EIGHT
Gunner
Something was up with her.
She wouldn't admit it.
When I asked, her tone implied I was being irritating or irrational or annoying.
But something was up.
The real question, though, wasn't why something was up; It was why I cared.
I did.
That was clear.
Cared, that is.
I had never cuddled a woman in my life before.
Not after sex.
Not when a client was crying.
Never.
I'd never even had the urge to.
But this morning, Sloane waking up out of a twisted nightmare, clinging to me like her life depended on it, the urge was there.
And I acted on it.
What's more, I didn't want to let go.
That was some crazy ass shit.
And wanting to know why she was silent for seven and a half goddamn hours was too.
It wasn't that I wasn't used to long, silent car rides. I was. Alone or with other people. I usually insisted upon it. Nothing was more useless than small talk. And nothing was more irritating than whining or complaining or demanding to know how long until we reach the next destination.
The silence was usually the only way I could deal with a client.
But with Sloane, it was bothering me.
I wanted to know what put her in this mood. Was it the nightmare? Was it the idea of the next leg of the journey? Was her stomach hurting? Just fucking... what?
She didn't have anything to say, my ass.
She had plenty to say.
She just wasn't going to share it.
With me.
Hell, we hadn't even stopped for lunch, and she hadn't said anything about it.
Sure, she wasn't a big eater as a whole, but I'd heard her stomach growling a few minutes before. Yet she'd said nothing. Just kept staring blankly out her side window.
"Wanna eat somewhere, or get food to take back to the hotel?" I asked, finally not able to take the quiet for another minute.
"Take it back to the hotel," she said, voice sounding far away. Like her mind apparently was.
"Any preferences?"
"Whatever is nearby the hotel is fine."
It was like pulling teeth to get any kind of discussion out of her.
"Here," I said, tossing my phone onto her lap, smirking when she stared at the damn thing like I'd dropped a toad there. "Look for places in Fredrickson that have decent enough reviews," I said, for some reason needing to see her doing something other than just staring off into nothing.
With that, doing so somewhat reluctantly, she started searching. "The Chinese place is the only one that doesn't sound like we'd catch a new strain of salmonella," she concluded.
"Like anything in particular?"
"Vegetable lo mein," she supplied. "What?" she asked when I must have shot her a surprised look.
"Expected something on there that I can't even pronounce."
"Highbrow Chinese from a takeaway place doesn't really exist. At least from what I could remember. I haven't had it since I first moved to the city. But the lo mein was my favorite. I can order if you want," she volunteered. "So we can pick it up on the way. No one would have to go back out."
I was going to have it delivered, but I was liking the sound of her talking too much to tell her not to do more of it.
"Sure. Go ahead. Order me some shit. I'm not picky."
That kept her talking for a few minutes, throwing out options, then demanding to know my opinions on shrimp, chicken, pork, and various vegetables.
It wasn't what I wanted, but it was conversation.
I would take what I could get.
"Come on," I said, parking in the strip mall where the Chinese place was located.
"We have five more minutes," she insisted.
"Drinks and snacks," I said, jerking my chin toward the convenience store. "And don't say to just grab you something. Come pick your own shit," I said, going around the car to yank open her door, waiting for her to move outside.
With that, we stocked up on drinks. I found out she had a sweet tooth from childhood that meant she liked Devil Dogs and Swiss Rolls. And I swear to God, this woman squealed when she found a small box of Star Crunch.
"I thought they stopped making this!" she told me while she, I shit you not, hugged the box to her chest. "I actually looked at the grocery store by me. They didn't carry it."
"Think snacks are regional. They don't sell Banana Pudding Rolls in Navesink Bank."
"Well, because they sound revolting," she supplied, walking over to pour herself a large coffee from the bar.
"Did I make fun of your Star Crunch?" I asked, watching as she grabbed a second cup... and started making a coffee for me.
"Well, no. Because Star Crunch is chocolate, crispies, and caramel. There is nothing to make fun of."
"Can't argue with that," I agreed, thankful that she seemed to shake the mood that had plagued her the whole ride. We grabbed the food, then made our way to the hotel.
"This is really nice," she said as we made our way into the elevator, leaving the bags to be dealt with later.
"Did you think I'd make you stay at a sleep-and-fuck?"
