7. Zira
ZIRA
“Peter?” After wrestling with the key in my door, I stumble into my apartment and immediately trip over a pair of Peter’s shoes left just behind the door. “Peter!”
Landing hard on my knees after tripping over, I stay down for a long few seconds. This is the perfect end to a really shitty day. Back down on the ground where I belong with throbbing knees to distract me from the pain in my chest.
Bradley’s alive.
The relief at knowing I haven’t killed someone is almost as sickening as the guilt when I thought I had, because somehow, the situation’s even worse. What will Harris do if he finds out that man is alive? What will Bradley do now that he knows who I am?
I’m far too tired to think.
Climbing to my feet, I kick Peter’s shoes back onto the rack with one foot and toss my keys onto the table near the door. “Peter, are you here?”
Craving comfort, I wander into the living room, but it’s as cold and as dark as the hallway.
The kitchen’s empty and so is his bedroom.
Failing to find any sign of my brother as I wander our small apartment, I eventually trudge into my bedroom and shrug off my coat.
It hits the floor behind me and stays there as I peel off my sweat-soaked blouse, toss that on the floor, and then collapse onto my bed.
I don’t move.
How was today worse than the robbery a week ago? Staring into Bradley’s eyes like he was some kind of demon back from the dead made me feel hollow inside. If it wasn’t for Jenni talking to him, I probably would have believed him to be a ghost until I was dragged off to the hospital.
But he’s not a demon. Not a ghost. Not dead.
Just alive and pissed and for some weird reason, not calling the cops.
I suck in a deep breath and something crinkles beneath my stomach.
Making the breath deeper, the crinkle sound rises again, so I roll to one side and discover a folded-up piece of paper left on my sheets.
Unfurling it, I skim the words and immediately bolt upright.
Peter’s gone out drinking with Harris?
Has he learned nothing? After everything I did to clear his eye-watering debt with that monster of a man, he’s back out in the streets likely drinking away what little money I have left until he starts borrowing it, and then we’re right back where we started.
Kicking off my shoes, I fish my phone out of my pants pocket and dial his number. Pressing it to my ear, I lean back on my bed and shimmy out of my pants with the least amount of effort possible while the line rings out without end.
I need to talk to him. I want him to comfort me and tell me everything I did was worth it to save his life and this new threat from Mr. back-from-the-dead is something we can deal with, but Peter doesn’t answer. Slumping back down after my legs are free, I dial again.
No answer.
On the third attempt, the call goes to voicemail within two rings.
“Bastard.” Holding my arms aloft, I gaze up at my phone and fire off a quick series of messages demanding Peter answer his phone, that it’s an emergency and I need to talk to him.
While waiting for him to reply, the silence of my apartment envelops me and a cold chill sweeps across my body, sending me scrambling under the blankets for warmth and security.
Once there, the change in temperature makes me shiver and I can’t stop.
It’s as if the first shiver gave all the nervous energy inside me permission to just take over, and I tremble like a leaf, completely out of my control.
“Fuck.” Peter doesn’t reply at all so I start spamming him with as many emojis and demands as I can, begging him to answer his phone.
As the silence drags on, I finish my text tirade with a demand to know why the fuck he’s out with Harris, of all people, then slam my phone down on my bedside table in frustration.
I don’t understand. Harris is supposed to be out of our lives. I worked for him, I cleared the debt, and we were supposed to move on. No more contact, no more late-night visits, no more threats. Just peace so we can recover and move on with our lives.
All of that was the dream before Harris made me murder Bradley.
Shoot, I correct myself. He’s not dead. I didn’t kill anyone.
My trembling worsens, so I shift under the covers and burrito myself as much as possible. While I’m moving, something slides off my body and lands on the bed next to me.
Bradley’s card.
It must have flown out of my pocket when I grabbed my phone.
The gold edge catches the light reflecting in from the streetlight outside my window and it shines over the cursive display of his name.
Underneath his name is a number, and that’s it.
No other information. What kind of man carries a card like that?
Must have been embarrassing to get it made with so little information.
I map out the swirls of his name with my eyes while waiting for my shivers to stop.
Somewhere between the slope of the D and the lift of the L, exhaustion consumes me, and I fall fast asleep.
In a blink, I’m back in the private room with Bradley.
He’s leaning over me with his arm up on the wall and his hand bracing beside me, staring intently at me with those shining gray eyes.
They sparkle like pools of moonlight and when his lips part, that gentle, deep tone washes over me like a hot wave.
“I’ve caught you,” he says.
His voice is like soft velvet, which made him all the more intimidating when he was threatening me. There was no clear anger and no volume to his tone. He simply spoke to me quietly and politely in a level voice that continues now as dream-Bradley leans an inch closer.
“You owe me an apology. You can’t just shoot people and get away with it.”
