Chapter 12
CHAPTER TWELVE
LEAF
It takes a moment for reality to crash over me, but eventually, it does. Thorne’s staring at me, his whole body tense and braced like he’s waiting for me to explode, and eventually, I do.
“Is that a gun? Why the fuck do you have a gun, Thorne?” I ask, my hands moving in tandem. I want to make sure he understands everything I’m trying to convey.
“I—um—well.” He runs his free hand through his hair and huffs.
“Just spit it out, please. You had a goddamn gun aimed at my head just a minute ago.”
“Shit, Leaf. I’m sorry, but I thought you were going to murder someone.”
I stare at him, my hands on my hips before I lift them. “You thought I was going to murder someone. Really?”
His gaze flicks over to mine, and I bet to high heaven he’s blushing right now. He should be. I mean, yes, I’ve lost my mind and have been acting slightly psychotic, but did he really think I was going to bash a human’s head in? Who does he think I am?
“I did. Yes. Or, well, I also thought maybe Michael was trying to murder you. I wasn’t sure. You left in such a panic.”
“So you were half protecting me, then?”
“Yeah.”
“And half trying to blow my brains out.”
He winces at that. “I wouldn’t have shot you. I would have disarmed you.”
“With a bullet?” I demand.
He swallows thickly. “Only if I had to.”
I glower at him. Who the fuck does this guy think he is, anyway? I don’t hang out with people who own guns. “Well, fuck you, then. That is terrible and not romantic at all. I shall not be offering up my ass to you after that proclamation.”
Those words make Thorne sigh, scrubbing a hand over his face. “Yeah, don’t blame you. I really don’t deserve your ass.” He hesitates and then adds, “In my defense, I really did think Michael was a human. Everything pointed to him being one.”
“I said groundhog multiple times. What the hell did you think I meant?”
“A human you had stored away underground.”
That makes a snort leave me, and before I can stop it, a wheezy laugh exits my throat.
I can’t stop it, my belly aching, tears streaming from my eyes.
“You—” I gasp and then giggle. “You thought I had a human underground.” I swipe at my eyes and slap at my leg.
“That is fucking ridiculous. Have you met me?”
Thorne’s lips twitch slightly. “I did think it was highly unlikely, but still.”
“Oh my god. Are you, like, a cop or something?”
He shrugs. “Not…exactly.”
“What are you, then? DOE, DOJ, oh my god, are you CIA?”
He shrugs again and then fingerspells something quickly. Thankfully, I’m a fucking good interpreter, and I catch it right away.
“FB Fucking I! Oh my god, no way. Jesus. And here you were, thinking I was some kind of criminal, and you wanted to have anal sex with me!” Realization dawns on me, and I point at him. “You were going to fuck my ass tonight, and you had no qualms about it.”
His eyebrows rise. “Was I?”
“You absolutely were. I had it all planned. But I fell asleep, so it was derailed a little, but you were going to fuck a criminal. That has to be against some kind of department code.”
He rolls his lips between his teeth and shrugs. “Maybe.”
“Oh, for fuck’s sake. I’m going back to bed.
The zucchini is gone, there’s no helping it now, and honestly, I hope I can go back to bed and wake up realizing this was all a dream and you aren’t some kind of law enforcement officer trying to arrest me.
I want my goddamn stalker back, Thorne. I want the man who was showing up at my place at odd hours for blowjobs and cuddles. ”
I stomp past Thorne, who follows me, but I hold up a hand, making him come to a stop. “You need to go home.” He swallows and looks slightly despondent, and something inside of me twists. “I was duped and emotionally tormented. By my aunt, by Michael, and now you. I just…need a minute to think.”
He nods, and I continue moving forward, up the porch steps and into the house. The door shuts behind me, and I can’t help but turn around and see Thorne just standing in the middle of the garden in my borrowed sweats and no shirt, unsure of what to do now.
“Fuck,” I murmur, not able to tear my gaze away from him. I just stand and watch him for long minutes.
“Fucking hell,” I murmur, and then, before my heart can soften and invite him back inside, I stalk to the door and lock it.
He still doesn’t move, and I stomp up to bed. It’s there that I see the food he made me. And the water he brought up. It’s all so sweet. Except, is it really sweet? Did he ever like me, or was he just trying to get me to incriminate myself?
I mean, he did think I had a literal man locked up in a basement somewhere.
Although he didn’t arrest me for attempting to buy TNT, but…no. It’s obvious that he was trying to build a case against me. This isn’t real. The feelings I’ve been developing over the last week are fake.