"A... what?" she asked, turning to me with brows drawn low.
"Sleep-and-fuck," I supplied. "A motel right off the highway where truckers pull off to catch some sleep in an actual bed. Or..."
"Where people pay to fuck," she finished for me.
My head never whipped around so fast in my life, lips already twitching. "What did you just say?"
To that, her lips twitched too. "You heard me."
"I'm afraid I missed it," I told her, both of us knowing I was bullshitting.
"I am assuming you were referring to the type of establishment that is cheap enough that people - likely people having affairs, or men paying for a prostitute - can excuse paying for it for just an hour," she supplied. "To fuck," she finished, giving me this teasing smile that looked way too damn good on her face.
"Look at you," I said, elbowing her arm, "with the foul fucking mouth."
"Your poor, virgin ears," she shot back as we walked out of the elevator and down the hall to our door.
"Apparently, I need to let you splurge like a five-year-old in the snack aisle more," I told her as I slid the card into the door, letting her move inside first.
To be honest, I usually didn't do hotels. I went for the kind of motels that were a single step up from sleep-and-fucks. Usually doing two rooms that connected through the bathroom. Because I had no fucking interest in being near my clients longer than I needed to.
This hotel, this fancy ass hotel that took a lot of work to find, yeah, this was all for Sloane. I knew that soon, she wouldn't have the finer things anymore. She'd be set up in a small apartment in a decent area with furniture we could get immediately from a local box store. She'd eventually get her supply of nice shit when it was safe to ship it to her. But there'd be no more blowing money on fancy hotel rooms, designer clothes, all the accoutrement of her nice life she worked for.
I wanted her to have a fancy place to rest her head while she could.
That was some sappy, sentimental shit. Especially for me. But I did it anyway.
"Wow," she said, doing a slow turn in the oversized room with two queen beds.
The colors were muted - a faint off-white wallpaper, champagne-colored silken sheets and comforters, deep brown nightstands, a dresser, and a small desk beside the giant floor-to-ceiling window. There wasn't much of a view, not in this town anyway, but it would let the light filter in in the morning.
To the left inside the door was the bathroom that was the same size as the whole common room in the cabin, all sand-colored tile on the floor and in the walk-in shower with full glass doors. There was a tub that looked big enough for four.
I didn't look away fast enough not to picture her in there. To think of joining her. And what would happen then.
"You're just gonna have to get used to eating in bed," I informed her as she looked around a little helplessly after putting her bags down on the desk.
"I can certainly try," she agreed, kicking out of her heels. Seeing that, oddly, felt almost as intimate as having her curl up on me to keep warm at night. I guess because, for her, they weren't just heels; it was part of her persona, the image of her, instead of the woman she was underneath it all.
So we took our food to the beds, eating while fighting over the TV. Since we hadn't had one before, I never realized she would be such a pain in the ass about it.
"What is the point of it though?" she asked when I tried to insist on watching the seventh of the Fast & Furious movies. "Shouldn't they have gotten their point across in the first movie?"
"The point isn't about them making a point." At her blank look, I shook my head. "It's action. It's about the... action. You've seriously never seen a single one of these?"
"I mean... I've seen that actor before. The bald one."
"Vin Diesel," I supplied.
"Yeah. He played the lawyer in Find Me Guilty."
"Jesus Christ," I said, choosing the first in the series, and putting it on before she could object. "Only you would find the single goddamn serious role that man has played. And bring it up in conversation as though everyone knows that shit."
"He looked rather silly with the wig on," she admitted, giving me a small smile before the movie started.
Then, yeah, I got the woman hooked on the least likely series you could imagine a girl like her enjoying.
"I think three is good for the night."
"But they are just getting all back together!" she objected, having absentmindedly plowed through her Chinese... then a handful of her snacks. I was pretty sure in those six hours, she ate more food than she had in the past three days.
"It's getting late," I suggested, never having binged that many of the movies at once. And, well, it was enough.
"It's barely eight!"
"You don't want to try out that tub?" I tried.
And the way her eyes went all dreamy told me that I had said the right thing.
"You'll stay, right?" she asked, making me start, turning back to look at her.
"What?" I asked, watching as she slipped off her glasses, rubbing at the bridge of her nose. She'd actually found a small stash of her contacts in one of her bags, but had opted for the glasses for the day. I couldn't help but wonder if that was maybe because she was starting to feel comfortable around me.
