Page 9 of Tossed into the Mob
“Your hoodie and shirt were drenched in blood, so I soaked them. Not sure the stain will come out.”
Now the kidnappee was doing my laundry.
"The bleeding's stopped, and it’s not infected. The wound is healing very well.”
Treyton put fresh gauze on the wound and wrapped it in a clean bandage. His touch was so gentle, almost as if it was filled with love. But that was silly. I’d taken him at gunpoint against his will. He should hate my guts.
“I’ll make us dinner. Do you like pasta?”
“Yeah, but I don’t want to go out.”
“There's a grocery store not far from here. It’s where I picked up the food for breakfast and lunch."
He was going to leave me alone, and the gunman could be lying in wait to storm the door, before putting a bullet in my chest like he did Dad. I pushed that image away, still not wanting to deal with it.
“Can you give me the gun?”
He hesitated, and I kinda understood why. I might shoot him or myself, but he loaded the weapon and put on the safety catch.
“Don’t answer the door, even if they ask to come in.”
A giggle burst out of me and both his brows shot up in inverted Vs.
“Sorry.” I smothered the laughter with my hand. “It reminded me of a line from a nursery rhyme or fairy tale.” I waved him away and locked the door behind him.
What did I do while he was gone? I could pace the floor, hide under a blanket, or keep watch. I needed a shower but not when I was close to panicking. Besides, Treyton would have to fashion a plastic bag over my arm. And I’d be naked from the waist up. But he’d removed my shirt, so he’d already seen me bare-chested.
I pictured his eyes roaming over my skin, and I liked how my tummy reacted. But the feeling vanished and I was still alone.
I counted the minutes since Treyton had driven away. Someone outside called to their child, and my heart sped up, wondering if the killer was pretending he lived here. Then a screech of tires on the main road sent my heart thundering, and I gripped the gun. I’d never fired one and wasn’t sure I could do it if the killer burst though the door.
Gods, how long had it been? Sweat streamed down my spine, and if I hadn't needed a shower before, I really needed one now.
A car turned off the road. I held my breath, waiting for it to go past. But it pulled up behind the trailer. My palms were running with sweat as I aimed the gun toward the door. But a whispered, “Brock, it’s Treyton,” pinpricked my anxiety, and I let him in.
He heaved a huge bag of groceries onto the small kitchen counter, but his eyes were running over me as if checking for any new injuries. Goosebumps appeared on my skin and performed somersaults but not from fear or cold. Whatwasthat emotion?
I concentrated on the food he’d bought as he set water to boil on the stove. After two days of eating gas station meals and fast food, my mouth watered at the thought of a real meal.
But Treyton also had deodorant and shampoo, T-shirts and sweatpants. He was so kind.
“For when you meet the family,” he explained.
Damn, that one word, family, sent my anxiety skyrocketing.
He set to work chopping garlic and fresh herbs and told me to sit and put my feet up. His movements were so graceful, he reminded me of a gazelle, and I wondered who’d taught him to cook.
“Tell me about your dad.” He added, “if it’s not too difficult.”
My heart jolted as I was reminded my dad was dead. “He was really protective.”
As I spoke, it hit me that maybe that was because of my alpha father’s occupation. I deduced he was involved with a crime family after reading about La Luna Noir. The same father I’d assumed was dead. And now I might meet him, but would he acknowledge me as his son? My parents hadn’t met since a few days after I was born, according to Dad’s letter.
“He always read to me before bed, even when I was a teen.” He’d said when I went to college I might be too cool to talk to him and he was building memories.
“That’s very sweet. Hold it close to your heart for always. He loved you very much.”
I studied my nails, not wanting Treyton to see my tears. But that was ridiculous. My dad had been murdered, so it would be odd if I didn’t cry.
