CHAPTER 7
Carla
I quit my job. It wasn’t worth it to be a sitting duck for Randall.
And I’m telling myself that I’m just taking a vacation at Timothy’s place.
I know I’m hiding out, but I can’t face going back to an empty apartment.
Not when the sex is this good. And if I’m really being honest with myself, I’m falling for Timothy. Hard.
He’s humming. Making lunch like this is normal, like I haven't upended his life. He catches me watching and grins. My heart flutters like a school girl. I'm sitting at his kitchen table thinking about how much I want to keep this feeling going.
Keep him.
Which is insane. We've known each other for such a short time. This should feel too fast. Too reckless. But it doesn't. It feels right.
"You're staring at me," he says continuing to make the sandwiches.
"You're humming."
"So?"
"Rangers don't hum."
He glances back, grinning. "This one does. Problem?"
"Weird."
"You're weird." He brings the sandwiches over and sets one in front of me. "Turkey and swiss. Best I can do."
"It's perfect."
We eat in silence for a few minutes.
"What did you want to be?" he asks suddenly. "Before the Marines. Before everything. What did you dream about?"
The question catches me off guard. No one's asked me that in years.
"I wanted to be a teacher," I say. "Elementary school. Second or third grade. I liked the idea of helping kids learn. Making a difference."
"What stopped you?"
"I joined the Marines instead. Seemed like a better option at the time. More practical. Better benefits." I shrug. "And I was good at it. The structure. The discipline. It made sense."
"You miss it?"
"Sometimes. Not the deployments. Not the combat. But the sense of purpose. Knowing exactly what I was supposed to do and how to do it." I take a bite of sandwich. "Civilian life is harder. More choices. Less structure."
"Yeah. I know what you mean."
"Do you miss it? The Army?"
"Parts of it. The brotherhood. The mission. Knowing my team had my back no matter what." He's quiet for a moment. "But I don't miss the politics. The bureaucracy. The feeling that you're expendable no matter how much you give."
"Is that why you got out?"
"That's part of it. The leg was the excuse. But I think I was ready to go anyway. Fifteen years is a long time. I'd seen enough. Done enough." He looks at me. "What about you? Why'd you really get out?"
I set my sandwich down. "Randall."
"I figured."
"Staying in meant staying with him. Or at least staying on the same base. Seeing him every day. Having people choose sides. I just wanted out. Wanted to disappear."
"And you did."
"For eight months. Until he found me."
"He's not going to find you again. Not here."
I want to believe him. But I've learned not to trust hope.
"He always finds me," I say. "That's what he does. He's patient. Methodical. He'll wait as long as it takes."
"Then we'll be ready when he comes."
I look at him, at the determination in his eyes, and something in me loosens. Just a little.
"Why aren't you afraid of him?" I ask.
"I am. But not for me. For you."
"That's not the same thing."
"No. It's not." He reaches across the table and takes my hand. "I've been in worse situations. Faced worse enemies. I can handle guys like Randall."
We finish eating, and then Timothy insists on doing the dishes. I try to help, but he shoos me away.
"Go relax," he says. "Read a book. Watch TV. Take a nap. Whatever you want."
"I don't know how to relax anymore."
"Then it's time you learned."
I settle on the couch with one of the library books I brought over.
Some thriller I picked up weeks ago and never got around to reading.
But I can't focus on the words. My mind keeps drifting to Timothy.
To the way he looks at me. The way he touches me.
The way he makes me feel like I'm worth protecting.
I haven't felt that way in a long time.
With Randall, I always felt like I was the problem. Like if I just tried harder, behaved better, said the right things, he'd stop hitting me. Stop hurting me. Stop making me feel like I was worthless.
Timothy finishes the dishes and comes over to the couch, sitting next to me. Close. Our thighs touching.
"What are you reading?" he asks.
"I have no idea. Can't focus."
"Why not?"
"You."
He grins. "I'm distracting?"
"Very."
"Good." He takes the book from my hands and sets it on the coffee table. Then he pulls me onto his lap, and I go willingly. "I like being a distraction."
"I noticed."
He kisses me, slow and deep, and I melt into him. His hands slide under my shirt, rough and sure, and I arch into his touch. His hands are everywhere, and I'm tugging at his shirt, desperate to feel his skin.
"Bedroom?" he asks.
"Too far."
He laughs against my mouth, and I feel it everywhere. "Couch it is."
We're pulling at clothes—his shirt catching on his watch, my jeans stubborn over my hips. He's kissing my neck, my collarbone, making it harder to focus. I'm fumbling with his belt when he finally gets it undone himself.
"Let me," he says, and strips my jeans off in one motion.