“I know,” I reply and my voice wavers in and out of focus. “I’m really sorry, they made me do it.”
“Who is they?”
“I can’t tell you.”
Suddenly, Bradley’s hand closes around my throat, but rather than fear spiking through me like normal, there’s a rush of heat as Bradley’s large hand applies a fraction of pressure to the side of my neck just below my ears.
“Then I’ll just have to fuck it out of you,” he growls low and surges forward.
The moment his lips collide with mine, a rush of heat surges between my legs and all the muscles in my lower half tighten uncontrollably.
He holds me in place and bites my lower lip, then his tongue invades my mouth, and I imagine he tastes sweet like the aftertaste of dessert.
I clutch at his shirt, and it melts away under my fingertips so my palms are pressed against thick, rippling muscle that tightens as he steps closer to me and deepens the kiss.
Suddenly, I’m in his arms, swept right off the floor, and pressed against the wall while his hands roam back and forth over my body, pulling at my clothes and holding me closer and closer.
My heart pounds, my core throbs eagerly, and I try to move my head to adjust the kiss, but I can’t quite manage it.
Every touch, as gentle as it is, keeps me in place, and just as I gather my voice to speak my complaints, his hips collide against mine and the most mouthwatering solid ridge grinds up against my pussy and I—
My eyes snap open to the sound of my own gasp, and reality crashes back with the bright glare of my alarm clock showing I’ve been asleep for a few hours. My bedsheets catch on the sweat slicking my skin, and my core throbs between my legs when I roll over onto my back, panting.
What the fuck was that?
I can barely wrap my mind around what just happened. Bradley. Do I want to fuck Bradley?
No. Absolutely not.
I mean, he’s hot. There’s no denying that.
The man’s tall and sexy, built like a brick house and yet with a deep, gentle voice that belongs on some children’s TV show coming out of a soothing teddy bear.
I tried to kill him and he threatened me.
There’s no way I can let a little lust get in the way of that.
But it’s the first good feeling I’ve felt in weeks since this nightmare started.
Swallowing alerts me to the lingering pain from Harris’s hand, but if I squint, I trick myself into thinking the tension is left over from Bradley’s hand instead.
The memory of the dream-kiss warms my lips and I press them together, chasing the sensation and tasting the sweet traces of my lip balm.
What if he did fuck the truth out of me?
A man built like that either fucks with pure gentleness or insane ferocity, and as I lie there catching my breath, I can’t decide what would be hotter.
Him holding me down and worshiping my body, kissing every inch and bringing me to orgasm after orgasm with warm smiles, or him holding me by the throat and fucking me so hard, I can’t sit down without craving him inside me?
My lust-addled thoughts take over and in the haze of lingering sleep, I wrestle one arm out from under the blanket and search my bedside drawer for my trusty toy.
Praying it has enough charge left, I press the button and slide the clitoral stimulator down between my legs, where my slick pussy can’t hide just how turned on that dream made me.
At the first touch, my hips jerk and I shove my face into the pillow and let my thoughts run away with themselves.
Bradley on top of me, kissing me breathless and fucking me slow and then hard.
A dream where he steals me away and punishes me for shooting him, fucking me harder and harder until it hurts in the best way and I’m spilling apologies from my lips.
Him between my legs, eating me out over and over until I’m wrung so tightly that I’m sure there’s nothing left inside me.
The weight of his cock on my tongue as he gives me a taste of that exhilarating rush of not being able to breathe while taunting me with the truth.
I come in under thirty seconds to the thought of him refusing to pull out of me because I’m far too addicting to taste and gasp my orgasm into my pillow as ripples of heat and desire rush through me so fast, they take my breath away.
My pussy twitches, my wrist cramps from the angle, and my heart finally pounds for a reason other than fear.
Those few blissful seconds are a dream and I close my eyes, eager to return to dreamland.
I flick the button and turn the toy off, then jump out of my skin as the door to my bedroom flies open and the lights flicker on, immediately blinding me.
“Zira!” Peter yells at me and trips over my coat at the door. “Zira, wake the fuck up.”
With burning eyes and hotter shame flushing my cheeks at what he almost caught me doing, I clutch the sheets tight to my neck and peer painfully at the disheveled form of my brother at the foot of my bed.
“What the fuck?” I croak. “You ignore my calls and texts and then burst in without knocking? Get out!”
“No, get up! We gotta go!”
“What? Go where?”
“No questions!” Peter yells at me, and then he disappears back down the hall.
“Fuck off then!” I yell after him, letting my anger from before sweep back in tenfold.
Peter reappears in the doorway, his face panicked. “Fucking hell. Harris needs our help clearing out the warehouse where we stashed the loot because some fucker murdered the other team. Do you understand? Someone knows, Zira, now get the fuck up!”