Stay With Me (Lazarus Rising Book 3)

by Cynthia Eden

  “This guy isn’t some lost dog! He’s not some broke tourist. He’s trouble.”

  Now her spine straightened. “I don’t think he is.”

  Blane gaped at her. Then he drove a hard hand through his blond hair.

  “I think he’s a man who has been through a lot. I think he’s someone who helped me when I really needed help.” She nodded. “And now I’m going to help him. If you won’t call the Miami PD, then I’ll just hire an investigator to help me.” She should have done that first. What was the use of having all her family’s money if she didn’t use it? If she didn’t—

  “Don’t hire a damn investigator,” Blane grumbled. “You know I’ll do whatever the hell you want. Don’t I always? Since we were kids, you had me wrapped around your little finger.” He marched closer to her. Blane’s hands closed around her shoulders. “I’ll check on him, but, seriously, don’t let him stay with you. If you feel sorry for the guy, if you think you owe him, then get him a room in town.”

  But Shelly shook her head. “It’s the holidays. You know all of the rooms are booked—”

  “I can find him a room. Hell, maybe I can even convince Sammy to let him use the apartment above the bar. Sammy doesn’t rent that place out to tourists, so we both know it’s empty.”

  Yes, but…

  I want John to stay with me.

  “I have to ask him some questions. Figure out what the hell is happening here.” Blane squeezed her shoulders. “And I don’t want you staying with some would-be psycho.”

  She winced. “He’s not, and don’t say things like that when he can hear you.”

  “He can’t hear me. He’s outside!” Blane let her go. But his glare didn’t lessen. “Tell me the guy won’t be staying with you tonight.”

  Shelly didn’t like to lie so she kept her mouth shut. She’d actually slept better last night than she had in ages. And the reason? As wild as it might sound, she’d felt safer because John was there. The guy was pretty much an indestructible soldier. How could she not feel safe with him close by? “The last year hasn’t been easy,” Shelly said, choosing her words carefully. “First my father and his heart attack. Then my brother…” She’d been the one to find Charles. The one to hold his hand and beg him to live. He’d still been alive when she burst into his home office. Still been struggling to speak even as blood had dripped from his mouth. He’d been stabbed, again and again. Defensive wounds had been all over his arms, and his chest—there had just been so much blood. He should have been safe. Should have been protected. His home was secure—he had a state of the art security system. But someone had gotten past his safeguards.

  A killer who’d never been caught.

  “I’m sorry about Charles. You know he was my friend.” Blane heaved out a hard breath. “Is that what this is about? You couldn’t save Charles but that fellow out there, you think that because he survived the shooting it’s some kind of sign or something?”

  “It’s a miracle he survived.”

  Blane shook his head. “No. I’ll get a local doc to examine him. I’m thinking the EMT was just wrong about his injuries. No miracle.”

  He didn’t understand. “You will call the Miami authorities, won’t you?”

  “Yes.”

  Some of the tension left her shoulders.

  “And you will watch your ass with him?” Blane pressed right back at her. “He’s a stranger, Shelly. You can’t trust him. And you damn well can’t keep the guy in your home.”

  ***

  Many hours later, John walked down Discovery’s small main street, far too aware of Shelly at his side. He’d stayed at the sheriff’s station, been grilled by Blane Gallows, been poked and prodded by an absolutely ancient local doctor. After the exam, the doctor had sworn that there was no way John could possibly have been shot the night before. After all, there were no signs of a recent injury on John’s body.

  “The sheriff doesn’t want me near you.” He stopped at the corner of the street, his gaze sweeping over the buildings. They were all nestled side by side, and bright, festive holiday lights decorated the exterior of the shops. Sunset was just sweeping over the mountains, but those lights were already shining brightly. Wreaths hung on the doors, and Christmas music played from nearby speakers. The snow had stopped falling, but a light coat of white dusted the town.

  “Blane is suspicious of you.” Shelly pulled her coat closer to her body. “He has cause, don’t you think?”

  She was shivering. He took off his coat—a coat she’d bought him—and wrapped it around her. Shelly had picked up far too many clothes for him, and it had made him uncomfortable when she paid for them. But he didn’t have any money. A man with no past—hell, he’d been so happy to escape that he hadn’t even thought about how he’d survive in the world. He’d been scraping by while he tracked down Shelly. Picking up odd jobs, but he’d need more. He’d need—

  “Thank you,” she gave him a quick smile as she seemed to sink into his coat.