Then his weight is settling over me on the couch, skin against skin, and I can't breathe for a second. Not from fear. From want.
"You still with me?" he asks, brushing hair from my face.
"Yeah." I pull him down for a kiss. "Don't stop."
He doesn't. His mouth moves down my throat, across my collarbone, lower. When he reaches my breasts, I arch into him. He's taking his time, learning what makes me gasp, what makes my fingers dig into his shoulders.
"Timothy—"
"Shh. Let me."
His mouth trails lower, kissing down my ribs, my stomach. When he settles between my thighs, I tense.
He pauses, looking up at me. "This okay?"
Randall never did this. Said it was beneath him. Degrading.
But Timothy's watching me like I'm something precious. Like this is a privilege, not a chore.
"Yeah," I breathe. "Okay."
The first touch of his tongue makes me gasp. The second makes my hips lift off the couch. He pins me down with one arm across my stomach, strong and sure, and I'm completely at his mercy.
He's not tentative. He's thorough. Relentless. Learning what makes me whimper, what makes me curse, what makes my thighs shake. When I thread my fingers through his hair, he groans against me, and the vibration sends sensation sparking up my spine.
"Timothy, I can't—I'm going to—"
"That's the idea." His voice is rough, muffled. "Let go."
When I come, it's like a wave crashing over me. I'm saying his name—gasping it, sobbing it—and he doesn't stop until I'm boneless and trembling.
He kisses his way back up my body, and when his mouth finds mine, I can taste myself. Should be strange. Isn't.
"Your turn," I manage. I push at his chest until he lets me roll him onto his back. He's hard against my hip, and when I wrap my hand around him, he hisses through his teeth.
"Carla—"
"Shh. Let me."
I take my time exploring him. The sounds he makes—low groans, sharp intakes of breath, my name like a prayer—are intoxicating. I'm learning what makes him curse, what makes his hips buck, what makes his hands fist in my hair.
When his breathing gets ragged, when I can feel him getting close, he pulls me up.
"Condom," he grits out, reaching for his jeans on the floor. "Need to be inside you."
He fumbles with the wrapper—hands shaking slightly—and I help him, steadying his hands with mine. When he rolls it on, his eyes lock with mine.
"Come here."
I settle over him, letting him guide himself to my entrance. When I sink down, we both groan. He fills me completely, and I have to pause, adjusting.
"Okay?" he asks, hands tight on my hips.
"Yeah. Just—give me a second."
He's patient, letting me set the pace. When I start to move, his head falls back against the couch.
"God, Carla—"
I ride him slowly at first, then faster, chasing the building pressure. His hands are everywhere—my hips, my breasts, tangling in my hair. When he sits up and pulls me against his chest, the angle changes and I cry out.
"That's it," he murmurs against my neck. "Take what you need."
When my rhythm falters, he takes over, thrusting up into me hard and deliberate. I'm clinging to his shoulders, biting back sounds I didn't know I could make.
"Let me hear you," he says. "Want to hear you."
So I do. I stop holding back, and when I come apart this time, I'm not quiet about it. He follows seconds later, my name rough on his lips, his arms locked around me like he'll never let go.
We stay like that for a long moment catching our breath.
Eventually, he eases me off him and deals with the condom. When he comes back, he pulls the blanket from the back of the couch and settles next to me, tucking me against his chest.
"You okay?" he asks.
"Better than okay."
His hand strokes down my spine, slow and soothing. "Good."
My eyes are getting heavy.
"Carla?"
"Mm?"
"That was—" He pauses. "You're incredible."
I smile against his chest. "So are you."
Eventually, I drift off. When I wake, it's dark outside, and Timothy is on the phone in the kitchen.
I sit up, pulling the blanket around me, and listen.
"Yeah. I understand," he's saying. "Thanks for the heads-up. I owe you."
He hangs up and comes back to the couch.
"What was that?" I ask.
His face is grim. "That was my buddy Jonah. I asked him to keep an eye on your car. Someone vandalized it."
"What?" I sit bolt upright.
"Broke your windshield and spray-painted your doors."
"What did they write?"
He hesitates. "You're mine. Always."
I want to kick the shit out of him. But I know Randall did it to draw me out. He hasn’t seen me at the diner or out of the apartment complex. It was just a matter of time before he found out what apartment I lived in and paid me a visit. "He's getting closer."
"We're going to end this. Soon."
"How?"
"I don't know yet. But we will." He kisses the top of my head. "I promise."
I want to believe him. I need to believe him.
Because if I don't, I'm going to fall apart.
And I've spent too long putting myself back together to let Randall break me again.