he mumbles and I wonder if he even knows what he’s saying. A lazy smile stretches across his face and I’m struck by the idea that this is exactly who Boots should always be: strong, a little bit sleepy, and sweet. This is what I’d wish for Boots—a lazy, contented life. He lifts himself up on his hands and brushes the tip of his nose against mine. It’s as close as he comes to kissing, and as much as I want to taste his lips—have him devour my mouth? I know that has to come on his own time, not mine.
He rolls out of bed and hits the shower. “Care to join me?”
“I’m good.”
“I’ll be thinking of you,” he responds and I know exactly what he’s thinking when I feel a pulse in my core that tighten my nipples. It’s the bond speaking up and reminding me we’re tied together—his sensations are frequently shared with me. His hunger becomes mine and mine becomes his, making for a strange but nearly seamless partnership.
Oh, what the hell. Sex with Boots is better thannothaving sex with Boots, and how much longer can this possibly last? I slip into an already steamy bathroom. “Hey.” He looks out at me from the transparent shower curtain. “I was just thinking about you.”
I pointedly drop my gaze, step out of my panties and respond, “I can see that.” Then I step into the shower with him.
Soon suds areeverywhereand we’re getting dirty and clean at the same time.
He calls in again to touch base with his headquarters. “They’ve adjusted my schedule,” he says, and I feel something cold gather in my gut because of the bond. “They never adjust a schedule.”
“What’s happening?”
But he will not tell me anything more and I only know that the worry inside me—inside him—builds into an ache.
Chapter 12
Waking, I find Boots twitching again. His upper lip lifts, quivers. He growls out another string of strange words and begins to shake.
I seldom watch Boots sleep, but this seems stranger than normal… I think back to one of the many conversations he’s cut short. Is this the result of some nightmare or some psychic scar resulting from PTSD? My heart aches at the idea that Boots lies within arm’s reach, beside me, and suffering. Stretching out tentatively to stroke his cheek, his hair, to soothe him, his eyes fly open, flashing silver, and his hand is around my neck?—
—squeezing—
lifting me off the mattress.
My hands fly to his, fingers grappling, prying, desperate to release his grip on my throat, but he stares straight through me with unseeing eyes, his mouth set like stone.
Killingme.
“Boooootsss—” I wheeze, but he doesn’t hear me. I kick out with all my strength and nail him in the gut, severing his grip and sending him sprawling to the floor.
He’s up at once, a wildness in his eyes, a savage snarl on his lips. If I didn’t know better, I’d swear his teeth sharpen, growing longer?—
I need a strategy… Scrambling backwards, I press my body to the bed’s cheap headboard and the wall behind it as I crouch, teetering on the mattress. I roll my fingers into fists and shout, “BOOTS!” It comes out not as a scream but a battlecry.
Those silver eyes flicker and flash and then he launches toward me, exclaiming “Fuck-fuck-fuck!Baby… I’m so sorry.” He reaches for me with the same hand that was just around my throat and I can’t help but flinch. “I…” He leaps back, away from the bed, away from me, hands in his hair, silver eyes wide as saucers, horror etched in the freshly forming lines marring his face. “I—I have to go.”
He pulls on his khakis, grabs his flannel, his cigarettes, sunglasses, and bursts out the door.
It takes me a moment to unwind myself from where I’m barely holding myself together. The man who brings me such pleasure with his body, easily wields equal measures of pain. Did all of my needling and teasing—my asking for more and more information—trigger something inside him? What have I really pressed him for? His name? What sort of life is it when asking for a name is too much?
“He’s tired,” I tell myself as I unfold my arms, my legs, and cautiously pad to the room’s phone. That’s all it is, he’s still exhausted. His defenses are down. He simply needs to recoup some more rest. I dial the front desk. “We need another night.”
“Another night, huh? Okay. What’ll that be? Cash or card?”
“Uhh…I have cash.”
“Great. Bring it to the front desk now and I’ll get everything set up for you.”
“I—” I can’t take money and head across the parking lot to pay the man… Boots would kill me… The thought makes my hand fly protectively to my neck again.
