EIGHT
It takes until they break down the door for Dallas and me to realize we have company, my legs around his neck as he does precisely what he said he would after we ate: pound into me relentlessly.
He slams a hand over my mouth as I cry out my release, my pussy still twitching around his cock despite the fact I now watch his panicked face with wide eyes.
“Police! Remain where you are with your hands raised!”
Oh, fuck no. No way. “What the hell?” I scramble to untangle myself from Dallas as he throws the nearest article of clothing at me: his T-shirt.
“You’ve got to be fucking with me,” he mutters as he strides over to his bureau.
I watch as he jerks the top drawer open in all his naked glory before I snap myself the fuck out of it. He continues to grumble under his breath as I throw the T-shirt over my head and punch my arms through the sleeves to the sound of cops tearing up the house as they get closer.
“What are you doing?” I whisper-yell as he pulls a handgun out and sets it on top of the furniture.
“What I do best.” He frowns, as though the answer should have been obvious. “Get behind the bed and stay there until you hear my voice.”
“Dallas!”
It’s no use. He jerks on his jeans, sans underwear, and storms out the door with the gun in his hand.
He’s sure to get himself killed. He’s going to be shot down by the police, and all I can think is that I hope he wins because I’m not ready to be without him just yet. Fucking ace priorities there, April.
The voices all blend into one masculine roar as Dallas hollers at the cops to fuck off, they reply with their demands for him to cease and desist, and all fucking hell breaks loose. The first shot is fired, followed by at least half a dozen in quick succession. I slide off the bed with a whimper and barricade myself against the nightstand, my heartbeat clear as day as it beats a bass drum in my ears.
The yelling stops, followed by the sickening roar of Dallas from somewhere deep in the house. Somewhere far enough away that I know the boots that stomp around the bed can’t possibly belong to him—especially given he was barefoot when he left. Fuck.
I shrink into the furniture, cursing Dallas for having a bed base that almost reaches the floor and not one that I can fit underneath.
“Up!”
I lift my head to find the business end of a rifle pointed at my face, one angry blood-covered officer on the tail end.
“I haven’t done anything,” I protest as I lift my hands and struggle to get upright without the use of my arms.
“I said up! Now! On your feet!”
“Fuck! Okay.” I place my left hand on the floor and jolt as my fingers connect with something hard, something steely cold under the edge of the bed.
Do I? Would I have the skills to bring it out before this guy could unload one into my head? Of course not, you idiot. I make a mental note of where the gun is and rise to my feet, hands raised again.
“Lie face down on the bed with your hands behind your back.” The officer’s eyes repeatedly flick from me to the door, and back again.
He doesn’t know where Dallas is.
The knowledge gives me a much-needed boost of courage as I pretend to have misheard the officer’s instructions. “Lie on my back?” I ask with a frown.
“Your front,” he barks, moving one hand off the rifle to roughly spin me around with a punishing grip on my shoulder.
I twist toward the door, placing a hand out to balance myself as the stuff nightmares are made of marches into view. Blood peppers Dallas’ face, his hand covered with red as he lifts the pistol and points it at the officer behind me.
“Shoot me, I shoot her,” the cop says calmly.
Dallas’ chest rises and falls in harsh jerks while he appears to calculate the risk. I can’t move, can’t think clearly when the bite of the rifle’s barrel digs into the back of my head. This cop means business, and judging by the haunting silence that followed Dallas in the room, I’d say he’s the last man standing.
My gaze falls to Dallas’ leg, to the dark patch that blooms above his knee. He’s shot.
“You’re not here for her,” he tells the cop, limping forward. “You’ve got no business threatening her.”
“You’re right,” the cop laughs; piquing my interest at the carefree way he talks to Dallas. There isn’t an ounce of professionalism in the guy. “But what’s a little collateral damage, huh? We turn up for a routine raid, and hey, the guy goes crazy. What was I to do?”
