Pulse

Chapter 12

Dahlia

I scrunch the ends of my wet hair with a towel and look at myself in the foggy bathroom mirror. My cheeks are rosy, and despite my earlier nap, there are bags beneath my eyes. But, by far, the worst part of the image looking back at me is my hair. I rack my brain, trying to remember what I shoved in my bag last night before I left for Morgan’s. I know I packed a detangling comb. It must’ve fallen out of my cosmetics bag inside my backpack.

How was that just last night?

I take a step back and look at my reflection again.

Troy’s shirt, a soft black fabric that smells faintly of his cologne, hits me mid-thigh. My clothes from Morgan’s were soaked, thanks to a smashed water bottle buried in my stuff. Luckily, there was a stack of Troy’s clean T-shirts on the bathroom counter. Figuring he wouldn’t mind, I helped myself to one.

The feeling of his shirt against my naked skin is more erotic than it should be. Every time the material brushes against my nipples or swishes against my ass cheeks, a rush of energy shoots through me as if Troy was touching me himself.

A girl can freaking wish.

I dry my hair again and head into the bedroom to search for my comb. I come to a screeching halt when Troy appears in the doorway to the hall. Black sweatpants, no shirt—the man is a whole damn meal.

I’m not sure I’m strong enough for this.

He looks me up and down, taking his time as he gazes at the length of my body. I don’t mind. It affords me a moment to drink him in, too.

“Nice shirt,” he says, lifting his eyes from my tits to my face.

“Didn’t think you’d mind. Hope you don’t mind. It was this or I was going naked. All my clothes are soaked from an exploded water bottle.”

He rolls a suitcase into the room and places it by the closet. “Your stuff came. Grey dropped it off a little while ago.”

“Should we unpack or just assume this might be over tomorrow?”

Troy frowns. “I don’t think it’ll be over that fast. Stay positive but base it in reality.”

“Have you heard anything?”

“They’re tracing the IP address from the email and looking at security footage from your neighborhood. Ford has someone tailing Freddy, too.” His brows pull together. “What kind of name is that, anyway? Freddy. Did his mother hate him?”

I grin. “I hope whoever’s tailing him likes strip clubs because that’s where he spent the past couple of weeks of our relationship.” Or likely through our relationship, but I don’t really give a damn now.

“Did you know my first job at Landry Security, once I left Barrett’s team, was at a strip club?”

I laugh. “Are you serious?”

“Yeah. These two football players, Best and Miller from the Legends, came to town. They just won the big game and were in town to party with someone. Can’t remember who. Anyway, Sebastian and I were assigned to them for the weekend, and I saw more asses shaking, tits bouncing, and bills flying than I’ve ever seen for a continued stretch of time in my life.”

“I’m jealous. Not of the strip club, per se,” I say, adding the last bit in quickly. “But you guys have such exciting jobs. Office work isn’t fun.”

“But you have Snack Wednesdays.”

“Shut up.” I laugh, sitting on the edge of the bed. “I want to go into the field and work, even if it’s only for one job.”

“Not happening.”

“Love the opinion, but let’s remember you aren’t my boss.”

He lifts a brow. “Sure.”

“Don’t patronize me. You know I could talk Ford into letting me try it.”

“Until I threaten to quit. Then your cute little ass will be back behind your desk.”

I gasp.

He shakes his head. “Look, I don’t mean that like it sounds. I’m not one of those assholes that thinks a woman should be in the office or the kitchen. That’s bullshit. But I do think you, specifically, aren’t equipped to deal with shooters, home invasions, and men with knives. Do a few years of training and then come talk to me.”

I smile.

“But you’re still not going out there.”

“Troy!” I laugh again, pulling the blankets down. “Have you felt this mattress yet? It’s a freaking cloud.”

He presses his palms on the bed. “You shouldn’t have a hard time sleeping in here.”

“What about you?”

“I’ll take the couch.”

“Oh. Okay.”

I turn away from him, so he won’t see the disappointment on my face. It’s not like I expected him to fuck me or anything, but I did hope I wouldn’t be alone. I’ve kept it together all day, and I’m proud of myself for that. But the night? Nights hit differently after a good day. This has not generally been one of those.

