Page 55 of Unloaded
When we break apart to get some air, he rests his forehead on mine. It takes me a few moments until I can speak without sounding breathless. I pull back a little. “I should finish breakfast.” He nods, giving me a quick peck on the lips.
“What can I do to help?” he asks, catching me off guard. I never expected him to offer to help cook. Not that he can’t cook. I’ve seen him on Luke’s grill but never inside an actual kitchen. After going through his cabinets yesterday, I highly doubt he’s ever cooked in here either.
“Um…well, I wasn’t sure what you’d like.” I bite my lower lip, hoping I made a good choice. “So, I fried some bacon, made pancake batter, which I was about to start cooking when I burnt my hand.” He moves to the stove sliding the skillet back on the eye and turning on the heat. He cuts off a pat of butter dropping it into the pan to melt.
“How’d you burn yourself anyway?” he asks over his shoulder, while stirring the batter before expertly pouring just the right amount into the skillet. I’m seriously impressed at his skill.
“I wasn’t paying attention,” I admit. “My mind wasn’t on the task, and I forgot I had the pan heating already. I grabbed it with my bare hand.” He visibly winces at my confession. “It was a stupid move. I know better than to cook when my mind is elsewhere. I’m kind of a klutz if I’m not totally focused.” He flips the pancake before turning to come to me.
“I’m sorry angel. I’m thinking that’s my fault,” he says. “I’m not a forever kind of guy… and I just—” I place my hand over his mouth, shaking my head.
“We aren’t going there again, Rosco,” I tell him. “There isn’t a need. I understand you freaked because you’re worried about my feelings getting hurt. I appreciate your concern, but I’m a big girl.
“I never said anything about forever or even more than today. I’m not expecting anything more than you’re willing to give. There no pressure from me, no anticipation of the future, okay?”
His face softens, and he nods, but I could swear I see a hint of disappointment before he takes my lips in a heated kiss that goes on and on. The smell of smoke has us breaking apart, and Rosco running to the stove. He snatches the skillet from the eye and dumps the smoking pancake into the trash. I can’t keep from giggling as he curses.
“Fuck!” he exclaims. “I was trying to impress you with my cooking skills.” He glances up at me before dumping the skillet into the sink. “This is your fault, you know that, right?”
Rolling my eyes, I move to open a window to let the smoke escape when I see a red dot on my chest, seconds before I’m tackled to the floor, glass shatters around me. I can’t hold in the scream that escapes me.
“Fuck! Angel, are you all right?” Rosco’s frantic voice helps to calm the panic that’s trying to consume me. I’m still attempting to comprehend what just happened. The rat-a-tat-tat gives clarity to the situation. I was nearly shot. Rosco’s hands are roving over my body. I manage to get my shit together enough to answer his question.
“Yes, I’m okay,” I reply breathlessly. “Are you?” He spares me a smirk and a nod before he rolls me to my hands and knees. While this is a fun position in bed, it’s not so much when you’re having to crawl over broken glass. “Ow!” Pain sears my good hand. Looking down I see a piece of the shattered window sticking out of my right hand.
Rosco quickly pulls it out, grabs a dish towel from the counter and ties it around my hand. “Move, angel,” he urges, and I scramble along the cabinets with him hot on my heels.
“We need to get to my bedroom.” I nod, crawling faster, before I have time to process what he’s doing, Rosco pulls me to my feet, urging me to run while hunkered over, down the hall and into his room. I can still hear gunfire. Drywall pieces fly as the hallway is peppered with bullets.
Once we are in the room, he pushes me down into his closet. He kneels next to me, pulling paneling off the back wall to reveal a combination safe. He deftly punches in the numbers, popping it open. He pulls out a couple of handguns and extra magazines. He slams one into each gun, checking the safeties before tucking them into his waist band. It all happens so fast as if he’s done this a million and one times.
He pulls out another gun, slamming the magazine home. He is fucking hot when he is in operator mode. The look he gives me makes me shiver with desire, despite the fact we are under attack and could die at any second.
That thought gives me pause, because if we are under attack, where are Dalton and Kelvin?Why didn’t they alert us before the first shot was fired? Are they even alive?
A full-on panic attack is coming, but Rosco pulls me out of it.
“Do you know how to use this?”
Rosco holds up a 9mm handgun, quirking a brow at me. I nod, licking my lips in fear and anticipation. My duffel is laying nearby. I grab it, quickly finding my own weapon still safely tucked inside. I retrieve it, shucking a round into the chamber and checking the safety. I look up to see Rosco watching me with admiration in his eyes.
“Good girl.” His praise does wonders for my ego. He hands me the gun, and I tuck it into the waistband of the yoga pants I’m wearing. Thankfully, these are a little snug so they hold thegun in place with ease. I keep my baby in my hand. I’ve practiced many rounds with her at various gun ranges around the country as the boys and I have traveled from town to town.
Rosco is fiddling with a panel on the left-hand side of the closet, this one much larger than the smaller one concealing his hand guns. This panel is hiding a door. He pushes it open, seconds before grabbing my wrist and jerking me toward this new opening.
“Get inside, angel. You DO NOT come out for anyone, except me, you get me?” I nod solemnly. He pushes me inside and turns to leave, but I grip his forearm before he can get away.
“Wait!” I cry, “Where are you going? People are shooting at us in case you haven’t noticed!” He snags me behind my neck, kisses the hell out of me, then shoves me back into the tiny room and slams the door closed, leaving me stunned.
Now, I’m pissed.How dare he?
He’s shoved me in a panic room and left me wondering what the hell is going on. I can’t see shit. My hands feel along the wall, but can’t find a knob to open the door or a light switch.
How long I’m left sitting in the dark, confided space, my baby in my hand, I don’t know, but it’s long enough for my imagination to run wild in fear.
I imagine Rosco lying dead from multiple gunshot wounds. Masked men charging in to drag me out by my hair. My stepfather and his brother leading the charge as they destroy Rosco’s house, leaving him and his friends dead or dying as they take me and hand me over to Nicolai. Yeah, every crazy, fucked up thing that could happen is running through my head.
As the time drags on, my panic increases. I haven’t had many panic attacks, but if I don’t get it locked down quickly, it can spiral out of control. My breathing picks up as I feel my chest tightening, squeezing until I can’t get enough air. The walls and ceiling are closing in on me. I close my eyes, chanting overand over, “He’s all right. He’s coming back. He’s all right. He’s coming back.” Over and over and over, sinking into myself.