"I know you need to get the luggage," she supplied. "But can you stay while I take a bath?" she asked again, not able to make eye-contact. "I know. It's stupid," she agreed even though I hadn't said anything. "I'll get over it," she added.
"Duchess, it's only been a few days. It's fine to still feel weird."
"But you said..."
"That you need to shower," I agreed. "And you did. The avoiding of it is the problem, not the needing to know you're safe when you do it. Go take your bath," I said, sitting back down on my bed.
So then she ran her bath.
I tried as hard as I could not to think about her in there.
And since I failed, I grabbed my phone, calling the office.
"You have reached the offices of Quinton Baird & Associates. Jules is away from her desk right now. I pale in comparison, but can try to help you."
"Fuck's sake, Kai," I scoffed. "Are you seriously answering the phone like that?"
"Caller ID, man. Knew it was you. How is the job going? Heard you got snowed in at the cabin. Sounds romantic."
"It's a job," I insisted, maybe a bit too forcefully.
"I saw the picture in her file."
"Yeah, and?"
"And Ranger may have let it slip your, ah, innovative way of using full-body protection."
"She was cold."
"Mhmm," he agreed, sounding like he was rearranging the divider of office supplies - pens, brads, paperclips - on Jules's desk because when she got busy, the shit flew everywhere. And Kai, the poor fuck, liked making her life easier. I'd never get his unrequited shit. Or Jules's cluelessness about it. She was clueless about it too. I'd once heard Miller saying something about how much attention Kai pays to her, and Jules had insisted that he was just like that with everyone, that he was sweet, helpful, that it was nothing more than that. "So, are you in the Grand Ole' Ioway?"
"Ohio," I corrected. "Tomorrow is Iowa. How's everything going on that end?" I asked, knowing that someone there - likely either Quinn or Jules - was handling the paperwork since I couldn't do it on the road.
"According to Jules," he started, and I could just picture him picking up the file, leaning back in her chair, and kicking his feet up on her desk, something we all knew she hated, "the apartment options and PO Box are all set up. You'll just need to sign the lines and show her ID at the post office when you get there. Jules set her up a new email with her new name and sent her all the local job listings that sounded like she wouldn't hate them. She also emailed a list of all the local stores, eateries, and entertainment. She needs a raise," he said absentmindedly. "Jules, not the client," he clarified.
"She already makes three times what a receptionist makes," I reminded him, knowing what Quin paid everyone.
"Yeah, but she does the work of eight secretaries," he reasoned. And, as much as Jules and I weren't the best of friends, we could both acknowledge each others' worth. She handled a shitton of work in that office. Half the time, without having to be asked to do things. Quin had made a smart move when he'd hired her when she was barely more than a kid with no comparable work experience, wearing what had to be her mother's work clothes. But she'd proven her worth. Even I could admit that she handled my cases without a single slip-up. Though maybe a part of me wondered if she did so well because she didn't want to have to interact with me. I'd never had her call me about a case. Everything was done by email or text. Informal. So we didn't keep rubbing each other the wrong way.
"You ever gonna move on?" I asked.
"I don't see how it affects you," he shot back, not bothering to play coy. He knew that we all knew.
"What's gonna happen when that man of hers pops the question?" I asked, all of us knowing that was likely coming sooner rather than later.
"Nothing," he said, but there was a guardedness to his tone that you never heard there. "Nothing happens. I wish her the best."
"You're so fucked up," I said, smiling a little even though he couldn't see me.
"Coming from you, that is almost a compliment."
"Do me a favor, go out tonight and get yourself some pussy."
"Right, that's the cure," he said, sounding strained.
"In my experience, no matter the ill, pussy is always the cure. If your ass can learn to keep your heart out of it, that is."
"What's the point then?" he shot back. As he often would if you discussed something that he referred to as 'sport sex.' And, for the first time ever, the words actually did sink in.
What was the point?
An itch scratched?
How empty was that?
What the fuck was going on with me?
Why was I even thinking about this shit?
I didn't even have to really listen to hear the water in the bath splash around as Sloane moved, and I knew what was going on with me.
That woman naked in the other room.
Why?
That was the question.
All I could say was... something was different.