  His heart warmed a bit. Her smile did strange things to him. The wind blew and a lock of her hair slid over her cheek. Without thinking, his hand lifted and he brushed her hair back. But then his fingers lingered against her cheek. They were so close. She smelled so good. She was real, not some dream, and he’d never wanted anything more.

  She didn’t back away. He heard her breath catch, and he felt her edge a bit closer to him. He wanted to slip into her mind. To see what she was thinking, to see if maybe, maybe she wanted him, too. If she wanted a kiss. Something so simple.

  John was sure he’d kissed women before. Sure he’d had lovers. But he didn’t remember them. And he wanted to know what a kiss with Shelly—he wanted to know what that would feel like.

  “I shouldn’t…” Her voice was quiet. Husky. Sexy.

  He started to back away from her.

  But Shelly’s hands rose. They pressed to his chest. “I shouldn’t want you this way. This much. It’s not quite normal, is it?”

  Now he laughed. The sound was too rough. “What do I know about normal?”

  “You’re a stranger, and I should be afraid. Blane’s right. I shouldn’t trust you.”

  As far as John was concerned, Blane could go screw himself.

  “But you touch me, and something happens.” Her voice stroked over his skin. “My whole body tightens. And I yearn. I need.”

  Was the woman trying to bring him to his knees? “I want to kiss you.”

  She swallowed. “I know.”

  And she still wasn’t backing away. The music was playing around them. Christmas lights were flickering behind her. The whole scene—it was so different from the life he’d known in that hell of a lab. It was like a dream.

  No, she was the dream.

  “I want to kiss you, too,” Shelly confessed.

  With those words, she sealed both of their fates.

  “What could a kiss hurt?” Shelly asked as she rose onto her toes. “Just a kiss.”

  His hand slid under her chin, and his head lowered toward her. His whole body was tight as he put a stranglehold on his control. His lips pressed to hers. A soft, light kiss. Gentle. Sweet.

  And then her lips parted. Her tongue slid against his lips.

  And his control cracked.

  Not just cracked—shattered.

  He pulled her closer. Held her tighter. His tongue thrust into her mouth. He tasted her and felt drunk. Desperate. She gave a little moan in the back of her throat, and the sound made him wilder. His cock shoved against the front of his jeans, fully erect and eager—just from her kiss. He was kissing her harder, deeper, and he didn’t want to stop. Desire had exploded within him, and he wanted so much more.

  He lifted her up because he needed to be closer. He turned, holding her easily, and he caged her against the bricks of a nearby building. His mouth didn’t leave hers. Her nails sank into his shoulders, and her body arched against him. They were on a street, people were around them, and he didn’t care. He had what he wanted, and he wa
sn’t going to let her go.

  One kiss.

  Yes, she’d sealed both their fates.

  He wanted—

  The whistle reached him. The fast, hard rush of air. The same sound that he’d heard on that damn mountain road. The whistle of wind that shouldn’t be there.

  A bullet. Coming for my Shelly.

  He jerked her to the side, shoving them both to the ground.

  “John! What—”

  The bullet sank into the bricks above them, sending chunks raining down. He was on top of Shelly, shielding her with his body, so nothing hit her.

  Another shot was fired. There was no crack of the gun deploying because the shooter was smart. Too fucking smart. This shot was closer, but it missed them, sinking into the bricks again.

  People were nearby on the street. A mother and son holding hands. John realized they could walk straight into the line of fire.

  “Stay down,” he told Shelly. “Down.” Then he ran for the mother and son, grabbing them even as the mother screamed.

  Another bullet whistled through the air, he could practically feel it—and it was coming for him. The shooter was aiming for him.

  This time, he was the target, not Shelly.

  He picked up the mother and her child, rushing them away from the open street and toward the side of the building even as he felt a burn across his shoulder.

  People were screaming. Voices were rising.

  He put the mother and child down next to Shelly. Shelly’s eyes were wide, scared. “John? John, you’re bleeding!”

  He didn’t hear the whistle of another bullet coming toward him. He looked back, judging the wind, trajectory…figuring out where the bastard must have been. Close by. “I’m getting him.” Keeping his body low, John rushed away from her.

  “John!” Shelly yelled.

  The boy started crying.

  “John!”

  And he moved as fast as he could, knowing that he had to stop the bastard before anyone was hurt.

  CHAPTER FIVE

  “What’s happening?” the woman beside Shelly cried, her voice breaking as she clutched her son tighter. The little boy appeared to be barely six years old. He had on a bright, Christmas sweater and his cheeks were a dark red. Tears spattered his cheeks.