“Are we stuck in this house the whole time we’re here?” I ask, slipping under the blankets and getting comfortable on the pillows.

“Got somewhere you want to go?”

I shrug. “I don’t know. I flipped through this booklet about the island while you took your marathon shower to avoid me earlier, and there’s this charming little village with a coffee shop and a bookstore not too far from here. I thought maybe we could explore it one day.”

He’s clearly bothered by this but doesn’t want an argument. “Maybe. Let’s see what happens.”

Good enough. “What do you usually do at night?”

“Depends where I am.”

“Right. Okay. What if you’re home?”

He drops to the floor and begins pumping out push-ups. I peer over the end of the bed to watch. His back muscles ripple with each movement, and I wonder why someone hasn’t videotaped this and sold it online as porn. Because this little show makes me as wet as anything.

Damn.

“What are you doing?” I ask, laughing.

“I didn’t get a workout in today.”

I snort. “I think you’ll be just fine missing one workout.”

He pushes his body up and down with what looks like very little effort.

“What if you’re home?” I ask again.

“If I’m home, I change clothes. I like to work out before I eat if I can help it. Grab a shower. Then I sit in the living room or bed and read a book or watch television.”

“What do you read?”

He groans, breathing harder as he bangs out a few more push-ups. Then he rocks back and sits on his knees. “What do I read?” He shrugs. “It depends. I like biographies. Fiction. I also really like those coffee table books on specific topics.”

“You’re so surprising.”

“What?” He smiles. “Did you think I didn’t read?”

“No. It’s just when I think you couldn’t possibly get any hotter, you find a way to throw more gas on the fire.”

His smile turns mischievous. “I’m hot, huh?”

“I think we’re beyond pretending like we aren’t attracted to each other.”

“Fair enough. What do you do at night?”

My cheeks flame, and I can’t wipe the smile off my face.

“What?” he asks, grinning. “Tell me.”

I try to answer him with a response that leaves out masturbating while imagining him doing dirty things to me as the last thing I do. But the amusement on his face, like he suspects the truth, keeps me from speaking.

“Doll …”

I wiggle deeper under the blankets. “I go to yoga or Pilates. Go home. Eat with Burt half the time.”

“Burt?”

“My neighbor. He’s in his midseventies, and we’re best neighbors, he says. He doesn’t have kids and isn’t married, and I feel bad for the guy. I don’t think he has a lot of extra cash, so I bring enough dinner home or cook enough for both of us most nights.”

Troy gets to his feet and stretches. “That’s really nice of you.”

“I don’t do it for an atta girl.”

“I didn’t say you did. But it’s still nice of you.” He sits on the edge of the bed. “What do you do after you eat?”

“Shower. Get my picture taken, apparently.”

His eyes darken.

“Then watch a cooking show or read a romance novel. Sometimes, I pretend I’m going to meal prep, and I make these specific menus that look amazing on paper. I’ve never once used them.”

He laughs.

“That’s it. I’m incredibly boring,” I say.

“Tell me more about your romance novels. Are they filthy? Pure smut? What kind of things are you into?”

My throat tightens as a flame is lit to my libido. Troy in sweats and no shirt is one thing. Troy in sweats, no shirt—sans push-ups—and wanting me to discuss smut is a whole different animal.

“It’s a little of everything,” I say, watching his reactions closely. I squeeze my thighs to help quell the ache building there. “Sometimes I go for the sweet, small-town boys. Other times, I’m into the billionaire bad boys.” I smirk. “I have moments where I want erotica and read it just for the sex.”

“I see.” He shifts his weight on the bed. “What’s the hottest thing you’ve ever read?”

“Ever?”

“Ever.”

I laugh. “There’s no way to pick just one. They’re all so different.” I hold his gaze. “Now, if you’re asking me what I think is hot in real life, that’s a different story.”

“That’s what I’m asking.”

