Chapter 1 #2
Fuck. Her voice cuts right through me. It’s soft. It’s shaky. It’s everything I don't want it to be. I want her sassy. I want her telling me I’m being overprotective and that she can handle it. I want the fire. The version of Serenity that sounds like she’s about to break is a knife to the gut.
"I'm on my way, sweetness," I say, the endearment slipping out before I can catch it. I don't take it back.
"I can’t believe this jerk," she whispers, and I can hear the tears she’s trying not to shed. "He left a note under the door. He said he knows what color my pajamas were last night. I want to kick his ass into next week."
That’s my girl. I grip the steering wheel until I hear the leather groan. "How about if I hold his ass down and you can kick away?"
"Sounds like a plan to me." She snorts, and my heart settles a little bit.
"Good. Put my pain-in-the-ass sister back on the phone.” There’s a shuffle in the background.
“Did you just call me a pita?” My sister sounds more like herself, too.
"Get the Glock out and don’t hesitate to light his ass up if he tries to get in. I’ll be there soon."
"Okay," my sister tells me. "Please be careful. It’s raining here. The roads are slick."
"The roads aren't a problem," I say, and I mean it. Gravity and friction are nothing compared to the momentum of my need to get to Serenity. "I’ll be there soon."
I hang up and floor it. The SUV surges forward, a black blur against the darkening desert.
I’ve spent years keeping my distance, telling myself Serenity deserved someone better, someone cleaner, someone who didn't have grease under his fingernails and a serpent on his back.
I told myself I was doing the right thing by staying away.
I was wrong. The right thing is being there to stand between her and the monsters of the world. The right thing is taking her back to Vegas, where I can keep her safe. I don't fucking care if I’m crossing a line.
The city of San Bernardino appears in the distance, a sprawling carpet of gold and white.
I navigate the curvy road with a precision born of a thousand rides, my eyes scanning the road but my mind already in that apartment in Westwood.
I can almost smell her. Vanilla and something bright, like citrus, that always seems to linger on her skin.
It's the scent that's haunted my dreams for three years.
I think about the house in Vegas. It’s modern, cold, and far too big for a man who spends most of his time in a garage or a clubhouse.
I bought it because it was a good investment, because it was a sign of success, but it’s never felt like a home.
It’s just a collection of expensive furniture and empty rooms. But as I drive, I start to imagine her in it.
Her books on the coffee table. Her scent in the hallway.
Her laughter echoing off the high ceilings.
It’s a dangerous fantasy. It’s the kind of thinking that gets a man into trouble, especially when the girl in question is off-limits.
But as the rain starts to smear across my windshield, matching the rhythm of my pulse, I realize I don't care about the trouble anymore. I’ve spent my whole life being the protector, the anchor, the one who holds things together.
It’s time I started protecting what actually matters most to me.
The miles tick by, marked by the green signs of the 405. The traffic is heavy, a sluggish river of brake lights and frustration, but I weave through it with a ruthless efficiency that earns me a dozen honks.
By the time I pull onto the familiar streets of Westwood, the rain is coming down in a steady, gray sheet. The palm trees look bedraggled, their fronds drooping under the weight of the water. I find their bland, stucco apartment building and park in the guest lot.
The silence that follows is absolute, broken only by the ticking of the cooling engine.
I sit there for a second, my hands still gripping the wheel, my heart hammering against my ribs.
The overwhelming weight of what I’m about to do cuts through me.
I’m about to step into her life in a way I can never step back from.
I’m about to take her from this world and bring her into mine.
I think about her. Really think about her.
The way she looks when she’s serious, her brow furrowed as she tries to solve a problem.
The way she looks when she’s happy, her whole face lighting up like the Strip at midnight.
I think of the distance I’ve kept, the years of 'how’s school?
' and 'tell Alana I said hi.' It all feels so small now. So insignificant.
I open the door and step out into the rain.
The chilly water hits my face, but I barely feel it.
I’m focused on the door to the building, on the stairs that lead to her apartment, on the woman waiting inside who needs me.
I’m done being the distant best friend’s brother.
I’m done being the saint. I’m the man who’s going to keep her safe, and God help anyone who tries to stop me.
As I walk toward the entrance, my boots echoing on the wet pavement, I realize this was always how it was going to end.
Since the moment I first saw her, I’ve been just waiting for the world to give me an excuse to claim her.
I hate that it took a monster to bring me to her door, but I’m here now. And I’m not leaving without her.