FOUR
Gunner
The fuck was that about?
Not the forcing her to shower thing. I had meant to do that. That was completely necessary. It was easy for trauma to become full-on PTSD after an event like that. She'd end up like that chick from that Psycho movie who could never shower again. I didn't want to let that happen on my watch if I could help it. I had seen too many men go through things overseas, come home, carry that shit with them forever, leading to their loved ones leaving them, or the men choosing to abandon them, or - more often than I cared to even think about - leading them to eat a bullet.
I didn't want that for her.
She'd done nothing to have to live with that for the rest of her life.
Some fuckhead forced it on her.
It wasn't fair.
I wasn't normally someone who gave a shit about fair. Life rarely was. Everyone who had been born in this world has had something happen to them that was out of their control, that sucked, that forced their life in another direction.
Hell, my job was dealing with many of these people.
Sure, some were criminals who had pissed off other criminals, and needed to disappear.
But just as often, it was innocent people caught up in an ugly situation.
Sloane had done what society believed was the right thing - tried to get a murderer off the street. And in return, she had to leave her entire life behind.
That sucked.
But why I gave a shit was beyond me.
I had just been thinking about that when she had come out of that shower in nothing but a towel.
It was a shocking change for her.
Being that bare.
Not because she wore a lot of makeup or dressed like the Amish or anything, but because everything she did wear from her makeup to her simple jewelry to her very particular type of dress, she wore like a shield. It was part of an image she wanted to project.
Bare?
It was all gone.
All that was left was the woman.
Oddly, my first thought wasn't about her long legs, the way the towel slit up the front of one of her thighs, the way the knot up top made her breasts press together over the hem, the way her face looked almost innocent without makeup.
No.
My first thought was about wanting to learn more about this woman. Not Miss Blythe-Meuller. Sloane. I wanted to know more about Sloane.
And on that fucked up thought, I dragged my ass right back out of the bathroom, letting her get her armor back on while I went to the kitchen cabinets to pour myself something with a little kick to it. If I was thinking whacked shit like that, my system clearly needed it.
By the time she came out twenty minutes later, her guards were all back in place save for the makeup and the heels. Her hair was styled in some type of braid that wrapped around the lower part of her head, darker now that it was wet, but still distinctly blonde. Instead of her usual slacks and shirts that could only be called 'blouses,' she had on her silk robe from this morning, the material doing nothing to hide the subtle curves underneath. I knew from digging around in her luggage that literally every single pair of pajamas she owned were made of similar silky fabric. The kind that hid nothing. Which was why, even though she had on a robe and something beneath, I could still see the hardened peaks of her nipples through.
It was perhaps a little chilly in here for someone who wasn't used to roughing it.
On that thought, I walked across the room, turning up the thermostat. Even if a large part of me was totally okay with the view.
"You said we could discuss the plan," she reminded me when I said nothing, too distracted by my own thoughts.
"Yeah," I agreed, going to the fridge, checking out what Ranger had stocked it with.
Since he was generally the team member who got the least amount of work, we employed him here and there to help me on my jobs. Like stocking safe houses on my route. He bitched and growled about it, but he did it. I was hoping the icebox wasn't loaded down with goddamn venison and geese and fish he caught in the lakes again.
"Just gonna see what we got to eat. Hopefully, we can throw together some sandwiches or something."
I lived on the damn things.
I never really learned to cook myself, so the only time I got something different was if I went out to eat, or Quin's woman - Aven - cooked for me.
"We could probably do better than a sandwich," she said, moving in closer, and I could smell one of her creams or lotions or conditioners or whatever clinging to her skin.
"You cook?" I asked as she reached for the door of the fridge, pulling it more open.
"It's been a while, but I used to be able to," she admitted, reaching inside to move some things around.
Ranger had been better than expected, with enough fruit, vegetables, meat, eggs, and cheese to last us over a week, not just the two days I had planned.
"Fancy shit?" I asked, not exactly excited by the prospect of one of those plates you got at those upscale places with three sprigs of asparagus, a single slice of meat, and half a potato that they dared to call the dinner special.
