9. Dean
Nine
Dean
F or some stupid reason, my feet lead me all the way back to that fake country bar. Head buzzing with pained static, hands shoved in my pockets and shoulders hunched, I’m not concentrating at all as I walk across the city. Don’t even realize where I’ve gone until I come to a stop outside the front door and blink up at the sign with its neon cowboy hat.
Country tunes drift from inside, and the air smells like bourbon.
Huh.
This place.
Then, because I can’t stop thinking about her for a single second— Annie. She slams back into my brain, front and center.
This is where I met her. Where she came back into my life, just for a few stolen hours. A pang shudders through my hollow chest, and I swallow hard and squint up at the sign.
It’s raining lightly, dark clouds blocking out the stars. My t-shirt is damp, clinging to my back and shoulders, and my bare arms are cold. I don’t care.
Did Annie get home okay?
Is she still upset? Still frightened?
Fuck, I hate that I scared Annie Lowell with the hilt of my knife. Hate that my reality, the truth of who I’ve become, broke the spell we’d been weaving together. Every time I think about her freezing up in my arms, going rigid with terror, I want to slam my forehead against the nearest brick wall.
Wish I could undo everything. Not just tonight—I wanna go back to being a teenager, living next door to the girl of my dreams, and drag my head out of my ass. Give myself a good talking to. Then stop being so moody and misunderstood, and go after what I really want out of life.
Her.
Annie.
She’s the path I should’ve gone down. And I’d give up everything I have, I’d get a new, respectable job and a house with a picket fence and all that shit, if it meant I could have a future with her.
But it’s too late.
She ran from me. She was right to run from me.
Annie Lowell deserves so much better. My chest is a bloody crater as I shoulder my way into the crowded country bar.
It’s hot and loud in here, everyone laughing and jostling and spilling their drinks. I cut a path to the bar and order a bourbon, then kick out a stool and sit down with a sigh.
The drink burns my throat.
The music is loud and this whole bar is buzzing.
Doesn’t matter. I’m still cold and dead inside, picturing a ghostly version of Annie coming to me here and hooking that feather boa around my neck.
The memory aches, and it takes a long moment for me to notice the buzzing at my hip. What the hell?
At any given moment, I’ve got at least two burner phones on me—one for work, and one that I texted Wyatt from last year on our birthday. He didn’t reply. He probably never will, and it’s a security risk to keep a phone for this long.
But still, I’ve kept hold of the Wyatt burner just the same. Usually I keep it in my left pocket, but I must have mixed the two phones up tonight, because it’s my left pocket buzzing right now.
The stool creaks beneath me as I shift and tug the burner from my pocket. One mouthful of bourbon down and it must’ve gone straight to my head, because I swear that’s Wyatt’s burner vibrating in my hand. I’ve spent plenty of hours staring at this cheap plastic brick, willing my twin brother to call. Each scratch on its case, each janky button, is burned into my memory.
And it’s buzzing. The screen is lit up with an unknown number.
Not Wyatt, then.
Fuck, I can’t let myself hope.
“Hello?”
It’s too goddamn loud in this bar, and I press the burner against my ear. Is that an intake of breath? A quiet gasp down the other end of the line? Or is that just static?
“Dean?”
Her voice is so quiet I barely hear it over the din—but I’d know Annie’s voice anywhere. I shove to my feet, heart pounding, and clap a hand over my free ear, trying to muffle the noise of the bar.
“Annie. Wait a second. I’m moving somewhere quieter.” People grumble as I shove my way through the crowd to the door, not caring who I piss off, but they’ll get over it—and I need to talk to my girl. Need to keep her on the phone long enough to make sure she’s okay.
Even if Annie never wants to see me again… letting me know she got home safe is a gift. One that I’ll treasure.
It’s raining harder out in the street, but I burst out of the doorway and stride along the sidewalk. Each thud of my boots rattles through my bones, and I’m straining with all my might to hear her breaths.
“Annie? You still there?”
Her long pause is agonizing. Then—
“Yes. I’m here.”
Thank god. My eyes slam closed, blocking out the flickering store signs and wet rooftops all around. The cold rain and gurgling drains and the flyer that gusts against my leg, carried by the breeze. The couples hurrying down the street, hunched together under umbrellas, and the drinkers spilling out of the country bar to smoke.