His tone is low and gravelly, scraping over my flesh. I shiver beneath the blankets and wonder how far I can push this conversation … and if I should. He’s the one who put the brakes on earlier. He’s made it clear that we need boundaries—and he’s not wrong. But this feels so natural. It feels so damn good. He has to know he’s throwing fuel on the fire.

I glance at him and find him smirking.

Fine. I’ll toss a match on your gasoline.

“I don’t mind a little choking,” I say, smirking back at him. “A little spanking. I think it’s hot when the guy lets you know what they enjoy so you can please them and then have him tell you how good you are.”

Troy’s eyes blaze. He balls the blankets in his hands, squeezing them until his knuckles turn white.

“Now let me ask you something,” I say. “What’s the difference between this conversation and kissing me? I’m curious.”

“This is just a conversation. But if I kiss you, that’s different. I’ll want to do it again. And you might get the impression that I’m the kind of guy that a girl like you could have a real relationship with. That assumption will cause problems.”

“Because you’re not that kind of guy?”

“No. I’m not.”

“Why?”

He falls onto his back and looks at the ceiling. “I’m fucked up.”

“Aren’t we all?”

“I mean it.”

“So let’s say you’re right. You’re fucked up. Does that make you unqualified to be happy?”

He doesn’t answer me.

“We’re all fucked up in one way or the other, Troy.”

“I’m thirty-seven. You’re twenty … six?”

“Close enough.”

He sighs, rolling onto his side to face me. “You have your whole life ahead of you. You can get married. Have kids. Be the mother that your mother was to you.”

“And you can’t do those things?”

“No.”

His answer is without hesitation—straightforward and simple. It hurts my heart. Why does he think he’s bound to be alone?

“I think you sell yourself short,” I say.

“I think you don’t really know me.”

“I think that might be true. It’s sad that I have to trust you with my life, and you can’t trust me enough to let me know who you really are.”

Silence falls in the room.

I move my leg away from him. “What do you think, hypothetically speaking because I’m not trying to kiss you right now, would happen if we kissed? I’m just curious about your thought process because it provides a little insight into your psyche.” I narrow my eyes, thinking. “Are you trying to convince me you’re unworthy so I won’t want to get to know you?”

“Maybe.”

“Well, first, I don’t believe that for a second. Second, you should know me better by now. The entire world thinks my dad is a piece of shit, and until he shows me that himself, I believe he’s not. I believe in giving people the benefit of the doubt. And if you think that I won’t give you, of all people, that grace, then you’re ridiculous.”

“It’s not that simple.”

“Maybe not. But it’s a damn shame that you live your life alone when you have so much to offer someone.”

He studies me, and I let him. Maybe he’ll see I’m telling the truth.

Not that it matters. This conversation is more about me not thinking about people wanting to kill me than it is anything else. It’s a distraction. But I do wish that Troy would listen to me. I won’t hold my breath.

I yawn and snuggle into my pillows. He gets up and turns off the light.

“I’ll let you get some sleep,” he says.

But as soon as I’m about to close my eyes, my heart pounds. Hard. Shadows dance across the walls, and a cold sweat coats my back.

Suddenly, I remember every word of that email.

Run or die.

Don’t alert the authorities, or I’ll make the choice for you.

I can’t stop thinking about someone being in my house. About the nuance of those terrifying images of me out living my life while being watched. How long have they been watching me? How did I never notice?

They were in my bedroom … could they be in here, too?

I know it’s not likely. It may even be impossible. But it’s all raw and fresh in my mind and still very real, and I don’t want to be alone.

“Troy?” I ask, my voice wavering.

“Yeah?”

I take a deep breath, thankful for the shroud of darkness. “I’m not as brave as you think I am.”

He moves silently across the room and climbs into bed next to me. He doesn’t touch me or even come too close.

I smile all the same. “Thank you.”

My eyelids get heavy, and my breathing slows. Sleep welcomes me into its peacefulness, and I know it’s because of Troy’s presence. His warmth. His protection.

I’m safe with him.

“Dahlia?”

“Yeah?” I ask sleepily.

“I’m not as brave as you think I am either.”

Before I can answer him, I drift off into a land of dreams.