My breaths shortened into the beginning of hyperventilation. I couldn’t get a full breath which made me want it—try for it—that much harder. Backing into the metal rung ladder, I tore my gaze away from the weapons and forced my shaky limbs to climb the ladder, my right hand trying to hold the rung and my phone. Just as I reached the top, my phone fell onto the ground below.
The staccato of my breathing intensified at the thought of climbing back down to get it. As I moved my right foot to start my decent again, the warmth of a firm hand around my wrist sent shock waves through my body. On a painful gasp, I jerked my chin up to the menacing face I thought I loved.
I was such a stupid woman.
“Livy …” Slade pulled my arm to bring me out of the dungeon.
“NO!” I tried to jerk away. There was no escape, but just feet below me was a slew of weapons and ammunition. I could …
Could what? My thoughts were flawed. I had no fucking clue how to load or use a gun. Maybe a knife. Jessica had taught me how to hold a knife and where to cut someone to make them bleed the most.
“Livy …” he repeated with more grit to his voice.
I let go of the ladder and wriggled to get out of his grip, even if it meant falling to the ground below. My struggle paled in comparison to his strength. He plucked me from the hole. I maneuvered out of his grip, falling back onto the kitchen floor, crab crawling backward toward the living room and Jericho, as Slade kicked the trapdoor shut.
“My phone,” I whispered like he’d knocked the air out of my lungs.
“Whatcha doing down there?” He cocked his head, brow more tense than usual as he took calculated steps toward me.
“I … I didn’t want to believe it.” I eased to my feet so slowly—the prey all too aware of her predator.
He wet his lips and rubbed them together. “Believe what?”
“The rumors. The drugs.” I shook my head. “I just didn’t think you could—”
“Deal drugs?” He chuckled, scratching his stubble from his chin to his neck. “Any dumb fuck could deal drugs. I’m not dealing, Liv.”
Not a drug dealer.
The weight of the only other logical explanation settled in my stomach like a grenade with the pin pulled. Weapons … he was a weapons dealer.
“You know … I liked us. Not that I have much to compare to. But us … I liked us. You’re not needy and clingy anymore. You’re smart. Jericho likes you. You’re a badass on a surfboard. And don’t even get me started on the sex. Sadly, you’re a little too curious for your own good.”
He was calm. Too calm.
Calculated. Too calculated.
I should have been throwing my arms around him. We should have been ripping each other’s clothes from our bodies.
Kisses mixed with whispers of love.
Hands exploring familiar territory.
Two desperate souls melding into one.
Emotions warred between my head and my heart.
Anger.
Fear.
Resentment.
Disbelief.
“I spilled soda on the rug, so I rolled it up to have it cleaned.” I surprised myself with the monotone voice drifting from my lips.
“So what are your plans?” he asked, again cocking his head a fraction, closing in on me without taking actual steps. Slade had a way of controlling a situation with a single look.
“My plans?” I whispered.
“Yes. Your plans. Are you calling the police? Your friends? Your dad?”
“Why?” I shook my head. “Is it the money? Why sell weapons? You could go to prison for a long time. And … and how can you sleep at night? You’re selling something made to take human lives. Are you arming terrorists? Do you sell guns that take innocent lives? Like children in schools?” My words escalated, fed by anger boiling in my veins.
“I don’t sell anything.”
Coughing on total disbelief, I ran my fingers through my hair. “So … you’re what? A collector? All your unexplained absences are just you shopping gun shows?”
He shook his head. “Have a seat.”
“No. I’m not staying.” I fisted my hands.
Slade’s gaze shifted to my hands before sweeping my entire body and its change in stance—readying to fight. To escape.
“I’m not going to hurt you.”
I laughed. “That’s reassuring. So …” I jabbed my thumb over my shoulder. “I can get dressed and leave. Right?”
His lips twisted, like he was biting the inside of his cheek. “I like you in my shirt.”
“Yeah? Well, I like you unarmed.”
He slowly raised his hands and arms, turning in a slow circle. “I’m unarmed. If you don’t believe me, take off my clothes.”
It hurt so badly. Him looking at me the way he looked at me in the sprinter van, on the beach, in his bed.
“I’m going to call the police.”
His expression remained unchanging. It seemed like forever that he regarded me that way. I refused to move or speak. Finally, his eyes shifted, redirecting his focus to the floor between us as he offered a slight nod while retrieving his phone from his pocket and unlocking it before handing it to me.
It took me a bit to take it from him. There had to be a catch. I brought up the phone screen.
He did nothing.
I pressed nine.
He did nothing.
I pressed one.
He did nothing.
After the last one, my thumb hovered over the call button.
He. Did. Nothing.
Tears flooded my eyes, spilling over, and racing down my cheeks. “Just tell me why you have them.” The 9-1-1 on the screen blurred behind my tears as my hands holding the phone shook.
No matter what my brain told me—and it screamed for me to call the police and run hard and fast—my heart loved him. It had the most irrational need to protect him. How could I feel the need to protect a man with an arsenal just feet below us?
As more hot tears burned my cheeks, I clenched my teeth with the same anger in which I squeezed the phone in my hands. “Why?” I said in something between a scream and a sob. “Why can you so fucking easily call the police because I was looking in your garage window, but I can’t bring myself to push the goddamn send button when you have enough weapons to annihilate a small village? WHY?” I sent the phone flying across the room and covered my face with my hands as the sobs overtook me.
Gentle hands slid into my hair as his warm lips pressed to the top of my head. “Because you’re infinitely a better person.”
“Tell me …” I cried. “You h-have to t-tell me …”
“I protect people.”
It took me several seconds to process his words. Slowly lifting my head, I aimed my teary-eyed gaze at him, wiping my cheeks. “Like a bodyguard?”
Taking my face in his hands, he rubbed his thumbs under my eyes. “If you think of body as something larger, like a population, then sure. I’m a bodyguard.”
“I don’t understand.” I pushed out of his hold, taking a step backward. “You … you have to just say it. Are you a bad person?” I pressed my lips together to hold in more impending sobs, and I shook my head over and over. “Please tell me I didn’t fall in love with a terrible human,” I whispered.