Chapter 13
Chapter Thirteen
June
My heart feels heavy as I trudge up the stairs to my apartment. I can’t even imagine what it would feel like to lose the love of my life. How does someone even get over something like that? Mr. McAbee is always smiling and friendly.
I have a new respect for my sweet neighbor now.
Twisting my key in the lock, I push the door open and as I move to step inside, my whole body freezes.
Standing in the middle of my apartment is a woman I’ve never seen before, and in her hand is a gun pointed right at me.
My palms instantly go clammy, and my heart starts to gallop in my chest.
“Shut the door.” The words come out low and raspy, like she’s been screaming her throat raw. The barrel of the gun is pointed right at my chest, and the hand holding it is shaking.
Tears pool in my eyes as I slowly reach behind me, and close the door with a soft click. The sound of the latch catching is deafening.
“Where is he?”
My watery eyes dart down to the gun, then back up to her face. I’ve never seen this woman before in my life, and I have absolutely no idea what she’s talking about. But the crazed, unhinged look in her bloodshot eyes tells me one thing loud and clear.
She’s lost it.
A tear slips down my cheek as I slowly raise both hands, palms out. “You’re upset,” I say, keeping my voice as steady as I can, which isn’t very. “I can see that. I’m sure whatever’s going on, we can figure it out.” I swallow hard. “But I need you to put the gun down first.”
The woman leans forward, her face twisting in absolute rage. “WHERE IS HE?”
Recoiling, my hands go up protectively in front of my face. “I don’t know what you’re talking about,” I whisper, my voice cracking.
“Journey, you stupid bitch!”
Journey?
My mind races, tripping over itself as I connect the dots. What does he have to do with— And then it all clicks together.
Journey is Odin’s most notorious Playboy. He has been for as long as I’ve known him. Everyone in town knows his reputation, and this lunatic must be one of his... conquests.
My stomach drops.
I open my mouth to tell her I don’t know when the distant rumble of a motorcycle closing the distance cuts through the silent room. Both our heads turn toward the sound as it gets louder.
“Right on time,” the crazy woman says, and the cryptic edge in her voice sends ice flooding through my veins.
A heartbeat later, the growl of Journey’s bike at the curb dies. He’s here. Panic wraps around me. This crazy bitch has been lying in wait to do what? Shoot him? Shoot me? Kill us both?
Oh god.
I crane my head at the sound of Journey’s boots pounding up the stairs. I want to scream at him to stop, to not come in here, but my voice is trapped somewhere between my chest and my throat.
“Baby, why did you leave without—” The question dies on his lips when the door swings open behind me.
The playful chastising drains from his face and his stormy gray eyes sweep the scene in a fraction of a second.
Me.
The woman.
The gun.
His jaw turns to granite.
“Amy,” he says, but it comes out more like a question, like he can’t believe what he just walked into.
His eyes dart to me again, scanning me from head to toe for injury. Satisfied that I’m still in one piece, they swing back to the woman—Amy—with a look that could kill.
“Put the gun down, Amy.”
Amy’s bloodshot eyes fill with fresh tears, but the gun doesn’t move. If anything, her grip tightens. “You don’t get to tell me what to do anymore.”
Journey raises both hands slowly, palms out, mirroring what I’d done moments ago. “Nobody’s telling you anything. I’m asking.” His voice is controlled, even, but I can see the vein pulsing in the side of his neck. “Just put it down, and we’ll talk.”
“Talk?” She laughs, but there’s no humor in it. It’s a brittle and broken sound that makes the hair on my arms stand up. “You want to talk now? You wouldn’t even look at me before! You fucked me in a bathroom and said thanks!” Her voice cracks on the last word, and a sob rips from her chest.
Oh God.
Journey takes a slow step forward, positioning himself between me and the barrel of the gun. His back is to me now, broad and solid, blocking my view of Amy’s face. “June,” he says, his voice low and calm, not taking his eyes off Amy. “Move to the corner.”
