Chapter 24
Despite Caitlin’s apparent desire to tell every embarrassing thing that's ever happened to me during my tenure at Shady Lake, the evening is really fun.
But when we walk through the door of my house, instead of greeting us with his usual prancing, tippy tappy toes, and a big doggy grin, Mooch gets between me and the door as quickly as possible and growls at something outside.
Mack slams the door shut and I gasp. “What’s wrong?”
“I don't know but I'm going to go check it out.”
Mack pulls a black pistol out of the back of his waistband, one I didn't know he had.
“Have you had that in here the whole time?” I ask with wide eyes.
“Yep.”
That's all the answer I get before he slips out the door into the darkness.
I'm left staring at Mooch, who's still leaning against my knees and staring at the front door. I don't know what to do in this situation. What happens if Mack never comes back? How long do I wait until I call the cops? Or should I just call Dylan?
I'm faced with the same dilemma I have with Alex's situation. Do I not call and hope he’ll be okay? Or do I risk getting him in trouble to keep him safe?
I know that Mack is a legitimate businessman, that his motorcycle club is completely innocent and they don't do anything bad, except for maybe peeling out their bikes once in awhile.
But I don't know for sure if his gun is legal.
I mean I assume it is--he used to be military police and I don't think he'd mess around with that.
Thankfully, I don't have long to wait. I hear Mack yell something outside, and Mooch starts to growl. Then there's a sound like a scuffle, then nothing. My heart starts to pound. What if whoever's out there got him?
There's a knock on the door.
“Who is it?” I call, my voice sounding hoarse with panic.
“It’s me,” Mack says. “Could you open the door?”
I hurry to do as he asks. When I fling open the door, Mack has a man by the back of his shirt. I'd expected one of the Albanians. Though I recognize the guy, it's not one of them.
Edward Cubbins looks way more pathetic than he did the first time I met him at that Italian restaurant six months ago. His normally tidy hair is mussed, his button-down shirt is partially untucked, and there’s grass stains on his knees.
“He says he knows you,” Mack says. His eyes are like flint. “He says you're his girlfriend.”
I lift my chin. “Edward, you know you can't be doing this. I'm not your girlfriend. I was never your girlfriend. I told you the last time that if you came back here again I was going to file a restraining order. If I do that you'll probably lose your dental license.”
“This guy’s stalking you?” Mack says, giving Edward a little shake. “Who the fuck is he?”
I shake my head. “It’s not like that, really. He just comes by every few weeks and tries to talk me into dating him again.”
Mack raises his eyebrows. “Yeah, that’s called stalking, Gabs.”
“We went on a couple dates six months ago. He’s…had a hard time moving on.”
“Has he ever put his hands on you?” Mack asks.
“I would never hurt her,” Edward sniffles, snot dribbling down over his upper lip. “I love her.”
Mack just looks at me, waiting.
“No,” I say, and it’s the truth. “He’s never physically hurt me.”
I don’t mention the few times Edward’s screamed at me. This situation feels precarious, and Mack has a dangerous glint in his eye.
“Fine,” he says. “Leave, and never come back.”
“Gabby,” Edward whines. “You don’t want this. Gabby, come on, baby.”
I shake my head even as Mack’s shoulders roll back. There’s only so much I can do for a guy. If he’s set on being an idiot, I can't help him. Mack drops the back of Edward’s shirt and gets in his face.
“Here’s how this is going to work,” Mack says. “You don't come here. You don't call. You don't happen to show up where she is. If you do accidentally run into her somewhere, you turn the fuck around and go straight home.”
“Gabby--” Edward starts, turning his pleading eyes to me.
Mack grabs Edward’s face and turns it back to him. “You don't talk to her anymore. If you want to talk to someone, you talk to me. Every time you think of her, I want you to think of me and what I’ll do to you if you ever bother her again.”
“What--” Edward blubbers. “What will you do?”
I sigh. Despite being a dentist, Edward truly is an idiot.
“I'm going to have you dig a hole about six feet long, three feet wide, and six feet deep. Then I’m going to put you in that hole and fill in the dirt.”
Edward whimpers, but at least he doesn't look to me for help anymore.
Mack turns to me. “I'm going to walk him to his car, wherever that is. We’re going to go have a little chat on the way. He won’t be bothering you again.”
