It’s him.
He’s broad and muscular, but his height was one of the first things I noticed. He was easily one of the tallest guys there, though in his distressed jeans and combat boots, he fit in, just another guy at the range.
Only he isn’t.
His beard is thick and heavy and virile. I’m not one for facial hair, but his beard, cut fairly close to his strong jawline, doesn’t not appeal to me…
I can’t explain the pull I have to him.
The sensation isn’t a good thing, and definitely not safe. No, he could be dangerous.
Body tightening, I ready to confront him but hesitate. Am I really going to do this?
I’m no wilting flower and will speak up when needed, though I try not to get in people’s faces. Yet I can’t let this go. I’m tired of rigging my front door with my hair to alert me to intruders and always looking over my shoulder.
This guy knew my name.
The police say I’m safe, politely skirting around calling me paranoid, and yet I can’t shake the feeling things aren’t over. Something more is out there.
No, he’s out there, and I wouldn’t be surprised if one day he shows up at my door, looking to finish what he started.
I sweep a hand behind my back and check that my gun is safely tucked in my waistband. It’s risky to do this here of all places, but ironically safer than anywhere else.
The guys inside the shooting range know me. I wouldn’t call us friends, but I’ve been coming here for months, trained with them, and got my certification here. And most importantly, without a doubt, if I get into trouble with this guy and yell, the guys will barrel out that door to help me. I know this because only a month ago, I nearly got my ass banned from the range.
It was reckless. I knew better but pointed my gun at an asshole who hit on me. Fletch, the owner, was on the floor when it happened. He yelled cease fire, told me to drop the gun and leave. I should’ve been banned for life not just that day, but instead he had my back. That’s why even though I wanted to, I didn’t do the same to this stranger earlier today.
Now we’re outside. Things are different.
The man is almost to his car when I stop my wandering thoughts and focus on his broad, retreating back.
That bastard doesn’t know what’s coming, and I charge after him, balling my hands at my sides so tightly the plastic bottle buckles. It’s too late to stop and put it away. I’ve got the element of surprise because he hasn’t noticed me with his head down, staring at his phone.
I scurry to catch up and jump in front of him. “Hey. Who the hell are you?”
A scowl ghosts his brow as he tips his head up to face me. Leather and spice infiltrate my nostrils and weaken my knees. The same smell from inside the range when he’d approached me.
This is his scent.
A smoky pungent aroma, hinting at tobacco and tar, and mixing with a sweet, warm, woodsy spice. Clove. It reminds me of Christmas. My father. Nan. Zach.
I blink at the wet sting at the back of my eyes, battling the urge to look away. We’re a few feet apart and yet, I’m taken aback by all of him.
His face, this close, without the ear and eye protection. His dove-gray T-shirt does crazy things to his icy green gaze. The amber rings around his pupils burn and widen ever so slightly before he shutters all emotion.
A wave of confidence or ease washes over me, so much like how I feel only moments before pulling the trigger. My stance strong, grip firm, breathing steady. It’s the only time I feel in control since the shooting.
Boosted with bravado or more likely the pills, I step closer, relishing in the stir of calm languidly floating through my veins. “What do you want from me?”
He smiles—not really a genuine one but more satisfied or smug—as if he can see right through me, and I shiver.
“I don’t want anything from you.” Without the disturbance of firing guns, I hear him clearly.
His voice is deep and gravelly. A rumble. And in return, there’s a strange involuntary clench low in my core followed by a flash of recognition. Like I’ve felt this, or been with him, before.
But how? I’ve never seen this man before today.
Warmth coasts through me as I stand there, staring at him. I try a glare but doubt I’m pulling it off. The muscles in my arms and legs unspool and my knees unlock, loosening like jelly.
He studies me, eyes pensive and intense, and runs a large hand through his thick brown hair, longer and wavy on top. There’s this wild and wiry feel about him and his eyes… I want to say they’re fevered but that’s ludicrous and if so, I should back the fuck away from him.
Get out of here.
But I don’t want to and I won’t run. Talk about ludicrous.
I don’t know what to make of him; still I’m unafraid.
Why am I here? Oh yeah… I want answers and he isn’t saying anything. Nearly all of my questions are unanswered.
“How do you know my name?” I frown at the tone of my voice. It’s all wrong. Too relaxed. I blow out a breath and pull off the baseball cap. The cool air on my sweaty head is welcomed.
He reaches out a hand but stops, like he did earlier, inside, thinking better of it. “Are you okay?”
I shouldn’t have taken the Xanax. Wrong move. I’m no match for this guy, and the edges of my world soften.
“Did Randy send you? Are you working with him?” I slide a hand to my back and touch the gun. Not because I feel threatened, just because.
He watches my hand drop back at my side, and something flashes in those hauntingly green eyes of his as if he knows I’m armed and that I’m not afraid to use it. Good.
I don’t like guns. Hate them, but since the robbery…
I’ll do whatever it takes.
“I’m not working with Randy.” He slowly slips his phone into the front pocket of his jeans and raises both hands into the air, making sure I’m aware that he’s unarmed. “But you could say that’s why I’m here.”
Something large and sharp lodges in my throat. I hadn’t expected his answer or for him to admit to anything to do with Randy. He clearly knows what I’m talking about, who Randy is. Now what?
“What the hell does that mean?” I don’t realize I’ve pulled out my gun until I follow the dip of his gaze to where the barrel presses into his stomach.
“Morgan, listen to me. I don’t work with Randy and don’t know where he is. I’m not here to hurt you. I only want to help.”
I scoff and open my mouth to call him a liar or something when a male voice hollers from the entrance to the range. “Hey, Morgan. You okay?”
Damn. Fletch. He cautiously walks toward us as his sharp gaze roams the two of us. He’s at least forty feet away, and I surreptitiously tuck my gun into the waistband behind my back.
“I’m fine.” Choppy laughter erupts from me as I nervously glance to the man beside me who is now forcing a grin at Fletch. “We’re fi-ine. Just chattin’.”
The stranger dips his head once, murmuring agreement, and Fletch pauses, narrowing his gaze as I wave him off, holding my breath until he nods.
“All right. I’m just inside if you need anything.” Fletch spins, giving us his back, and walks away.
My muscles slowly uncoil, though it’s getting harder to stay on point and focused. And minute by minute, my disinterest in confronting this man grows. So what if he knows about Randy and what happened? Too many people already do. That’s what happens when your face is splashed all over the media.