24. June
24
JUNE
T here is something about waking up in Anderson’s arms that sets my heart at ease. Warm sunlight pokes at the edges of the dark gray curtain, beaming a laser onto his naked hip. When I look down, I realize I’ve stolen nearly all the blankets. That’s his fault. If he hadn’t carried me to the tree, I might have let him have some blanket.
If he hadn’t carried me to the tree, though, I wouldn’t have had the most amazing orgasm of my life.
Seriously, that was incredible. He said it last night—that added touch of pain spiced things up. It felt as though my whole body was coming, from the bottom of my feet up to the ends of my hair. Even my fingernails had their own orgasms. I have never experienced anything like it.
I want to again. And again, and again …
Oh, boy, he might have made an addict out of me. Well, if I keep jumping on his dick, he has only himself to blame. But for now, cuddles.
I bury my face against his chest, lingering in the shallow valley between his square pecs. He’s on his side, so that makes it easier. This close to him, I get a hint of his natural scent and let it permeate my lungs. If I had only one thing to smell for the rest of my life, I’d pray it was this.
And not a penitentiary cell at a women’s correctional facility.
I know we said we were putting a pin in all of that, and last night, that flimsy idea held out long enough for crazy good sex, but mornings are always filled with dread, aren’t they? The dread of what the day might bring…I try to squash my anxiety and worries by pretending they don’t exist. That it’s just us here. That there isn’t a world outside the cabin’s walls. I take several deep breaths of Anderson and can almost fool myself into believing it. I have this weird urge to roll around on him, so I smell like him, too. But when his arm tightens on my back, I know he’s waking up, so I don’t have much time for that.
Anderson kisses the top of my head and lets out a muffled, “Good morning,” that sounds more like, “G’emorn.”
“Good morning,” I purr up at him, wondering what other surprises he has in store for me.
But then his stomach snarls like a mangy beast. It’s so loud that he starts laughing. “Well, that is not how I intended to start the day.”
“Normally, it’s me who has the growly stomach. Are you okay?”
“Fine, I think. But last night burned a lot of calories, and my body is telling me all about it. I am famished.”
I frowned. “Is there a diner or something nearby?”
“Uh, the Airbnb people said they’d stock the fridge for us, so hopefully, there is something in there.”
I got an idea. “You stay here, and I will bring you breakfast in bed.”
He smiles. “June, you don’t have to do that. I am capable of?—"
“I know you are. But baby, you’ve been cooking most of our meals for a couple of months now. Let me cook for you.”
His smile grew as he put his hands behind his head. “Alright then. Don’t think anyone has ever brought me breakfast in bed, so I am looking forward to this.”
I beam at him. “Then you keep your pretty little ass right there, and I will hop to it.” I jump out of bed.
He laughs. “If either of us has a pretty little ass, it’s you.”
I drag my pajama bottoms up a bit slower than normal to give him a show. “Can’t we both have them? You have a phenomenal butt.”
“Well, thank you. I work hard on my ass—it’s the engine that powers fucking.”
“Then you’ve done spectacular work, sir, because last night … ” I shudder thinking about it, and blood rushes to my cheeks. “I better go get that breakfast started?—"
“No way. What about last night?”
I lick my lips and take a fortifying breath. “Best. Ever. And I am going because if I don’t go now, I am jumping you.”
“No objections here?—"
“Nope, breakfast!” I announce as I flee the room. If he’s going to give me anything like last night, he will need his strength.
I putter around the kitchen, looking for ingredients. Thankfully, the owners actually did stock it for us. Breakfast, lunch, and dinner ingredients. Color me impressed.
I dig up a buttermilk pancake recipe on my phone because, to my shock, they included buttermilk in their grocery haul. I hope whoever owns this place has a spot in the Florida Keys or Hawaii because I’d like to rent from them again, and I am craving the tropics after all of this cold. Not that I minded it much last night.
I crack an egg into the bowl and just as I start to stir, someone knocks on the front door, and I almost whack the bowl off the counter in surprise. Did that really just happen? I look up and see a shadow at the door. It’s wooden with a frosted glass pine tree in the middle of it, so I can’t see who is there, but they’re big.