When Mack comes back fifteen minutes later, I’m in my pajamas, sitting on the couch with Mooch’s head in my lap, the TV on low. I’m eating a freezer-burnt ice cream sandwich.
I raise it when he comes in. “There’s another one in the freezer if you want, but it’s pretty gross.”
He comes and sits next to me with a sigh, then pets Mooch’s head. “Thank goodness that worked. I thought I was going to have to turn the hose on him.”
I huff a laugh. “He’s not a stray dog.”
“Isn’t he?”
“Did he make it to his car?” I ask, raising an eyebrow.
“It was touch and go there for a second, but I didn't even hit him.”
“Admirable restraint. I’ve wanted to hit him several times.”
“You should have hit him. With Goldie.” He leans over and takes a bite of my ice cream sandwich. “That is gross.”
I frown. “Listen, mister. Moving in without asking is one thing. But stealing my ice cream is where I draw the line on invading my personal space.”
He smiles and shakes his head. We sit and watch the commercial on TV for a few seconds. At least, I think it’s a commercial; it’s been on for awhile now, so maybe it switched to an infomercial without me noticing.
Mack sighs. “This night didn’t turn out how I wanted it to.”
I shrug. “I had very few expectations.”
“It was our first date.”
“Was it?” I cock my head and smile. “Are you sure?”
The way he’s looking at me is making me nervous. It’s like I’m back in middle school all over again and don’t know what to do with my hands. Has he always been sitting this close?
His eyes are brown--I know that. But now I see the little rim of nearly gold around his pupil and how there’s a ring of nearly black at the edge.
His eyes are like him, I realize. At first glance, you think you’ve figured out what they are--how handsome.
But somehow, impossibly, they’re even better than you imagined. The more you look, the better it gets.
"I get it, though," he says.
"What?"
"Not what he did or said--there's no excuse for that. Ever. But I understand the obsession. Now that I've found you, I never want to let you go." He gives a shrug and a smile. "Of course I would if you wanted me to. If you told me to. But I would hate each and every step I took away from you."
He's a fucking poet. A motorcycle riding, drop-dead gorgeous poet. And the funny thing is, I have no words to use to say in response to that.
I take a shaky inhale and exhale it in an accidental gust.
Mack smiles at me, his eyes half-lidded and lazy. “I feel the same way, Gabriella.”
Then he leans forward and kisses me. One hand goes to the back of my head, tilting my mouth oh-so-gently to just the perfect angle.
The other goes to my shoulder and slides down my bare arm in an excruciatingly slow exploration.
When his fingers reach my wrist, they draw a circle there, then slide back up, all the way to my neck.
Meanwhile, his mouth is making alchemy of its own.
I’ve been kissed before. Many times, by enough men that I thought I had the full measure of what a kiss could be. This is different. It’s as natural as an exhale, with the full pleasure of a really great roller-coaster. I’m safe and exhilarated, all at once.
His hand slides from my neck over the top of my chest. It knows where the boundaries are--it circles to my back and slides oh-so-slowly down my spine. It’s firm enough, delicious enough, to make me moan into his mouth.
And oh my stars, his mouth. It’s doing wicked, wicked things to mine. His tongue started out sweet, questioning. Then it moved like I’d told it all the answers, like he’s had a hundred years to focus on learning just exactly what I want.
In fact, he knows I want things I couldn't have even asked for--the scrape of his stubble against my chin, the sweep of his tongue along my lower lip. I usually hate it when men try stuff like that, but it works wonders when Mack does it, for some reason.
I’m drunk and flying, melting into him to get closer, to get more….
My hand reaches up and grabs ahold of his t-shirt as if I’m subconsciously scared he’s going to get up and walk away without finishing this kiss.
But he does--he winds me up then lets me gently unspool, bringing me back down to earth with a string of gentle kisses on my swollen lips, my jawline. He sighs, and it makes me shiver.
Mack finally draws back. His pupils are blown, his eyes half-lidded. I watch as he shivers, too.
Finally he says, “Shit, Gabriella.”
I smile. “Yeah.”
I grab his face and plant a kiss on his lips, then stand from the couch and head for my bedroom.
It probably would have been a super-cool exit if I hadn’t accidentally hip-checked the side table on the way out because I’m wobbly on my feet. But when I look back at Mack, he’s staring at me, not a hint of humor in his gaze.
“Goodnight, Gabriella,” he says.
“Goodnight.”