"Nope," he agreed, dropping the beer back down on the table, getting to his feet, moving to walk away, then suddenly turning back. "You fuck with her, that life might not be as long as you want it to be."
With that and nothing else, he made his way down the path, climbed into his massive truck, and drove away.
I'd been threatened by a lot of people in my life. Being a shit-starter from the cradle, it came with the territory. But none of those threats ever felt as much of a promise as the one I'd just gotten.
I didn't plan on fucking with Chris. Not in a way that would make her end up hurt.
But if I ever needed a reminder, that lumbering, bearded stranger offspring of an outlaw biker and someone who worked at Hailstorm, would give it.
Now, if only I could find a good excuse to get Chris to talk to me again....
Chapter Seven
Chris
The quick knuckle knock was accompanied by a voice, "Chris, you have a visitor."
I felt my brows pinching together as my gaze went to the door.
Visitor.
No one visited Hailstorm.
If the "no trespassing" and "electric fence" signs weren't deterrent enough, the men and women strapped with guns and the snarling guard dogs should have worked.
Also, no one got in without an appointment, some valid reason for being there.
I figured it must have been Ferryn or one of the other 'cousins' of mine. True, no one had ever stopped over without letting me know beforehand, but it wasn't outside the realm of possibilities.
Before I could really consider this further, the door was flying open, and in Finch was swaggering.
"What the hell?" I snapped, feeling my heartbeat skip a little. I was choosing to believe it was from the surprise. You know, no other reason.
"I've called. I've texted. I've sent emails. I typed off a PDF of reasons you should talk to me..."
Including his excellent taste in food, his ability to quote 90s TV shows at random, and the fact that he had some funny tattoos with even funnier stories behind them.
I'd read the PDF a good five times.
I realized after the fifth time that I was grinning like an idiot, then deleted it. It was too late, though, I already had it all committed to memory.
I don't even want to own up to how many times I listened to his rambling voicemails before I made myself delete them.
See... my therapist was no help.
I might as well have gone to my mother about my concerns. All she wanted was for me to jump in headfirst, give the guy a try, explore my feelings.
Maybe I should have seen that coming. She'd been insisting for a while that, eventually, it was normal and healthy for women from situations like mine to learn to trust men, to explore relationships with them. With all levels of intimacy. Including sex.
I really shouldn't have expected her to change her tune just because I came to her with my fears about it.
And since she hadn't been able to give me any tools I could use--or, rather, tools I wanted to use--I had gone back to the original plan to simply ignore Finch whenever possible.
He, of course, had other ideas.
"I've been busy," I insisted as he moved into my room without being granted permission, making his way over toward me, reaching for the booklet in my hands.
"Effective Leadership," he read the title, brow raising at me after. "Yes, very busy," he drawled, ducking his head to the side a bit, everything about him saying 'Really, Chris? Really?'
"It is important to do research."
"More important than calling me back?" he asked, bookmarking my page, then placing it out of my reach.
"Yes."
"Ouch," he said, pressing a hand to his heart. "What if I really needed to talk to you about something regarding the money?" he asked, turning away, going over toward my bed, dropping down, and bouncing a few times. It took a lot of effort not to smile at the utter boyishness of that.
"Then maybe you should have said that in any of the eighteen messages, twenty-seven texts, or five emails."
"Six emails," he insisted.
"I was assuming the last one was sent accidentally." Seeing as it was a series of animal kingdom unlikely best friend videos.
"Nope. I meant to send that," he told me, opening up my nightstand, shamelessly peeking inside.
"Someone's possessions are private," I informed him as he reached in, moving stuff around, making havoc of my very careful organizational system.
"Says the woman who dug through my junk box. What were you looking for anyway?"
"Drugs," I admitted.
"Drugs?" he repeated, glancing up for a second.
"I didn't think anyone could be as laid back about everything as you are without pharmaceutical or street drug help."
"All me, angel," he told me, sending me a twinkling look before moving on to my second drawer. "Damn," he said, shaking his head when he finished.
"What?"
"I was hoping to find your diary."
"I don't keep a diary."
"Right. Too frilly. A journal then," he decided.
I did keep one of those. But it was digital and anonymous so no one could ever use it against me. It was a place to purge, a place where no judgements existed, where no one could know all the ugly, hateful things that existed in my head, all the pain that was buried underneath them.
"Nope. Sorry. Nothing like that."
"A woman of many mysteries," he said, dropping back on the bed, rolling around on my pillows. Testing out my mattress, I guess.
I found myself fascinated with his utter lack of social norms, the way he felt completely comfortable being invasive in someone's personal space.
He had no boundaries.
My world was a maze of them.
"Now, what is this?" he asked, sounding pleased with himself.
I was wrapped up in my musings for five seconds too long. Five precious seconds. Where I could have reacted, jumped off the chair, flown across the room, snatched it away before he got his hands on it.
But I didn't have those seconds.
And when my gaze snapped to his hands, I saw it.
He had it.
My biggest secret.
The thing my mom didn't know about.
The thing my therapist didn't know about.
The file I had been working on for eight years now.
I kept it wedged between my mattress and boxspring. Only I ever touched it.
When I was in a bad spell, I pulled it out every day. Twice a day. Fifty times a day. I'd pore over every page. I would berate myself for not being able to come up with more.
There was a hand around my throat, tightening every second as Finch's hands opened the front cover.
A strange, gurgling noise escaped me, loud enough for Finch to hear, to get curious, to look over at me.
I didn't know what he saw on my face. But I knew what I felt. Panic. Shock. Shame. Fear. Maybe he saw all that. It would explain the look of confusion on his face.
"What is this, doll?" he asked, voice a little rough.
The air felt too thick.
It was getting harder and harder to breathe, to pull air into my lungs, to bring oxygen into my suffocating system.
My lips parted, closed, parted again, a fish out of water, unable to get anything out.