“You okay?” I asked, pushing back my wet hair and giving his cock a small squeeze. “Is this okay?”

John’s breath hitched. “It definitely is.”

“I want to make you come.”

“Okay. Soap up your hand,” he instructed.

I did, then stroked him experimentally, fingers firmer than before. “Like this?”

“Mind if I show you?”

“No.”

“Here.” His hand covered mind, gripping tighter, pulling a little harder. “That’s it. That feels damn good.”

Together we worked him toward release. He grew larger, skin hot and flushed by all the blood beneath. The feel of him in my hand was magnificent. And the way his whole body hardened, muscles tensing, lungs and heart pumping so fast. It was intoxicating. Touching John, getting him off, got me all worked up as well.

“Edie,” he bit out. “Fuck.”

Semen striped my belly, coated our combined hands. He shook, panting, face tipped up to heaven. Then his arms slipped around me, pulling me in tight. There wasn’t an inch of space between us. Honestly, it was a little tough to breathe. But there wouldn’t be a word of complaint from me.

“Thank you,” he said, the words muffled against my wet hair.

“Anytime. That was fun.”

I couldn’t hear him laugh, but his chest vibrated against mine. A minute later he said, “Tell me.”

“Hmm? Tell you what?”

His mouth moved to my neck, making everything low in my belly seize up in ecstasy. To be alone with him, skin to skin. Absolute bliss. Also, giving him pleasure turned me on.

“Say it again,” he said.

“Oh.” Duh. “I love you.”

And the slow smile that spread across his face, it was everything.

 

 

“I can’t get the zip up, could you . . .” I said, walking down the stairs. Still trying to wrestle the stupid thing on the back of my dress into submission. It must have caught on something. “John?”

Everything in the living room was eerie silence and shadows, still only the small lamp on the side table glowing. But this much I could see: John stood close to someone, another male. A horribly familiar one. Face covered in darkness, clothes hanging off his body. Also, the other person, he had something shiny in his hand pointed straight at my boyfriend. A gun.

“Baby, go back upstairs,” said John in a voice that was too calm.

I froze.

“Baby,” spat the stranger. “Since when do you call your sluts ‘baby’?”

Oh, shit. Dillon.

My brain crashed, not wanting to make sense of the scene. “What is this?”

“Go back up,” John repeated. “Wait for me in my room.”

“This isn’t even your real home,” said Dillon.

“Get upstairs!”

My whole body jolted at the tone of John’s voice, the volume. And this . . .

Shoving his gun under John’s chin, Dillon snarled, “She’s not going anywhere. Get your ass down here, bitch.”

I made my way down the rest of the stairs, one step at a time. Part of me was screaming in panic, making even putting one foot in front of the other a frantic challenge.

But another part of me was quiet, insulated from the fear. Truth was, I knew what was happening downstairs even before I saw the gunmetal glint in Dillon’s hand. Danger had a smell. A taste. I recognized it in an instant. It was all just as it had been. I was back at the Drop Stop all over again. Beer and blood. Cigarettes and lies.

Except some crazy part of me said that was a lie; that I had never escaped from the Drop Stop. All this time, we had always been here. There had just been me, and John, and a gun with bullets.

I stopped at the bottom of the steps, torn between getting to John’s side and getting away from the violence.

“Introduce me properly, little brother.”

“This doesn’t involve her.”

A fist flew, smashing into John’s face, once, twice, three times. Then fingers grabbed a handful of his hair, tugging hard. “I’m in charge. You’ll both do as you’re fucking told.”

John’s breath hitched in pain. “Dillon, let her go. Just let her go and I’ll do whatever the fuck you want. I’ll start selling again.”

“It’s too fucking late for that,” said his older brother, still pulling at his hair. “You little shit. This is all your fault, getting out of the business, leaving me on my own.”

“I know.”

“Get over here,” his brother said to me, waving the gun in my general direction.

It wasn’t fear that made my hands shake. It was anger. I walked toward him. “You’re the asshole who messed with his car and beat him up.”

Dillon chuckled, the sick bastard. “I like her. Too fat, but I bet she sucks cock real good. All hungry-like, right?”

John hissed in fury, blood dripping down his chin, onto the ground. My heart stuttered, hurting. The asshole was going to pay for that.

“What do you want, Dillon?” I asked, voice almost calm. “Why are you here?”

“Come to see my little brother.” He gave John a shake via the fistful of hair. God, I wanted to kill him. “We’ve got different business to attend to now. I need your money, all the cash you saved the last few years. I know you’ve fucking got it.”

“You can have it. But she walks out the door unharmed,” said John. “Now.”

“You’re not giving the fucking orders here. How many times do I have to tell you?”

“I won’t do shit for you so long as she’s here.” With the back of his hand, he wiped blood from his mouth.

“Jesus.”

“Now, Dillon!”

At this, the man flew into a rage, swinging the gun. It crashed into John’s already-battered face as he coldcocked his brother. Bone crunched; I could hear it. John fell to his knees.

“What have you done?” I dropped down at John’s side, trying to wipe away the blood, feel for a pulse. Trying to do something.

“Just returning the favor,” drawled Dillon. “He broke my nose, so I broke his.”

Curled up on the floor, John remained still. I gritted my teeth and tried to calm myself down, tried to find some sign of life. Slowly, his chest moved in and out. Yes. Thank God. And there stood Dillon, towering over us, all smiles. So damn happy with himself, the bastard. Brother or not, I’d kill him.