A lie.
A goddamn ruse.
So why, when I lie down and catch his scent on my pillow, does my gut tell me that there is so much more to this than I’m willing to believe?
I don’t sleep. Who the fuck could sleep when they find out the super-hot stalker they’re boning is with the FBI, trying to catch them in a murder?
Fuck.
My head is a complete mess, and I’m struggling to remember what the hell happened last night. I’d woken up to my groundhog camera alarm, feeling confident that with his hearing aids off, it wouldn’t bother Thorne.
I had that sucker up to the max volume, and I was ready, god damn it.
I was fucking ready for groundhog annihilation. But I wasn’t ready for this. Not for finding out that Thorne is a goddamn FBI agent.
I’d been too fixated on getting Michael to realize that Thorne had followed me outside. I didn’t even notice him until he screamed, Freeze! And even then, it had taken me a good fifteen full seconds to realize he was talking to me. By then, it was too late to get Michael.
He just stared at me with those beady little eyes, holding my goddamn zucchini. Smirking.
Then the world crashed around me when Thorne admitted the truth: he had been lying to me this entire time. It was never about me. It was about who and what he thought I was.
Leaving him on the porch felt good. Then cruel. Then good again. I paced in front of the window all night, waiting for him to get in his car and leave.
He didn’t. Or, at least, I think he didn’t. There was no sign or sound of him in the house, but his car remained where it was. Maybe he slunk off to the road and called someone to get him now that his cover was blown.
I comfort myself with this thought until I finally peel myself out of bed, a walking zombie because it feels like months since I’ve gotten a full night of rest, and then I see his clothes lying in a pile by his side of the bed.
His side of the bed.
His.
Christ, I’m in this so deep.
Kneeling on the floor, I begin to unravel his jeans. A holster drops to the ground with a loud clatter, and I jump back before realizing the only thing in it is a flashlight. It’s one of those fancy ones—the mini version.
That fucker had this and made me run around with my phone flashlight? What a dick! I could have broken my knees or my neck.
That alone is worth the bad manners of going through his pockets. His wallet’s tucked in there, and I pull it out. Shit, this is the thickest wallet I have ever seen, but then my eyes fall to an attachment on it, and when I flip it open, I see his badge.
Oh god, it’s real.
He’s actually FBI.
Thorne Logasson. My gaze falls to his agent ID number or whatever it is. I don’t know FBI things, but I don’t think this is fake. Well, at least he didn’t lie about his name. That’s…something, I guess.
Unable to help myself, I open his wallet and see his ID. He lives in Portland, so he’s come a long goddamn way for this investigation. He must have really thought I was a monster.
I have no idea how to feel about that, so I shove all his stuff back into his jeans, wrap it up like a ball, and push it against the nightstand.
My hands shake as I pass them down my face.
Then, instead of running downstairs to see if Thorne is still here, I make myself shower.
I’m sticky with sweat and bits of dirt that I’d missed from last night’s scrub down, and as I let the bubbles fall down the drain, I realize something: I do look like a criminal. Like, a real one.
The kind you see on TV true crime documentaries.
I was on the dark web. I was trying to buy explosives. And the moment he met me, he must have been able to tell I was slowly losing my grip on reality. Why wouldn’t he investigate me?
But that’s not really my problem, is it?
My problem seems to be: do I want to keep fucking a guy who is totally cool dicking down a hardened criminal—someone who was possibly keeping someone prisoner in an underground dungeon?
Oh hell.
My mind conjures up Thorne, his mouth on me, his hands.
My dick gets a little hard at the thought, and I realize I kind of do still want him.
It’s probably time to admit I’m not the most moral man in the world. It seems Michael ate parts of my conscience along with my tomatoes.
My entire life has been complicated, and to make matters worse, I left one job for a life that was supposed to bring me rest. But all I’ve known since taking over my aunt’s farm is sleep deprivation and mental torture.
Shuffling out of the shower, I dry off almost all the way, then slip into shorts and a T-shirt. It’s warm enough that the wood floors under my feet feel nice, and I don’t bother with socks as I make my way to the living room.
There’s still no sign of Thorne, and I need to figure out how to get him his stuff, because at some point, he’s going to need it. Especially his badge and holster. I may keep his shirt, in remembrance of him and all the things we did together.
I’m starting to feel pretty certain I’m never going to see him again. Now that I’ve found him out—and now that he knows I’m not a fucking serial killer—what’s the point of him hanging around?