Everything fades away.
There’s only my ragged breaths, and the soft voice in my ear.
“I’m sorry for running away like that,” Annie says. She sounds shy. Nervous. “I should have let you explain.”
My head shakes, even though she can’t see me. “No, you did the right thing. You kept yourself safe. Even though I’d never hurt you, I always want you to do the smart thing and run if you’re scared. Even from me.”
Even if it means I spend the rest of my life alone and wrecked.
Because Annie felt unsafe, and she fled. I will never, ever blame her for that. Hell, I’m proud.
“I didn’t think.” She sounds as miserable as I feel, and Christ, I hate that. My free hand balls into a fist by my side, my body desperate to find whatever’s bothering her and beat it to a pulp. ‘Course, the culprit is me. “I just panicked and ran, and I didn’t even think about how I don’t have your number. Or know where you live. Or have any way of reaching you again.”
My throat is so tight, I have to clear it to speak. “Seems like you figured your way around that.”
“Wyatt gave me your number.”
I grunt. “That’s good.”
So my twin brother kept my number, even if he never replied? My head swims, and yeah, I’ll have to process that another time when I’m not already fritzing out and overwhelmed.
Annie shudders out a breath. It crackles down the line. “So it’s okay that I’m calling you?”
A raw laugh bubbles out of my chest. “Annie, it’s the best fucking news of my life. Even if you never want to see me again, just hearing from you—”
“I do,” she interrupts. “I do want to see you again. But you have to tell me about that knife.”
Fair enough.
“It’s not pretty,” I warn, my fist rubbing circles against my chest. Prepping myself for the inevitable heartbreak when she hears about who I am now, then wants me gone. Still, I can’t lie to her. I never will. “But I want you to know: I would never hurt you. Never.”
“I know.” Her voice is warm. “I do know that, Dean.”
“Okay.” Shaking out my arms, I stand up straight and press the phone to my ear again. Eyes open, I check there’s no one near me to eavesdrop. “Okay. But I can’t tell you this stuff over the phone, sweetheart. It’s not secure.”
I’m already gonna have to destroy this burner and text Wyatt from another number. Can’t be too careful in my work.
“Come to my apartment.” Just like that, Annie reels off her address—and the show of trust after everything makes my legs weak. “Come over right now.”
My mouth twitches at her bossy tone. She sure doesn’t sound like she’s scared of me. “Yes, ma’am.”
My hand raises as I step into the street, hailing the first cab I see.
Need to get to my girl.
* * *
Annie’s place is on the fourth floor of a brick building in the outskirts of the city—the kind of neighborhood with artsy theaters and student discounts in all the cafes, where kids draw on the sidewalks in colored chalks during the summer.
My chest loosens as I walk up the short path to her front door, past lavender bushes and a chipped garden gnome pushing a painted wheelbarrow through the flowerbeds. It’s nice. Nothing fancy, but it feels safe and friendly around here. I’m glad Annie lives somewhere like this.
It’s late, but the windows on the fourth floor are lit up. From down here, I can just make out the weird shadows of houseplants against the glass.
My heart drums as I press Annie’s buzzer.
The intercom clicks. “Dean?”
“Yeah.”
The door buzzes and I push my way through, then take the stairs two at a time. My skin is hot despite the damp t-shirt clinging to my skin.
Annie’s standing in her doorway when I reach the fourth floor, still dressed in her dark pants and cream silk camisole, but she’s switched her ankle boots out for thick fluffy socks and tied her blonde hair in a messy bun. She bites her lip when she sees me, fingertips bleaching where they squeeze the door.
I slow down and raise my palms, heart still thundering. I’m getting ahead of myself—she might not want me inside.
“We can talk out here if you want.” There’s a slight risk of being overheard, but it should be fine if we whisper. “Whatever makes you most comfortable.”
Annie thinks about it for a second, chewing on her rosy bottom lip—then sighs and shakes her head.
“No. Come inside. Maybe I’m a prime candidate for a true crime podcast, but… I trust you.”
Inside is warm and colorful, filled with plants and artwork and cozy knit throws. It smells like cardamom and vanilla. Annie spins to face me and fidgets as I toe off my boots by the door.