And that was all I would ever say.
Because in a few short days, she'd be gone.
I'd never see her again.
"What's up with you?" Kai asked, snapping me out of my thoughts.
"What do you mean?"
"You're distracted and want to... talk."
"I talk," I objected.
"You bark and growl and bitch about clients," he clarified.
"Yeah, talking," I agreed, lips twitching a bit.
"Guess Ranger was right, huh?"
"About?"
"He said something about how this woman got hooks in you. Said you didn't even feel them yet, but they're there. And that they're gonna rip chunks of you out when you leave her in Nevada."
"You been smoking, Kai?" I asked, brows drawing together. "'Cause I'm pretty sure Ranger has never said something that sentimental in his life."
"He talks sometimes too. Maybe just not to you," Kai said, sounding like he was shrugging.
And, well, I guess everyone talked to Kai.
That made sense.
He was that kind of guy. Easy to talk to, good for a listen, happy to be a sounding board, never one to lecture or even offer unwanted advice.
Shit.
Maybe Ranger was more than just a guy from the woods with a messed-up past and anti-social personality.
"Hard to talk to someone who is allergic to his phone."
"You could visit him."
"No one visits him. Unless there's a job."
"Don't know what you're talking about; I go down for dinner once every month or two."
"You're shitting me."
"He's a good cook, man. And he makes hot chocolate. From scratch. With milk from one of his cows."
"Wait, what? Since the fuck when does he have cows?"
"Got a whole self-sustaining farm, Gunn. Cows, chickens, goats. When's the last time you were there?"
"Two years I guess." And admitting that made me sound - and feel - like a really shitty friend. "He barely had the house and shed built," I added.
"Gotta go visit. He's got some good shit going on. Clients hate it. He makes them do work," he added, sounding like he was smiling.
And because I could picture that, I felt my lips curving up too. "Can you picture Fenway crouched down in those designer pants of his, milking a cow?"
"That image is perhaps the only thing that makes interacting with him for longer than an hour tolerable. But from what I hear, he's been laying lower than usual."
"I'll believe that when more than a year passes without some huge international scandal sending him our way."
"So, when can we expect you back? Things are getting downright cordial here without you."
I chuckled at that, shaking my head. "A week until I hit the road again. Maybe a little longer. Depends on how all the steps go when we get to her destination. Then another five days trip back to Jersey."
"Alrighty. Keep us updated," he demanded as I heard the distinct click of Jules's heels. He was rushing me off the phone.
"Will do."
"Take care of your girl."
He hung up before I could say she wasn't my girl.
That she could never be my girl.
"Quin?" Sloane's voice asked, making me jerk upright to find her standing there in that goddamn silk robe of hers. And, from what I could tell, nothing else underneath, her wet hair darker than usual, but hanging down for a change, framing her delicate face.
"Kai," I corrected.
"I didn't meet him."
"He's our Messenger," I supplied. "In love with Jules."
"That's sweet."
"Except for the fact that Jules is oblivious."
"Then that's kind of sad," she told me, walking over toward her bed, the smell of the bath stuff still clinging to her, filling the air around her. The urge to press her down and taste every inch of her skin was making it hard to focus.
"Yeah, it is," I agreed, but maybe only a part of me was talking about Kai and Jules. And the bigger part was talking about Sloane and me.
"Hey, Gunner?" she asked a moment later, making me turn to find her looking at me with those light eyes of hers.
"Yeah, duchess?" I asked, hearing the strain in my own voice, a tiredness that I couldn't attribute to the strain of the drive.
"I have no pajamas," she informed me, it being the last possible thing I could have anticipated.
"What?" I asked, sure I misheard her.
"All my pajamas are dry clean only. And I've worn them all now."
My knee-jerk reaction was to tell her she'd have to sleep naked then. But for some reason, I bit that comment back. "I can lend you something if you want. We'll find someplace to dry clean at the next stop."
"Thank you," she said, giving me a relieved smile, like this shit had been weighing on her.
"Here," I started, jumping up, going to grab my duffel, finding one of my rolled t-shirts. "This should be long enough," I offered, handing the gray tee to her.
"Thanks," she said, going off to change.
And when she came out in my shirt, I had the oddest fucking reaction.
This feels right.
The rest of this job was going to take an immeasurable amount of self-control.