Chapter Thirty-One
Haizley
Gunner carried me upstairs after Patch set my nose and cleaned and stitched the cut on my cheek. I didn’t know how I would explain the broken nose and cut on my face, but that was a problem for later.
A more pressing concern was rescheduling my next few days’ appointments. But again, I could do that in the morning. I hadn’t said a word since Gunner broke through my front door, but that hadn’t stopped my brain from running through everything that needed to be handled.
Setting me down on the floor, Gunner reached over to turn on the shower, and I tried to look in the mirror.
“Baby, no.”
He turned me around to face him.
“Talk to me, baby.”
I couldn’t. Not yet. I didn’t know what to say. I was sure they took my silence as guilt or remorse. The truth was, the reason I hadn’t said anything was because I didn’t feel guilty. Or remorseful.
Not for murdering a rapist.
What I felt guilty about was that I didn’t feel guilty.
How did I explain that I wasn’t sorry?
How did I explain that I would do it again without batting an eye?
What did that say about me?
Who was I that I could murder a man without feeling bad?
Gunner held my hands in his while he searched the cabinet. For what, I wasn’t sure. I wanted to ask him. I had the ability to speak. I just chose not to.
Not yet.
Locating the metal nail file with the thin sharpened end, he held my hand over the sink. Using the pointed end, he scraped under my fingernails, removing any trace of skin and DNA that might be hidden there. I could have told him I didn’t scratch Greg. I didn’t think to.
After he was done with each nail, Gunner stripped my clothes off me, and I stood there waiting. The absence of remorse, more than the act of killing itself, was what truly disturbed me; the cold indifference was chilling.
“Come on, baby.”
Gunner took my hand again and led me into the shower, and I followed without wavering. I knew he was thinking the worst, but I couldn’t bring myself to utter the words to tell him I was ok.
Because I wasn’t ok.
But not for the reasons he thought.
Caught up in my own thoughts and feelings, I hadn’t realized Gunner had stripped to get in the shower with me. He stood in front of me as naked as I was, and I let my eyes roam over his body.
He was beautiful.
His shoulders were broad and covered in ink. The hard ridges of his chest gleamed in the fluorescent light of the bathroom. His sculpted abs taunted me, tempting me to reach my hand out and trace each valley.
But I couldn’t. I was supposed to be in shock. Full of guilt and stunned into silence. I wasn’t supposed to be ok.
How would Gunner see me once he learned the truth? My silence wasn’t from shame about Greg’s death, but from a paralyzing fear of Gunner’s judgment; each breath felt heavy with dread, the weight of his potential condemnation stifling my words.
Gunner tilted my head back, allowing the water to run down my back. His gentle hands ran through my hair, absorbing the water. When he pulled away, I wanted to cry out. Tell him not to let me go.
He grabbed the bottle of shampoo and squirted some into his palms. Rubbing his hands together forcibly, then returning to my scalp, he washed my hair, and my eyes closed on their own.
I felt the tears well up behind my lids. No one had ever taken such care of me. He washed my hair three times before grabbing a clip from the vanity and piling it up on my head out of his way.
Switching to my body wash, he repeated the steps he’d taken with the shampoo. Only this time, his hands roamed over my body. Starting at my neck, he caressed over my shoulders and down my arms. Lifting one arm and washing between my fingers before moving to the other.
He ran his soapy hands over my breasts, and my nipples puckered. My arms hung at my sides, and I had to consciously keep them there, to stop them from lifting so my hands could span the width of his chest. I wanted to run my fingers through his hair. It took all my effort to resist leaning forward and pressing my lips against his neck.
I wanted him. Judging by the solid length that bobbed between us, he wanted me too. My eyes focused on his length, and he tipped my head up, forcing me to look at him.
“Ignore it, baby. He’s got a mind of his own.”
I dropped my eyes again. I didn’t want to ignore it. I wanted to take him in my hands. I wanted to kneel at his feet and feel him slide between my lips.
Gunner put his hands on my shoulders and turned me around so he could focus on my back. The rush of the water over my chest was warm. Reaching my hand out, I turned up the temperature. I wanted to feel the burn. I needed to feel the heat of the water as it scalded my body.
Leaning back against Gunner, he wrapped his arms around me, pausing his ministrations.
“Talk to me, Haizley. I need to know you’re ok.”
I wanted to scream at him that I wasn’t ok. I wanted to rage against the notion that I was supposed to be upset that I ended the life of a dangerous criminal. I refused to call him a man. He wasn’t a man. He was a monster.
Monsters deserved to be slayed.
That’s what I did tonight.
I slayed the fucking monster.
“I’m ok.” My words came out a mere whisper. It was all I was capable of.
“Ok, baby. Let’s finish getting you washed up, and we can go to the clubhouse and get some rest.”
“No,” I croaked. Clearing my throat, I repeated myself to be sure he heard me. “No.”