“Do you want a coffee? A water? Something else? Are you still hungry—”
“I’m good.” Annie jumps at the low rumble of my voice, but there’s nothing else for it. We need to talk, and putting this conversation off will only make it harder. “Do you have a room without any electronics?”
Annie scrunches up her face as she thinks. It’s adorable. “Um, the bathroom, I guess?”
That’ll do. “Can we talk there?” I spin a finger around the living room, pointing vaguely at the TV, the phone charging station on the bookcase, the speakers, the roomba that sits dormant in one corner. “I don’t trust the tech not to eavesdrop. Not with stuff like this.”
Annie presses her lips together, visibly freaked out, but nods. She slides her own phone from her pocket and tosses it on the sofa. “This way.”
I ditch my own burners too, then follow Annie through her small but sweet apartment, trying my hardest not to spy too much. Still, I want every fucking detail of her life here: what food she keeps in the refrigerator, which books are in those piles; which games she plays on that console. If she lets me stick around, I’m gonna absorb every piece of information she gives me, soaking it all up like a thirsty houseplant.
It’s too much to hope for—and yet when she turns her back on me, trusting me enough to lead me through her home, I can’t help it. The knot loosens in my gut by a fraction, and my shoulders drop an inch.
“Here.”
We crowd together in a small bathroom with white and periwinkle blue tiles on the walls. Annie hugs her own waist by the sink, while I’m half-stuffed into the shower cubicle. The door clicks shut behind us.
“Okay.” She raises her chin and meets my eye, visibly bracing herself. “Tell me everything, Dean.”
So I do.
I lay it all at Annie Lowell’s feet.
I tell her about my first job, and the way I threw up afterward. The nights when I don’t sleep so well. The near misses where I’ve been hurt and left to stitch up my own wounds.
I tell her about my personal rules for my work, and how even though it’s wrong in a lot of ways, I’m also cleaning up the world one monster at a time. How some days I even feel proud of what I do. How I’ve taken a few jobs for free, when people have come to me scared and broke and seriously desperate.
I put it all out there: the good, the bad and the ugly. I hold nothing back, and the only other sounds as I talk are Annie’s quiet breaths and the steady drip, drip, drip of the shower head behind me. If she lets me stick around, I’ll fix that for her.
“What if I wanted you to stop?” Annie asks when I’m finally done, her fingers twisting together. She hasn’t cringed away from me or edged toward the bathroom door, but she does look nervous right now. Pale and tense. “What if I’m okay with everything you’ve done before, but I can’t handle that kind of worry going forward?”
Such an easy answer. “Then I’m done.”
Annie’s laugh bursts out of her, echoing off the bathroom tiles. “Just like that?”
“Just like that.”
Okay, I can’t hold back any longer—but when I reach out slowly, Annie doesn’t duck away. She lets me cup her cheek. Hell, she even leans into my hand a little, chasing my touch like a cute little cat.
My belly warms.
Yes. Thank fuck.
“I’d do anything for you, Lowell.” My words are gritty with emotion.
Her mouth quirks. “Even get a normal, boring job?”
“Even that.” My thumb strokes her soft, warm skin. “Guess I’ll have to chase my thrills elsewhere.”
Her chest rises and falls, her breaths coming faster. There’s a blush climbing up Annie’s throat, and that pink tinge to her skin is the cutest damn thing I’ve ever seen.
Want to lick it. Taste it. Chase it all the way up to her jaw, and back down to the sweet mounds of her tits. They’ve been torturing me all night in that camisole.
“You look hangry again,” Annie says. Too true. I’m fucking starving for another taste of my girl, because those few kisses in the club weren’t nearly enough. “Do we need to fix you another dinner, Mister Big Scary Hit Man?”
Grinning, I shake my head, and slide my hand around to cup the back of Annie’s neck. She trembles under my touch, but in the good way. The really good way, with her socked toes digging into the fluffy bath mat and her thighs squeezing together.
“No need.” My thumb strokes her hairline. So soft and wispy. “I’ve got another meal in mind.”
Annie laughs as I tug her forward, stumbling into my chest, and I lean down for another life-changing kiss.