“There isn’t anything fucking routine about it,” Dallas snaps, a slight sheen of sweat across his flesh.
He’s in pain. The cops have hurt him and yet he still tries to keep up the illusion of being in charge.
“How long did you think you could sweet-talk your way out of the shit, asshole?” the cop says. “Nobody is completely untouchable. Not even the Governor’s son.”
The what? My mind scrambles to remember what Camille told me about their family, about Dallas’ birth father—the nice guy.
Holy shit.
“Duck, April.” The words are barely out of Dallas’ mouth before he pulls the trigger.
I dive to the bed, a choked squeal breaking from my throat as I hope like hell I ducked in the right direction. The rifle goes off, yet the round hits the ceiling, raining powder from the stipple down over my head … right before the cop lands on my back with a weak groan.
“Oh my God,” I scream, pushing the dying, or possibly dead, man off me.
“Baby,” Dallas says, wincing as he quickly limps to where I sit on the bed. “Are you okay?”
I lock gazes with the cop as his mouth opens and then goes slack. “He’s dead?” My stomach roils knowing I just observed a man pass over, witnessed his final seconds of consciousness.
“Pretty sure he wouldn’t survive that,” Dallas says dismissively as he sits with his back to the cop, his full attention on me. “Are you hurt?” His hands go to my face, my shoulders, seemingly feeling me out for injuries.
I snap out of my trance and launch an assault on Dallas, the rush of adrenalin fuelling my fists as I rain them down on his head. “You could have got me killed!”
“But I didn’t,” he says, a cocky smirk on his bloodstained lips.
“Are they …” I look toward the door.
“All dead. Yeah.”
As though on cue, a blood-curdling scream comes from the front of the house. “Dallas?”
“Camille,” he mutters, pushing off the bed. “In here!”
He limps toward the door as she comes skidding into view. “Oh my God!” Her hands fly to her mouth. “April?”
“I’m fine,” I say, hands raised as I carefully get off the bed so as not to disturb the dead cop. Still not okay with that.
“I heard the gunfire,” she babbles, “and I came right in.”
Dallas stills halfway across the room. “The gunfire.” He cocks his head to one side.
“Yeah,” she says, looking over at the dead guy on the bed. “There were so many shots all at once. I panicked.”
“How long were you in here with this guy, April,” Dallas asks me even though his gaze never leaves Camille. “Best guess?”
“Five minutes, maybe?”
“Five minutes,” he repeats to his sister. “And yet you ran right in?”
She falters, her eye twitching as she takes a step back. “I didn’t want to get shot myself.”
“See, here’s the problem,” Dallas says with a pained frown. “Right after I took one to the leg, I walked out front and shot the fuckers that were next to the patrol car so they couldn’t radio in for backup.” He turns to look at me. “That’s why I took so long to get to you, baby.”
“It’s okay.” I offer him a soft smile, which seems to calm him, yet only for a fleeting second.
The look he gives Camille when he glances back her way is pure murder. “You weren’t there.”
“I was hiding,” she tries to explain. “I was scared.”
Dallas lets his shoulders go lax as he stares her down. I can’t look away; intrigued by the way he manages to get her to fall apart with body language alone. She twitches a smile, her eyes darting across to me as though searching for support before she looks at Dallas again.
“I love you, little brother.”
He steps forward, lifting a bloody hand to her shoulder so he can brush her hair out of the way. “Do you?”
“I did it because I love you.”
“Did what?” I step forward also, yet I know my actions wouldn’t be so kind if my hands were near her neck.
“You said it yourself, April,” Camille says. “You said there’s nothing right in what he does, taking people’s lives.”
“What did you do?” I ask again, my body vibrating with barely restrained anger.
“Camille?” Dallas prompts.
She steps out of his hold, into the hallway. “I … I need to call Dad.”
“Why?” Dallas calls after her as she turns and heads toward the front of the house. He steps through the doorway after her. “Why do you need to call Dad, Camille?”
