14. Eleanor
14
Eleanor
You saved me, I saved you. We’re square.
My hands are practically shaking with the effort to not lift my fingers to my lips, to trace where his just were. The skin tingles. When I wet my lips with my tongue, I can taste him—tangy, salty and a little minty. My stomach is full of fluttering butterflies and they’re all going fucking crazy for Mac.
But now he’s sitting there, all cool and calm, like nothing even happened. Like he didn’t just kiss me. And then he said that stuff about not trusting the police and asking for badge numbers… was it just to make me stop talking and pay attention? I feel like I have whiplash.
I glance around me as the comfort and security of my apartment feel miles away. I wish I knew where we were going, or how long we’d be there, or if I could go back and get anything. If this is going to be more than a few days, maybe Harrison can—
I gasp, realizing. “Oh my god, do you think Harrison is in danger?”
His hands tighten on the wheel until it makes a little squeaking noise and his knuckles turn white. His jaw flexes. “What?” he bites out.
I shrink away a little at the aggressive reaction. “You said my apartment wasn’t safe, and he lives in the same building and we’re friends—”
“He’s on the wrong side, they won’t assume he knows anything,” he clips.
“Oh, okay.” That’s a relief.
“Unless they think you’re more than friends,” he adds, lips thin with displeasure.
“Why would they?”
“Why else is his the first name on your lips after I kiss you? ”
I start, completely shocked. Was that what that little testosterone show was all about? Whatever beef he’s got with Harrison? I almost roll my eyes. “One kiss and you’ve got some sort of jealous claim on me, huh?”
He smiles, and it’s not very kind. It’s full of self-satisfaction and male pride. “Like that one kiss didn’t leave you hot and bothered. Would you stop me, darlin’, if I did it again?”
Of course not. He knows it; I know it. Doesn’t make him any less of a dick for pointing it out. I cross my arms.
“That’s what I thought,” he says, smirking.
It feels like he’s making fun of me now, even though I can’t really put my finger on why. And it stings more than I’d care to admit. He’s not a good guy; he’s reminded me of that several times. Why would I think he cares about my emotions?
Because I’m an idiot, that’s why. I have this whole made up scenario in my head. It’s a fantasy world I created, where he watches me and follows me and sends me gifts because he likes me. God, I need a fucking straight jacket. Or a reminder that having these inexplicable feelings for someone I don’t know, who’s very dangerous, is a terrible idea.
“Why are you here to kill Rossi?”
“I told you; he’s going to sell those—”
“No, I mean, why are you going to kill him?”
“I kill a lot of people, darlin’. It’s what I do. And I get paid a lot of money for it.”
I close my eyes. There it is. There’s my reality check. “How many people have you killed? Five? Ten?” I demand, before I lose my nerve.
“Eleanor—”
“Dozens?”
His face screws up in a look that’s half resignation, half cringe.
“More?” I breathe, my lower lip starting to wobble. What started as an antagonistic line of questioning got real a little too quickly.
“Probably more in the hundreds at this point. I haven’t really kept track. ”
“You don’t keep track?!” I squeak out. I’m not really sure why that detail makes the fact that he’s killed so many people worse, but it does. Like it’s just further proof that human life means nothing to this man. He clearly feels no remorse.
“Yeah, well…” he huffs a sigh and runs a hand through his hair. “One man dying is a tragedy. A hundred is a statistic.”
My blood runs cold. “Did you just quote Stalin?”
His eyes cut briefly to me before returning to the road as he turns into a neighborhood, and he actually fucking smirks. “Paraphrased.”
Oh God. He is a psychopath. I can’t believe I let my little fantasy go so far. I’m such an idiot.
Well, for whatever reason, this psychopath hasn’t shown much interest in killing me, so there’s that. That means that, for right now, he’s my best bet for surviving whatever situation this is. Because I’m severely out of my element, and I’m trusting his guidance. I can’t go home, I don’t know how to disappear from anyone looking for me, I don’t know how to fight off anyone who might attack me…
He eases the car to a stop at an intersection where the homes are bigger than my entire apartment building. “There’s one more thing I need to know before we get there, darlin’. Why didn’t you go to the police? After I let you go.”
I almost snort, angry as I am at myself. “And say, what exactly? That a man broke into my apartment, tied me up and I watched as he shot people through my window with a sniper rifle?”
He glances at me from the edge of his vision and his expression is tense, guarded, but curious. “Exactly that, yeah.”