I don’t argue. My legs are shaking so badly I can barely get them to cooperate, but I manage to shuffle sideways until my back hits the wall in the far corner of the apartment. I press myself into it, making myself as small as possible.
“There you go,” Journey says to Amy, his hands still raised. “See? It’s just you and me now.” He takes another slow step toward her. “She doesn’t mean anything to me.”
The words are like a punch to my gut. I know—I know—he’s lying. I know he’s saying it to get that gun out of her hand, but hearing him say those words out loud, so easily, so convincingly? I can’t help but question if there’s some truth to it.
“She’s nobody,” Journey continues, his voice dropping into that rough, persuasive register that I imagine has talked more than a few women into his bed.
“You’re the one I want, Amy. You know that.
I was an asshole, I know I was. Put the gun down, and we’ll go somewhere.
Just the two of us. We’ll figure this out. ”
Amy’s chin wobbles. The gun wavers slightly, dipping an inch. “You’re lying.”
“I’m not.” He takes another step, giving me a clear view of the crazed look in her eyes. “Come on, baby. You and me. That’s all I want.”
For a split second, I think it’s working. Her arm starts to lower, the tension in her shoulders releasing like air from a balloon. Then her eyes snap to me over Journey’s shoulder. Whatever she sees in my face sends her right back over the edge.
“LIAR!” she screams, and the gun swings past Journey, the barrel aimed directly at my head.
Time comes to a crashing halt. In slow motion, I see her finger tighten on the trigger, and at the same time, I hear the explosion.
I don’t feel the bullet, but the wall beside my head erupts in a shower of drywall and plaster. Chunks of white debris pepper my face and hair as the sound deafens me, ringing through my skull like a bell struck by a hammer.
Like a switch being flipped, my survival instincts kick in and I drop like a sack of potatoes, curling into a ball with my arms wrapped over my head. My cheek stings where something sharp sliced across the skin, and I can feel warm wetness trickling down toward my jaw.
Through the ringing in my ears, I hear a crash. A scream. The sickening sound of a body hitting the floor.
I peek through the cage of my arms and see Journey on top of Amy, his massive body pinning her to the ground.
Her arm is stretched out to the side, the gun still in her grip, and Journey’s hand clamps around her wrist so hard her fingers splay open.
The gun skids across the floor, spinning to a stop against the baseboard.
Amy is screaming, thrashing, clawing at him with her free hand, but Journey doesn’t budge. His face is a mask of fury as he draws back his fist and lets it fly, connecting with her jaw. Her head snaps to the side, and her body goes limp.
Journey is breathing hard, his shoulders rising and falling as he stares down at Amy’s unconscious body. After a long beat, he pushes himself up off the floor and kicks the gun further away before turning to me.
“June.” His voice is wrecked. “Baby, look at me.”
I can’t move. I’m frozen with my arms still locked around my head, my body shakes and my teeth chatter uncontrollably.
Someone just took a shot at me. No, not someone, one of Journey’s women. That crazed lunatic wanted to kill me.
“June!” Hands cup my face, thumbs brushing the debris from my cheeks. The sting on my left cheek flares under his touch, and I flinch. “Fuck. You’re bleeding.”
I blink, trying to bring him into focus. His stormy gray eyes are wild, panicked, searching mine for something.
“Are you hurt anywhere else? Talk to me, baby.”
I open my mouth, but nothing comes out. My lips move, but there’s no sound.
All of this craziness—the last few days. First the stalker. Then the break-in. The messages. The cartel. Being chased on the highway. Journey disappearing into the night with guns and no explanation, and now this. It’s too much.
Shaking my head, the thought crashes through me like a wave, and everything goes numb.
I just… I can’t do this anymore.
I’m sitting in the back of an ambulance with my legs hanging over the edge, a thin emergency blanket draped around my shoulders that I don’t remember anyone putting there.
The paramedic, a woman with kind eyes and a soothing voice, just finished cleaning the cut on my cheek and applied a small butterfly bandage.
“It’s shallow,” she says, tilting my chin to examine her work. “Shouldn’t scar.”