“Baby, you can’t stay here.”
“I’m staying, Gunner. I won’t let that monster chase me from my home.”
My breath became rapid as my anger grew. Gunner must have noticed because he pulled me back against his chest and murmured in my ear, “Ok, baby. We’ll stay.”
When we were finished in the shower, Gunner turned off the water and we both stepped out. He ran a towel over my wet skin when I heard someone knock on the door.
Wrapping a towel around me, he fastened it over my breasts and opened the door. He peered through the crack and spoke to someone.
“I need to check her over.”
Downstairs, I hadn’t been paying attention to who had arrived with him. Though the voice sounded familiar.
“No,” Gunner growled.
“Brother.”
“You ain’t seeing her fuckin’ naked,” he growled again.
Whoever was on the other side of the door sighed before explaining, “I don’t need to see her naked. I need to check her fingernails and hair.”
“Give us a second.”
He closed the door and turned back to me. There was a stack of clothing on the vanity counter and Gunner helped me dress. He pulled on the clothes left for him and then opened the door again.
Zero stood in the hallway, and I stepped out, standing in front of him as he examined my hair and fingernails.
“Ok, she’s good. Are you taking her to the clubhouse?” he asked.
Pulling away from them both, I walked to my room. I wasn’t part of their discussion; I had made up my mind, and no one would change it.
As soon as I entered, I removed the clothes I had on. They weren’t mine. Opening the top drawer of my dresser, I pulled out a pair of panties, sliding them up my legs. I grabbed a T-shirt from the next drawer down and slipped it over my head.
Crawling into my bed, I pulled the covers up to my chin. I wanted to cry. I willed the tears to come for the life I took. My entire life I was taught every life was sacred.
That was a lie.
Greg’s life wasn’t sacred.
The bed dipped and Gunner inched in behind me. Wrapping his big arm around my waist, he pulled me back against his chest. With his mouth against my hair, he murmured to me, “Haizley, you need to talk to me. Tell me what happened, baby. Let me help you through this.”
“What do you want to know?”
“How did he get into the house?”
I released a sardonic laugh. “I literally opened the freaking door for him. I was distracted and didn’t check.”
That first sentence opened the floodgates, and I told Gunner everything. How Greg confessed about Aspen and all the women he had raped. His threats against not only me but how he alluded to ending the life of every future woman he intended to harm. All of it.
Except how it affected me.
“What about you, baby?”
Turning in his arms, I looked into his beautiful green eyes. “What about me?”
“You took a life tonight, Haizley. A life that deserved to be taken, but still. It affects people. Makes them feel guilty.”
“That’s just it, Gunner. I don’t feel guilty for killing that bastard. I feel guilty that I don’t feel guilty. What does that say about me as a person?”
“It says that you’re the fuckin’ strongest woman I know. That motherfucker got what he deserved. I wish it hadn’t been you to put him down. But I’m fucking glad you did.”
He leaned over and pressed his lips to mine and suddenly, the feelings I had been battling evaporated. Gunner’s tongue swirled with mine as he moved over me. The weight of him gave me a sense of security I didn’t realize I needed.
There was something about the tender way he held me and kissed me. Like he wasn’t trying to build up the tension in my body. He simply wanted to be close to me. Wanted me to feel what he was feeling. His hands never moved from my back. They didn’t slip lower to my ass, or around the front to my breasts.
This wasn’t a kiss that promised more carnal activities. It was a kiss that spoke to my soul. It showed his love for me. His care of me.
That kiss broke me.
The tears I had been longing for broke free, and I cried into Gunner’s mouth. He didn’t pull away. He continued his deep assault on my mouth as I cried.
I cried for the women Greg had assaulted.
I cried for Aspen and Amber and everything they had been through.
I cried for me.
For the teenage girl who lost her parents.
For the college girl who had no one at graduation to cheer for her accomplishments.
And for the woman who for so long believed she needed to take care of everyone else, who finally had someone that wanted to take care of her.
When Gunner finally pulled back, he directed my head to his chest.
“Sleep, little lamb.”
And I did.
In his arms.
Where I felt safe, and protected, and loved.
The next morning when I finally woke up, I was alone. Reaching over, the sheets were still warm, and I smiled knowing Gunner was likely still here.
I waited a few moments, expecting him to walk back into the bedroom. Maybe from the bathroom. When he didn’t return, I got up, headed to the bathroom myself and listened.
I could hear Gunner’s mumbled voice and realized he must be on the phone. Finishing up in the bathroom, I grabbed my robe and went downstairs.
When I stepped off the bottom step and looked toward the kitchen, the last thing I expected after the night I’d had was to feel like laughing. But seeing Gunner standing in my kitchen, in a pair of sweats that were at least one size too small, if not more, a white mist of flour covering my floor, his phone to his ear, talking to someone about how to make pancakes.
I threw my head back and laughed.
And damn, did it feel good.