He limps after her, but it’s no use—he’s got no speed with that injured leg. I overtake him and break into a run as Camille jogs through the living room doorway. There are bodies left and right, at least one man who is indistinguishable thanks to his gunshot wound. Yet my focus is on Dallas’ sister as she stoops down beside one of the fallen officers and retrieves his weapon.
“Stay where you are,” she threatens, pointing the gun at me with one hand while retrieving her phone with the other.
I watch in horror as her thumb taps out the pattern for 911. “Don’t,” I urge. “Don’t do this.”
“Why have you changed your tune, April? You were the one who said he needed to be stopped only this morning.” She chuckles as the operator picks up on the other end. “Police, please.” Camille’s eyes narrow on me as she tucks the phone to her chest, pistol still pointed directly at me. “I had to play it so cool so that you wouldn’t know what I’d done. I couldn’t have his latest fuck-toy ruining everything I’d risked my life to set up.”
“I can’t believe you did this to me,” Dallas says from the doorway behind me. I turn to see him limp into the room, drawing the attention of Camille’s gun. “I thought I could trust you.”
“Surprise,” she says jovially despite the fact she looks as though she’s ready to cry. “Every good person has a breaking point, Dallas. I couldn’t look the other way anymore. I couldn’t pretend your crimes didn’t keep me awake at night.” She lifts the phone to her ear, speaking to the operator as she moves the gun between Dallas and I. “Yes, I need help, please. There are officers down, and I have the perpetrator at gunpoint.”
Dallas sighs, shaking his head as Camille continues to direct the responder to their address. He backs away, turning side on to her as he rubs a hand over his head.
I want to help. I want to stop this. But how?
My gaze falls on the officer Camille removed the weapon from, and an idea sparks to life. I study the guy, at the way he fell, the blood that shows where the bullet hit him. I let it sink in, imagining how he must have felt when he realized that he wouldn’t be making it home tonight.
My gut clenches in anguish. Success. A cold sweat washes over me from head to toe as I repeat the process, ingraining the horror that went down here today in my mind.
“Are you okay?” Dallas asks, moving my way.
“Stay right there,” Camille warns, thrusting the gun at him.
He freezes at arm’s length, the conflict clear in his eyes as he presses his lips together with a heavy sigh out his nose.
“I don’t feel so good,” I say, lifting a hand to my stomach. “I … I’m not good with blood.”
Dallas frowns, yet schools his features just as quickly when I look his way. Hopefully, he understands what I’m doing and will play along.
“You’re not going to vomit are you?” Camille curls her nose up, phone still to her ear.
“I …” I move my hand to my mouth for effect and take two quick steps back to gauge her reaction with the gun.
She continues to frown; the barrel pointed at Dallas as I turn and make a run for the bathroom. I stop when I reach the dead guy in the hallway, out of sight. He holds a rifle in his hands, which as ridiculous as it sounds, I don’t know how to shoot.
“Let me go check on her,” Dallas complains from the living room.
“No. Stay here. I don’t need both of you running around loose.”
I’ve got a minute, tops, before she gets suspicious. Writing off the man in the hall, I swing into the bathroom and fill the cup on the basin with the barest trickle of water. Think of rotten meat, moldy cheese … The sound of my dry-retching bounces around the room. I follow it up with a splash of water to mimic the sound of me throwing up, and then repeat a couple more times for good measure.
Camille mutters something to Dallas about me being soft as I hesitate by the door and check the way is clear. In three swift steps, I’m across the hall and into Dallas’ room. The officer stares at me from his expired position on the bed.
“Sorry, buddy,” I whisper as I round the bed and squat down to retrieve the gun I know is there. “But to be honest, you did sound like a bit of an asshole.”
I silently rejoice as I pull the pistol out and note its basic design. I know where to find the safety on this, and provided it’s loaded, I’ll be good to go.