I nod because that’s what you do when someone tells you that you’re fine. You nod. Even when you don’t feel fine. Even when you feel like you’re unraveling thread by thread and there’s nothing left to hold you together.
The apartment building is swarming with cops. Two cruisers are parked at the curb with their lights still spinning. I can see officers moving in and out of the entrance, and somewhere inside, I know Amy Morris is in handcuffs.
At least, I think she is. I don’t really remember much after Journey pulled me off the floor.
The crunch of gravel pulls my attention, and I look up to see Journey crossing the parking lot toward me.
There’s drywall dust on his boots, and a scratch on his forearm that he hasn’t bothered to clean.
His jaw is set in a hard line like he’s pissed at the world, but his eyes show the fear he’s trying to hide.
He stops in front of me, his hands hanging at his sides like he’s not sure if he should touch me. “Cops released your apartment,” he says, his voice rough. “But I think we should stay at my place tonight.”
I stare at the pavement between his boots.
“June?”
“I can’t do this anymore.” The words come out hollow, but I force myself to look up and immediately wish I hadn’t. The hurt that flashes across his face is raw, and it nearly breaks me. His brows pull together, and his throat bobs as he swallows.
“What do you mean?” he asks carefully.
“This.” I gesture weakly at everything. The ambulance.
The cops. The building. Him. “All of this. It’s only been a few days, and someone just tried to shoot me in the face.
” My voice cracks, and I press the heels of my hands against my eyes.
“I can’t—I can’t keep up, Journey. I feel like I’m drowning. ”
“Baby—”
“June!” Brooklyn’s voice cuts through the night, and I drop my hands to see her sprinting across the parking lot, her purple hair flying behind her.
She skids to a halt in front of the ambulance, her green eyes going wide when she sees the bandage on my cheek.
“Oh my God.” Her hands fly to my face, tilting my chin to get a better look.
“Are you okay? What happened? Stella called me and said someone—” She sucks in a breath. “Was it the stalker? Did he come back?”
“No,” I whisper. “It was something else.”
Brooklyn’s worried eyes dart between me and Journey, and I can see her piecing together what’s happening here. The distance between us, the look on my face, the devastation on his.
Her brows knit together as understanding dawns.
Journey steps forward, his voice tight. “June, don’t do this.”
My chin starts to tremble, and I press my lips together to stop it. “I’m sorry.”
“Sorry?” He shakes his head, dragging a hand over the scruff on his jaw. “You’re sorry? I just—” He stops himself, his chest rising and falling. When he speaks again, his voice is determined. “I’ll fix this. Whatever you need, I’ll fix it.”
The tears I’ve been fighting spill over, running hot down my cheeks and stinging the cut. “I just need some time. I need to breathe. I need to think. Everything is happening so fast.”
Brooklyn is looking between us with eyes the size of dinner plates.
I turn to her, wiping my face with the back of my hand. “Can I stay with you for a little while?”
Brooklyn’s mouth opens. Then closes. She blinks, glances at Journey, then back at me. “I—yeah.” She clears her throat. “Yeah, of course. You know you can.”
“June.” Journey growls, his voice laced with pain, stripping me down to nothing. “Please, baby. Don’t do this.”
A sob catches in my throat, and I have to look away because if I keep looking at the storm brewing in his eyes, I’ll break.
“I’m sorry,” I whisper again, sliding off the back of the ambulance. My legs feel like jelly as I step past him. Brooklyn catches my arm, steadying me.
“Let’s get you out of here,” Brooklyn murmurs, wrapping her arm around my shoulders.
I nod, letting her guide me toward her car that’s parked at the curb behind the cruisers.
We’re almost there when something pulls at me. A thread. A tug deep in my chest that I couldn’t ignore even if I wanted to.
I look over my shoulder.
Hands clenched into fists as his sides, Journey’s pleading eyes are glued to my retreat.
Our eyes connect, and all the noise and chaos around us fade into nothingness. It’s just him and me and the gaping wound between us.
I’m sorry.
Breaking both our hearts, I turn around, climb into Brooklyn’s car, and close the door.