his T-shirt she’d grabbed one day and never given back.
She knocked lightly and he opened the door quickly, like he was expecting her.
“What’s wrong?” he demanded. He held his gun in his hand and she touched his wrist and pushed it so the gun faced the floor.
“Nothing.”
“Oh.” He stared at her. “You’re sure?”
“Never more sure,” she murmured. She took a step closer, stared up his body. Put her free hand out to trace the swirl of tattoos along his neck and he let her. Stood stock-still, frozen, watching her face.
Her hands traveled along his arms, starting from his shoulders and moving downward and then back up, the muscles bunching and flexing under her touch.
Still nothing from him but the stare. She really hoped he didn’t want to talk about this—about anything— because she did not come here for conversation tonight.
Finally, she stood on tiptoes, slid a hand around the back of his neck and brought her lips to his. She closed her eyes and melted against him, the heat of his body calling to her like a beacon.
It took her maybe ten seconds to realize he wasn’t kissing her back.
Gunner had tried to back away, but he’d found himself mesmerized by her touches, by the smooth expanse of tan skin that showed around the old white V-neck T-shirt of his she wore. When she wrapped her arms around his shoulders and kissed him, the instinct to pick her up and carry her to his bed and
God, she was sweet. He wanted to sink into her and not pull out for days. Weeks. Forfuckingever.
But none of that was in the cards.
He ripped his mouth away. She looked stunned. Stepped back, touched her swollen lips with her fingers. Stared at him like she didn’t recognize him.
Had she sensed something? Did she know?
He hoped not. There was so much more to his past than Avery or the others knew. Finding out he was Richard Powell’s son had only scratched the surface of a very tarnished past, one he’d wanted to stay buried.
“Sorry,” she whispered, backed away and he didn’t go after her, not even when she turned and ran. He stood like stone, steeling himself for what was coming next.
When he heard her race up the stairs and lock her door, he knew what he had to do. The rest of the crew would leave in a few hours. He lay on his bed for most of that time, listening. Waiting. When he heard the last of them leave, watched the cabs pull away for the airport, he knew he was nearly ready.
It was only then that he used the blade to lightly go over the tattoo already embedded in his skin. Recut and press the herbs into the welling blood to keep the charm active. Most would tell him he only had to rub the herbs, not do the cuts. But Josephine—
He’d keep that promise to her until the day he died. Could hear her chiding in his ear,
She would hate that he’d mourned her for so long that he’d left a string of broken hearts in his wake, trying to forget.
She’d be angry, but she’d understand, and that was the bitch of it all.
He muttered her name like a prayer. Remembered the most important words he’d ever learned.
He’d been lying for as long as he could remember.
The first thing he remembered was being woken in the middle of the night.
The bag he always kept packed was bigger now, held more sophisticated things, but a go bag was always the same, made the same feelings surface. There was a silence that wouldn’t go away. No matter what he did, no matter how many good things he accomplished, it would always be there.
His voice mail still blinked, the message from the private number as yet unplayed. He knew what it would say, who it was from. He’d already gotten a call the day after they’d returned from the island, the day after he’d killed his father.
The threat was so fucking real, and what was worse, he’d been waiting for it every single minute of every single day for more than ten years. Once he’d been on his father’s island again, he knew there was no going back.
He’d been caught on surveillance tape while there. His life would never be the same.
Now he picked up the phone and redialed the number he still knew by heart. All the messages that had been left for him daily had said exactly the same thing.
Drew Landon picked up on the second ring. “Cutting it close, James.”
“Under the wire’s always been my specialty.”
“You disappeared after you fucked up my job a second time,” Landon told him. “Imagine my disappointment.”
“What do you want?”
“Work off your debt. If you’re as good as you used to be, you’ll work maybe five years.”
So fucking reasonable. “And if I don’t?”
“I can send every criminal you ever helped after you. Ever family member of every trafficker you ever took down will have your picture. And pictures of your team members. The deal I’m proposing isn’t so bad now, is it?”
“Haven’t you done enough?”
“I haven’t even started. But I’m a man of my word. Your friends will be safe. I trust you’ve been making arrangements while you’ve been ignoring my messages. The next step would’ve been a visit to your shop.”
Why should he trust Landon now? Just because he didn’t have a choice was the only answer he could come up with. “You didn’t keep Josie safe.”
“I never promised that. But I had nothing to do with Josie’s death, James. If I did, don’t you think I’d admit it? I’m outright threatening your team—obviously, I’m far from terrified of you.”
Maybe Landon had never been, but now he should be. Gunner would make damned well and sure of that.
Not that it had ever been the same. Not for long, anyway.
He slung the go bag over his shoulder and grabbed the file folder that held the contracts for the sale of the tattoo shop and the other properties. Dare and company had a month to vacate, and he had a job to do. One he never should’ve tried to get away from.
He promised himself he’d never try to again.
Avery hadn’t wanted to leave her room, not after Gunner’s rejection hours before. He’d just pulled away and stared at her. She’d never forget the look on his face, although she couldn’t quite place it.
