She could still hear pounding footsteps in the stairwell. Going up or going down, she couldn’t tell. She had to get that key!
Using just her sweaty, trembling fingertips, Ashley took a shallow breath and focused on pulling the rest of her key out from under the door. Oh, no! Had the elevator just pinged? Was it fixed already? She was shaking so hard. Only the tiniest corner of her key showed now. She couldn’t risk taking a quick glance in either direction. Only getting that key!
At last! Thank God! The sweating skin of her index fingertip sealed to the tiny brass tip showing. She had it! Jumping up, she stabbed her key into the lock and the trusty deadbolt turned. Just in time. With her head about to explode with panic, Ashley burst into her apartment, and slammed herself inside. Almost. The darned door didn’t close!
Her gaze hit the tip of a big, black boot stuck in the doorjamb. “Stay out!” she screamed, as she slammed the door again. Then again. As hard as she could. She wouldn’t go easy!
Peewee was all fluffed up and shrieking his lungs out by then. She’d scared him. He’d spread his wings and was flapping like a windmill, no doubt stomping his clawed feet, too. Birds did that when they were threatened. They made themselves bigger, acted tougher and braver, when they were anything but. Like Ashley. She’d been living a lie, and now she’d die.
A voice. Out in her hall. Someone was growling. The killer! He’d found her! A wide, manly hand reached in through her door and—
BANG, BANG, BANG! went her door on that jerk’s arm! “Leave me alone!”
Peewee shrieked along with her. His raucous squawks drowned out everything. Even her.
That awful hand turned into a thick, leather-covered, muscular forearm. Then an elbow. The door opened wider with every inch her killer gained.
“Why are you doing this to me? Who are you?” she cried as this unknown monster forced his way into her apartment.
Peewee shrieked louder. Waking the dead. More feathers scattered. Ashley had no choice. Breathing hard, she stepped back, as with one hefty OOMPH! She let go and the invader was inside her home.
“D-d-don’t do this,” she begged, unable to tear her gaze from the hulking shadow of a man, dressed all in black, back-lit by the hall light. “Help! Someone—!”
That monster’s hand reached for her wall switch. Not her. And…
Click. There was light, and there was Tripp. Not—him. Oh, God. It’s Tripp.
Real concern panted Tripp’s beautiful face. He reached a hand for her to take. “Ashley, it’s me. Honey, don’t cry, it’s just me.”
Stuffing her key into her rear pocket, she fell into his outstretched arms like a walking puddle of sweat and fear and—yeah—PTSD. It was killing her! Trembling like a kite in a stiff wind, she nuzzled into his neck, needing every last bit of those drugging male pheromones pouring off his skin. Needing him.
“I thought… God, I thought… I’m scared that…” You’re going to think I’m insane!
“Shhhhh. Shush, honey, I’ve got you now. I’m here,” he murmured, his hot breath in her face the solid conviction of a man who would kill for her. “What’s making all that racket?”
“Peewee. It’s just Peewee. My poor little boy.” I scared him, too.
Hurriedly, she ran to the large cage by her window. Peewee sat with his beautiful, peach-colored feathers ruffled, his crest flared high and wide, and squawking his beak off. A dozen or more large flight feathers lay scattered on the floor. “My poor baby. Quiet, please,” she urged her sweet companion even as her heart pounded to be let out of her ribcage. She’d really made a fool of herself this time.
Reaching inside the cage door, Ashley stroked his crest, then under his outstretched wings until he calmed. “Sorry, little guy,” she told him as she checked his water and food bowls, then covered the cage with his blanket, as much to settle his nerves as to settle hers.
Tripp was standing behind her by then. He pulled her back against his wide, warm chest, his arms the steel protection she desperately needed. His warm breath was so darned welcome on her sweaty cheek.
“You’re soaking wet,” he murmured. “Sorry I deserted you. Really thought I’d be back sooner. Thought you’d wait for me.”
“No, I… I… I…” Ashley didn’t know what she meant to say, only knew he was there now. She was safe, and no one could hurt her. If anyone had even been following her to begin with. She still wasn’t sure. That was the trouble with panic attacks. They blinded a person, and logic was the first thing they stole. Common sense didn’t hang around much longer. But fear surely did. If her heart pounded any louder, the noise it was making would scare the whole world.
“You’re here,” Ashley told Tripp, earnestly fighting her imagination as much as her panic. But still afraid to look at him and let him see her. “That’s what m-m-matters.”
Turning her around, he pressed her body flat against his, one broad hand between her shoulder blades, the other tangled in her wet hair, cupping her head. Holding her up and holding her tight. Keeping her from falling apart.
“You… you probably think… I mean…” Man, what do I mean? This was getting old. She didn’t want Tripp to think she was crazy, too much drama, or too much trouble. Because she was. Heck, if PTSD didn’t kill her, her wild imagination would.
Without saying another word, he stooped low and slipped one arm under her knees, then picked her up and walked to her couch. Down he went with her on his lap, folded inside both his arms, the top of her head under his chin. He reached under his arm and withdrew a really big gun, which didn’t surprise her at all. If anything, that gunmetal gray weapon he’d just set on her end table brought a sure sense of