I turn to him full-on and scowl. “Because that is crazy. That sounds crazy. Even if they took me seriously, I had no proof and no real information for them. And I’m not an idiot, Mac. I followed the local news afterwards; I know there’s a reason I never heard about a shooting or a murder. Someone covered it up, or the police never even knew about it to begin with. And if it’s being covered up and I’m the one who reports it… I don’t know, it just seems like a bad idea to be on the bad side of someone who has a sniper after them.”
I am trying to convey that, while I’m not strictly on his side, I’m also not a threat. It feels right to try to show the psychopath who doesn’t blink at murder that you’re not a threat. After a few seconds of studying my face, during which I suck in a breath and wait for his reaction, he barks a laugh and I feel my chest contract.
“If there’s one thing I like in a woman, it’s a strong sense of self-preservation.”
I inhale again, more shakily this time, and look back out the window, trying to focus on anything other than what he’s giving me. Because he says I’ve got a strong sense of self-preservation, but the way I reacted to that kiss… the way I can’t help but notice his chest pressing against his shirt—a shirt that is already straining against broad muscles—as he laughs, and the smile curling those lick-able lips, and the sparkle in his brown eyes as he looks at me now…
Yeah, I wouldn’t call this level of attraction to a literal murderer something that is in my own best interest.
“And if there’s two things… a strong sense of self-preservation and a great ass,” he says with a wink, making a little clicking noise with his tongue.
My heart flutters. Is he… does that mean he thinks my ass is great? Or is he trying to fluster me again, throw me off? It’s like, the second I decide to build some emotional distance, he starts dialing up the charm. It’s too coincidental not to be a manipulation.
But, a small voice argues, he stared, back in the sauna. It wasn’t a quick glance, the surprised, automatic reaction of someone unexpectedly confronted with a full-frontal. It wasn’t a mildly-disappointed-yet-still-half-interested look, like a stranger from a dating app taking what they can get for the night. It was a stare with open, fully masculine appreciation.
I just wish I had any clue what to do about it.
“My ass is pretty great,” I agree, crossing my arms over my chest.
He inhales noisily through his nose and I feel his eyes on me, even though I’m not looking. It brings a rush of goosebumps to the surface and I try to hide the little shiver. “The third thing would be confidence. That’s so fucking hot.”
At that, I do turn back, suspicious that he’s needling me again. “Sounds like I’m just ticking all your boxes then, huh? Too bad nothing about you is on the list of things I like in a man.”
I’m lying through my teeth, of course. I can literally see four things I like very much from here, and they’re called face, hair, body and sense of style. Not to mention the growly possessiveness that makes my lady bits do a river dance. And, as fucked up as it might be, knowing he’s as good with a gun as he is with his hands… well, that doesn’t suck for him either.
“Nothing?” he repeats, surprise in his tone. “Not even my ass?”
God, how I want to take a bite out of that ass. But I shake my head. “Nope.”
“What about the southern charm? The handsome, yet rugged smile? The biceps?”
“Kind of outweighed by the murdering and stalking.”
His grin is easy, confident. “If I’m just some asshole, why did you protect me back there? You could have run, but you stayed and helped. The locker thing was your idea,” he reminds me needlessly.
“Tit for tat. You saved me, I saved you. We’re square.”
“Oh, darlin’, if you think that makes us square you’ve got another thing coming.”
Well, that’s ominous. I wrack my brain, trying to think of another time he’s saved me. I narrow my eyes at him. “I’m not really sure what else I could possibly owe you for. You’re the one who put me in danger, you know.”
“We’re here.”
I turn my head forward and immediately gape, seeing some sort of palace. It’s dark, but from the way the fence extends into that darkness I know it just keeps going. The yard is huge, with old hardwood trees partially obscuring the front yard. The house is up-lit with those fancy lights, and so far away from the gate that it almost appears small, but I know that’s a trick of the eye. There are too many windows, too much stone and stucco for it to be anything other than massive.
He leans out his side of the car far enough to press his thumb against what must be some kind of fingerprint thingy because it makes the gate in front of us creep slowly open. That security detail feels high tech and impressive and, for a moment, I actually feel a little safer because of it. Then I remember security keeps things out and in.
It occurs to me that he never really said he was bringing me here to keep me safe. It was implied, sure, but the words… Did he ever say the actual words?
The gate closes behind us with a resounding click and fear worms its way back into my belly.