Page 11 of That Girl is Trouble

With a heavy breath, I push up and toss her a pillow, giving her a nod before making my way into my room. I strip down to my boxers and collapse on my bed. And I don’t think of her. I don’t think of what could have happened last night had none of us heard. I don’t think of after, when she was in my bed, when she was too close. I don’t think of the bruises, the blood, the dead body.

None of it crosses my mind as I drift to sleep.

I don’t think of any of those things until much later, when a scream wakes me. More bruises, more blood, more bodies. They all flash through my mind as I stumble out of bed and pull open the door to my bedroom, this time grabbing my gun as I stagger into my living room to put a bullet in the head of whoever the hell’s got their hands on that girl.

But I’m met with silence. There’s no asshole trying to fuck her, no hands on her body. Just a dark room and a lump of a girl nestled into my couch.

There’s a whimper, a small sob, and the lump twitches, grabs at the thin blanket covering her and then lets out a small yell.

Gun still in hand, I carefully approach as she kicks out, and another cry falls from her lips.

“Kat,” I whisper.

But she’s lost in her nightmare, her cheeks tear-stained. She claws at the couch and swats at the empty space around her.

I swallow as the muscles of my chest clench tight against my lungs. With a hand on her shoulder, I give her a gentle shake. Nothing. She moves again, another cry. I shake harder. “Kat, wake up. Kat!”

She jolts awake, letting out another gut-wrenching sob before jerking away from me and clambering into the corner of the couch. Her eyes are wild as she whips her head back and forth for several agonizing seconds. Finally, she slumps, heaving in heavy breaths, recognizing where she is, that she’s not in danger. And then her eyes fall on me, on my gun.

I hold it up in forfeit and place it on the coffee table. “I heard you yell. Thought someone might be… trying something.”

Kat pulls her knees into her chest and dips her head. “God, I’m sorry,” she says with another sob. The tears are still coming, and it makes me fucking die a little, seeing her like that. It hits me almost as hard as it did last night, when she was bloody and battered and utterly broken and there wasn’t a damn thing I could do to fix it. Her eyes lock with mine and somehow fill with even move tears. “Did I wake you?”

I shouldn’t touch her. I should give the girl a glass of water and an extra blanket and tell her to get some sleep. Instead, I wrap my arms around her and pull her into my chest. She buries her head in the crook of my neck and breaks down. Her tears soak into my skin and run down my chest.

“Don’t apologize for shit that’s not your fault. Don’t apologize at all. It’s not like you,” I murmur, holding her tighter. “What were you dreaming about?”

She pauses, her breath hitching. “I… there were hands. All over. Pulling at my clothes and pressing down on my chest and grabbing my hair. I couldn’t… breathe. My screams were too quiet. Just so… fucking quiet.” Pulling away, she clears her throat and drops her eyes to my gun. “I’m fine, Axe, okay? I’m good here. Go back to sleep.”

It’s more of a plea than a dismissal this time, and without thinking I scoop her up in my arms and do the one fucking thing I told myself I wouldn’t—I let Kat Danforth back into my fucking bed.

For sleep. That’s fucking it. Comfort. Safety.

No touching.

Dropping her on my bed, I clench my jaw, suck in a breath through my nose, and let it out again. I pull the covers up to her shoulders and slide in next to her. Anyone finds her like this, and I know exactly how it’ll look.

“You’re not as mean as everyone says you are,” she whispers.

I snort. “I am, Kitty. I just protect what’s mine.”

There’s a pause, and then she whispers, “Yours?”

“The club’s,” I correct. “I protect what belongs to the club.”

She falls silent after that. But just like last night, she inches closer, almost imperceptibly, until she’s crowding my space. And just like this morning, her fingers are suddenly sliding down my jawline and to my chest. Exploring me with her hands the way a woman would if I were about to get her naked. And that sure as fuck is not Kat.

“No touching, Kat,” I rasp. It’s a warning. Keep your fucking hands to yourself. Her being here isn’t right—in this bed, in those shorts, when I’ve got no shirt on. None of it is fucking right.

Rare I say no to a woman. That’s practically been my mantra since I got out of prison. I fuck who I want, when I want, and I don’t think too hard about tomorrows or feelings or who might want to punch me in the face because I stuck my dick in the wrong woman. But Kat? She’s a fucking girl. And that’s a line even I won’t cross. I don’t need to add another line to the list of shit that could get me thrown back in jail. Fucking this girl would certainly put me on that path. And I ain’t going back to jail.

“Tell me about these,” she whispers. I don’t stop her from tracing her fingers over the lines of the tattoos marking my arm. “What does this one mean?”

I let out a sigh and focus on the ceiling, trying to block out the way her curious fingers skate over my shoulder. “The reaper? An ode to death, I guess. Figured it’ll be coming for me one of these days. Thought maybe if I put the old bastard on my arm, he might consider sparing me.”

“And all this?” She moves her fingers down the sleeve covering my arm, a sea of black lines and faded ink and dulling colours.

“Bullshit, mostly. Don’t remember getting half of it.”

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