Anderson pops out of the bedroom with his lounge pants on, frowning with his eyes on the door. “The fuck?”
“Who knows we’re here?”
“Just the owners. Did you tell anyone?—"
“Of course not. You?”
He shakes his head as he walks to the door.
But I don’t want an intrusion on our perfect escape. If he opens that door, the illusion of freedom is ruined. I hiss, “Don’t open it! They could be dangerous, and there’s no one out here to go to for help.”
“It’s probably just the owner. Maybe they forgot something.” But all the same, he grabs a fireplace poker on his way. He tucks it behind his back as he cracks open the door. “You?”
Fuck. It ’ s someone we know.
He sets the poker aside, so at least I know they’re not dangerous. But when Anderson opens the door wider, I see I am dead wrong.
Moss darkens our doorstep. Such a short, insignificant word to describe such a hulking, substantial man. He’s white, and I’d guess of Russian descent, but I don’t know. Sometimes when he speaks, his accent is Russian, sometimes it’s Italian, sometimes it’s something else. I’m not sure if it’s an affectation or if that’s truly how he talks. Maybe it’s so he can be an international man of mystery. I’d never ask.
The man scares the panties off me.
He’s huge. Not just tall, but actually huge. Somewhere near six and a half feet with the biggest hands I have ever seen. Bald, but like today, he often wears a skull cap. His black overcoat could be a tent for me. He is heavy, both with muscle and a layer of fat, good for long winters or the energy needed for his work. Given that his work includes fighting, killing, and disposing of bodies, he needs all the energy he can get.
During Anderson’s convalescence, Moss came to the apartment with relative frequency, so it’s not like I’m not familiar with the man. He’s always been nothing but polite and kind to me. I have no personal reason to fear him. But there is something at his edges that sends a lick of frisson through me.
I know Anderson trusts the guy, and I trust Anderson, so I should extend that to Moss. But I can’t. Something about him puts me on edge. Maybe it’s knowing he’s killed countless people. For now, I try to comfort myself with the knowledge that, even though he’s a murderer, he’s on our side, and that might come in handy before the end of this.
But I also don’t want a living, breathing reminder of our troubles in our downtime.
“Come in,” Anderson says, and I can’t fault him for that, but I want to.
Moss smiles big and friendly at me. “Good morning, June.” Today, it’s Italian with a hint of Russian.
“Good morning, Moss. Coffee?”
“Erm, I do not intend to stay long, but thank you.” He takes off his skullcap like he’s a polite man from the fifties instead of a gangster from now. He’s done the same thing each time he came into our home. Moss is many things, and one of them is odd.
Anderson closes the door. “How did you find us? No one knows where we are.”
Moss smiles like Anderson is an adorable child who asked why mommy was kissing Santa Claus. “It is sweet that you think this is possible. But no. If you pay with credit card, you can be found.”
Anderson closes his eyes and sighs at himself. “Right. So, I know this isn’t a social call?—"
“Da,” Moss mutters with a heavy Russian accent. The guy is all over the place this morning.
“Have a seat?—"
But he shakes his head, a solemn look coming over him. Oh hell. What now?
“Okay, then out with it.”
“I wished to tell you in person this. According to my people inside the BPD, there may be a video of you attacking the haddock.”
I blink. “Wait, the haddock?”
For a moment, Anderson doesn’t speak. He looks like someone punched the air out of him. But then he finds his words, quiet though they may be. “Moss’ code word for Neil.”
I reel on Moss. “But you said there were no security cameras in my building!”
“The conversations have pointed to a neighbor with a phone who recorded it. But understand, these conversations were overheard, with bits missing. I know nothing for certain, including how much was potentially recorded.”
Anderson leans against the wall, then slumps down it until he’s on the floor. Then he just sits there, staring off into space.
If he had yelled, or cried, or cursed, I would be less worried. But I’ve never seen him like this. I don’t know what comes next. For any of us.