"Ah, unfortunately, no," she admitted, sounding outright bummed about the fact that she couldn't whip up duck paté like some gourmet chef.
Quite frankly, I could never eat a duck. I once saved a couple of them from a drain at my house, and the fuckers followed me around like their mama for a week until the real one came and found them.
Eating one of those things that used to quack behind me whenever I walked outside? No, thanks.
"Simple shit?" I clarified.
"I was raised on... simple shit," she said, the words sounding odd on her polished tongue as she pulled out the pork chops, green beans, and salad greens, piling them all on the counter. "Would you happen to have potatoes?" she asked, looking around the space, eyeing up the small bowl of fruit.
"Best bet would be the bottom drawer. That'd be where he'd store potatoes and onions."
"He?" she asked, squatting down to look, and coming back with two potatoes - one big enough to feed a family of four, one just barely enough to be considered a side dish.
"Coworker. Ranger. He stocked the place for us."
She made some kind of acknowledging noise as she rummaged around, finding pots and pans, setting them on top of the range.
And me, well, I fucking watched her. As weird as that was. I watched as she warmed the pans, put water in the pot, found spices to season the pork, sautéed the potatoes with an onion and garlic, then went in search of plates for us as the small space filled up with the scent of home-cooking, something I couldn't claim to know very well, but was fond of nonetheless.
It was strange to realize this woman, this person who I never would have thought even knew what a stove was, could cook something that smelled as edible as her meal did.
At some point, she mumbled about tables and decent human beings, leaving me to go fetch a fold-up table and chairs that were kept in the bedroom closet so she could have her proper dining experience.
"Leave it," I said when she went to start to wash out the green beans pot while the pork finished up. "You cooked. I'll clean. What?" I asked when she sent me an odd look.
"I'm not used to having people do things," she admitted, surprising me.
If you'd have asked me, I'd have thought she'd had a staff working for her, never having to lift a finger but to hit a button to summon them.
"What? No private chef?"
She gave me that look again, that confused and slightly offended look she had given me a few times in Quin's office the day before. "I usually ate at the office. Ordered in," she clarified, but didn't elaborate. "Do you want more whiskey?" she asked, gesturing toward the bottle as she put potatoes on the plates.
"I got it," I said, feeling a bit odd to be waited on myself. "You want something? Got a practical liquor cabinet up there. Or, knowing Ranger, there is likely a bucket out back loaded down with drinks to keep cold." They would too, with the temperature barely getting above 35 most days still. Even though we were already into fucking March.
"I'm just going to have water," she told me as she brought the plates and salad bowls over to the table, placing mine in front of me with what actually looked like a shy smile.
"Duchess, grab that file for me," I demanded after she'd gotten her water. "It has our plans in it," I added when she gave me that odd look of hers again. "So, just because Rodrigo Cortez is such a ruthless sonofabitch," I started, flipping open her file to his mugshot. I'd known a lot of shitheads in my life, and they always had this common hollowness in their eyes. Cortez might have had them all beat. "We need to do a few stops."
"Stops?" she asked from where she was picking at her salad.
"Hotels. Just to make sure. Quin and the team, we lock this shit down tight, but we don't want to take any chances. So we will hit a few places before we permanently settle you."
"Will I be staying in the country?" she asked carefully, making me realize I wasn't giving her nearly enough information. Usually, clients were grilling me endlessly about every small detail. It was exhausting, irritating. There was so much that it was important they not know sometimes. But she was right, I wasn't giving her much of anything.
"I think we can keep you here," I said, taking my first bite of the potatoes. A low, groaning sound that I didn't intend to make escaped me. "Maybe I will set you up as a cook somewhere," I complimented her, watching as she did that shy smile again, the one that seemed so at odds with her usual calm, confident, collectedness.
"If I have any say in the matter, I would just as soon not."
"I already have you all set up. Name and resumes and everything. I hope you like warm weather," I added. And, for once, I actually meant it. It wasn't some bullshit pleasantry I was throwing out there.
I wanted her to like the new life I had set up for her. Hell, maybe she could even unwind there a bit. Let her hair down. Literally and figuratively.
She paid a fortune to start over.