My feet glide over the floorboards as I hustle my way back up to the kitchen and slip inside. Camille’s voice is louder as she talks through what to do with the operator on the end of the line. I catch a glimpse of Dallas in the reflection in the window. He stands in the living room doorway; his arms braced either side, above his head, as he appears to take the weight off his bad leg. The hate in his eyes as he stares at Camille leaves my chest tight; I can only imagine how she feels.
My palm slicks as I grip the pistol tight, mentally psyching myself up for the act. I can do this. Dallas needs me to do this. I crouch down where the cabinets stop, and the kitchen/dining opens out into the living room, staying tucked behind the end of the wall.
Camille walks into view, the back of her head to me while she stays trained on Dallas. I sidle further around the wall and find a set of dark eyes fixed on my position. Dallas doesn’t so much as twitch a muscle as he slides his gaze back to Camille.
Line her up, squeeze the trigger. Simple.
My blood whooshes in my ears as I lift the gun and steady my arm against my bent knee. Camille shifts her weight, forcing me to realign her all over again. It would be so easy to just let off round after round at her and hope for the best, but unlike Dallas, I’d rather shoot to kill as a last resort.
Keeping one eye closed, I pull in a deep breath and then hold it while I make sure the sight marker is still lined up with her shoulder. One, two, three … I squeeze the trigger, startled by how fucking loud a gun is when the damn thing is in your hand.
She jolts forward as though slugged with a baseball bat, the phone falling from her hand as she cries out. My heart beats so fucking fast it threatens to sprout wings and fly away. My hands shake as I push to my feet and carefully approach her.
Dallas hasn’t moved at all, apart from a lazy smile that now graces his gorgeous lips. “Nice.”
I just shot his fucking sister, and he’s praising me?
Camille rolls to her back, groaning as tears streak her face. I rush forward and kick the gun and phone toward Dallas, the pistol in my hands pointed at her chest. He leans down and ends the call before resuming his position watching what I do.
“Fucking hell.” Camille giggles through her pain. “I didn’t think you’d have it in you.”
“Surprise,” I say, mocking her earlier statement.
“What’s next, April?” she asks. “Do you finish me off and make Dallas proud to call you his, or do you go with your conscience and get me to a hospital?”
I glance over at Dallas before I answer. “You choose.”
Camille moans as her eyes roll back in her head. “Great.”
“Why were you going to call Dad?” Dallas asks as he steps forward. “Did he put you up to this?”
She snorts. “Come on, little brother. How long did you think his career would last if he kept fighting fires for you? Do you have any idea how much he’s shelled out in bribes the past six years?”
“Any money he wasted was his issue,” Dallas bites back. “I didn’t ask for his help, didn’t ask for him to assume he still had a role in my life.”
“Help is what you do for family, whether they want it or not.”
He huffs a short laugh, smiling as he rubs a hand over his chin. “You aren’t family to me anymore, Camille. You’re nothing.”
“And you’re sick,” she counters, pulling herself onto her side with a grimace. “You need help.” Her hateful eyes find mine. “You both need help.”
“Correction,” he sneers, leaning down to point a finger at her face. “You think I need help. Me on the other hand? I like who I am.”
“So you run,” Camille says. “For how long? How many more people will die so that you can be free?”
“As many as it takes.” Dallas straightens and holds a hand out to me, palm up. “Gun, baby.”
“Go on, you coward,” Camille taunts as I hand it over. “Kill me because it’s easier. Kill me because you don’t know how else to deal with your problems.”
I jolt as Dallas whips his arm straight and promptly unloads two rounds, one into each of Camille’s knees. She screams out in pain as he calmly limps to the doorway and retrieves her phone. He itches the underside of his jaw with the gun as he brings up the keypad and dials 911 again.
“I won’t kill you,” he says, dropping the phone beside her, “but I’ll make sure you can’t go anywhere after we leave.” He gestures to the open call with the gun. “You might want to ask for an ambulance this time.”