Page 12 of When He Defends
“Do not eventhinkof answering the door,” he told her.
She blinked at him again. Licked her lips. “Gray?”
Finally, she’d called him by the shortened version of his name. But then again, he’d been dry humping the woman in bed, so calling him Gray damn well seemed appropriate.
He double-timed it to his room and grabbed his weapon. In seconds, he was back in her room, and she was—thankfully—still in the bed. She’d listened to him. Followed an order. Impressive.Or maybe he’d just been really fast, and Emerson hadn’t gotten the opportunity to move, but, either way, he’d take it as a win.
Gray headed for the exterior door. He checked through the peephole in the too-thin door. The bastard on the other side was drawing back his fist to pound again.
Gray yanked the door open. “Can I fucking help you?” he snarled.
The man gaped at him, and then, in the next instant, raw rage filled his face. “You’re fucking the bitch? You’re fuckingmygirl?” He lunged toward Gray.
Gray brought up his gun. “I’m a federal agent, asshole. You need to calm the hell down. Right now.”
At the sight of the gun, the jerk scrambled back as his jaw dropped open.
“The only person staying in this room ismypartner, and you damn well don’t call her a bitch.” Gray filled the doorway. This prick was not getting past him. He could smell the alcohol pouring off the guy. “You need to go somewhere and sleep off the booze. That’s a pro tip for you. Otherwise, your ass is about to be in serious trouble.”
The man—young, probably early twenties but with a hairline already receding and a chin that had gone weak—blinked blearily. “Room two?”
“This is room twelve, dumbass. Twelve.” He felt the change in the air behind him. A light shift. Emerson hadn’t made any sound to alert him, but he knew she was right behind him. Her scent teased him.
The prick at the door twisted his head as he eyed her. “You’re not Misty.”
“No,” Emerson’s flat voice. “I am not Misty.”
The drunk creep yanked a hand over his face. “Got to find Misty. Bitch won’t leave me.” He turned away. Almost fell.Managed to catch himself at the last moment as he staggered off…probably for room two.
Gray narrowed his eyes on the target.
“Gray?” Emerson touched his shoulder.
As always, her touch burned through him, but his focus was on the drunk man. A man who peered at the numbers above each door at the small motel. The weaving drunk was counting down, getting closer and closer to his target.
“He’s going to find Misty,” Emerson said, as if reading Gray’s mind. “I don’t think we should let that happen.”
Damn straight, he wasn’t going to let that happen. This whole scene…Gray surveyed the fading exterior of the motel. The pothole-filled lot. The flickering light near the VACANCY sign. An old ice maker humming nearby.
A place right out of my nightmares.
The drunk guy approached room two. Anger twisted his features.
Gray advanced.
“Gray?” Emerson’s soft voice.
He kept marching after the prick who’d called Emerson a bitch.
The bastard lifted his hand. Pounded on the door for room two. “Open the fucking door!”
Ah, familiar words. Clearly, he liked to announce himself the same way each time he tried to break into a room.
Whoever was in room three immediately turned off their lights.
Room four did the same. The bright light in the window went dark in a blink.
The drunk guy pounded his fist into the wooden door. “Misty!” He lifted his foot and kicked at the doorknob. “Bitch, open up!”