I could only hope it was for the better.
Even if she couldn't see it right now.
"We're here for another day. Then we are starting out west," I told her. "Hopefully, giving your stomach a day off will help seal you up better for the next leg of the journey. They're gonna be long days in the car."
"I'll be fine," she assured me, still only poking at her food even though I'd heard her stomach rumbling before.
I guess having a murderer after you, and losing everything that mattered, had a way of fucking with your appetite, no matter what your stomach wanted.
"How many of those pills did your doctor give you?"
"Sixty."
Damn. No one ever gave that many out anymore. Not in a single prescription anyway. I guess money talked in a lot of ways.
"That will get you through. It will just be the first week that is bad. Especially with the driving. But you should be in the clear then."
"What about them?" she asked, making my head shoot up. "The stitches," she explained. "I would be on the record somewhere if I went to get them taken out, right?"
Right.
Unfortunately.
Which left her with one choice.
"I'll take them out. Don't worry; I have everything I'd need. No pain. Just weird to watch. No big deal."
"Okay," she agreed, exhaling slowly. "I don't do well with medical stuff. I think I half blacked out after getting, ah..."
"Stabbed," I supplied bluntly.
"Yeah. I never saw Heiro's man scare him off. The only thing I remember after the pain was him putting a towel around me, then carrying me to the car. And then," she went on, seeming to need to share the information. Given that she had seemed to go right from the hospital, to her apartment to pack up, to our office, she'd likely never gotten the chance to talk this out to anyone in more than a clinical way. "At the hospital, I was just..."
"Freaking out," I supplied.
"On the inside," she agreed, a distinction she oddly needed me to hear. She didn't want anyone thinking she was the sort who lost her cool... on the outside.
"So, then you don't look when I take them out. No big deal. Won't think less of you. This food is the shit," I told her after I had tasted - maybe hoovered - everything on my plate. "Do you have any other questions tonight?"
"Um... sleeping arrangements?" she asked, looking almost worried.
Like I'd insist we'd share a bed or some shit. "You can take the bedroom. I'll take the couch. Unless you don't want to be alone. I can drag a cot in there," I added, and strangely, something inside made me sort of hope it was the latter.
"Um, I think I will be okay," she claimed. Claimed, because there wasn't much confidence in her words.
"You gonna eat that or just push it around?" I asked, watching as she poked at the entree, but only seemed to eat the salad.
"Do you want it?" she asked, already reaching to hold her plate up for me.
And, well, I wasn't going to let it go to waste now, was I?
An hour later, she was tucked in bed, though the bed creaked, and I could hear her tossing and turning while I washed up after dinner and made up the couch.
It wasn't until she seemed to finally pass out that I heard my phone buzz from where I left it on the counter.
Ranger: Get ready for your plans to change.
- Could you be more cryptic? There's no fucking TV here. What's going on?
Ranger: Nor'easter. You're about to get dumped on. 12+
- Shit.
Ranger: Plus side, you'd see someone coming from miles off.
- Not helping.
Ranger: Not known for it.
Shit.
Twelve inches in Navesink Bank would blow, but wouldn't make life that much harder. Within a day, all the main roads would be plowed. Within two, all the side ones. Life would go on as usual.
Out here in the sticks?
They might not even bother to plow.
Even if they did, I had half a mile of a private driveway that they wouldn't touch. And I might be in good shape, but I'm pretty sure even I would drop dead of a heart attack trying to shovel that shit by hand.
It would take several days.
After the snow stopped.
Whenever that would be.
I didn't have to wait long for it to start either. A half an hour after I went to the small shed nestled almost in the woods to grab a shovel and a tarp for the firewood, it started.
With a fury.
Fat flakes fell hard and fast, the wind whipping so wild that it was zero visibility even just trying to look out the window.
And it was about an hour after it started that the house went suddenly dark, something in the house announcing the power out with a loud beep.
"Shit," I growled.
A power out alone sucked.
A power out in the woods with a woman you barely knew - and didn't know how you'd tolerate in such a situation?
Yeah, this was going to get interesting.
"Gunner?" her voice called tentatively from off in the bedroom.
And here we go.