  Shelly patted his hand. “It’s okay. You’re safe.”

  “Who is shooting? It was a shot, wasn’t it?” The mother clutched her son even tighter. “But I didn’t hear the gunfire.”

  Shelly hadn’t heard it, either. But her super soldier had. She wanted to rush after him, but, unlike John, she had no idea where the shooter was. And if she chased after John—would she just put them both in more danger? “It’s going to be okay,” Shelly promised. “My friend will keep us safe.”

  “If he doesn’t get himself killed,” the woman whispered back.

  Shelly’s gaze darted toward the street.

  ***

  John burst onto the top floor of the old theater. The theater sat across the street from the spot he and Shelly had been just moments before—and he knew the theater had been the shooter’s location. The door banged against the wall as he rushed inside, and the man waiting there spun around.

  And he aimed his gun right at John.

  “Freeze!” Sheriff Blane Gallows barked.

  John didn’t freeze. He rushed right at the sheriff and he knocked the gun out of the guy’s grip. The handgun flew across the room even as John shoved the sheriff back against the nearby wall, holding him there with a tight grip on the man’s neck.

  Blane clawed at John’s hand.

  “Did you shoot at me?” John snarled. But…no, wait. The sheriff’s gun was wrong. Wrong weapon. John glanced back around the room. The handgun was on the dirty floor. The upper floor of the theater was dusty, littered with old trash. Closed in. He inhaled, trying to pull in the scent of the shooter, but he just got Blane’s scent. Blane’s and—

  “L-let the sheriff go!” A shaking voice demanded.

  A young, redheaded deputy stood in the doorway. The same guy John had seen at the station. The fellow’s bright red hair stuck out from his head at odd angles, and the gun trembled in his grasp. Another handgun, a Glock. Still not the right weapon. John knew the shooter had used a rifle. He’d seen the bullet that had lodged into the brick wall.

  Blane kept clawing at his hand. Slowly, John let the guy go. Blane sucked in a desperate gulp of air. “Not…shooter…” Blane heaved. “F-figured out…was on…st-street…”

  “You came up here looking for the guy,” John realized, backing up. “Where in the hell is he?”

  “G-get away from the sheriff!” the deputy’s voice cracked on his order.

  John whirled toward him. “Get your ass back down to the street. Make sure Shelly is okay. There are too many civilians down there. Let them know the shooter is gone.”

  Gone. Fucking gone. And John could only smell the dust and the stale scent of sweat in that place. Blane’s sweat. The deputy’s. But…

  He hurried to a window—one that faced away from the street. Not the one the bastard used to take his shot. This window was still open, letting in cold air, and when he looked outside, John saw that an old ladder had been propped up against the back of the theater. Below in the snow that covered the ground, he could see the dark mark of footprints. Eyes narrowing, John heaved his body right through that window.

  “Stop!” Blane yelled. “What the hell—”

  But John was already through the window. He landed easily, his knees not even buckling, when he hit the ground. He glanced back up and saw Blane gaping down at him.

  Without a word, John followed those prints. They circled around the building, and then disappeared on the sidewalk—the walk that had been swept clean of snow. John found himself in front of the theater, with cars rushing down the street. He looked to the left, to the right, and saw no sign of the bastard who’d been taking aim at him.

  John’s hands clenched into fists. Sonofabitch. I will find you.

  ***

  “I still don’t think it’s a good idea for the guy to stay here with you,” Blane groused to Shelly. “But you aren’t listening to me, are you?”

  They were back at Shelly’s cabin. The jerk who’d taken a shot at them was in the wind, and the sheriff was trying to convince Shelly that she needed to kick John out onto the street.

  John crossed his arms over his chest and waited near the fireplace. Not happening, buddy. There’s no way I’m leaving her.

  Shelly gave a soft sigh. “I hear you, Blane, but no, I’m not listening. John doesn’t have any other place to go. I’m not turning him out after he’s saved my life again and again.”

  Blane swore and glared at John. “I don’t like you.”

  John inclined his head. The feeling is mutual.

  Blane rubbed his neck. Bruises had appeared on his skin. Bruises in the shape of John’s fingers. “I could arrest him for assault. The guy attacked me—”

  “Because I thought you were the shooter.” John didn’t move from his post. “You were in the room above the theater, after all. And you pointed your gun at me.”

  “I was looking for the damn shooter!” Now Blane sounded outraged. “I wasn’t the enemy.”

  John shrugged. “That’s why I let you go.”

  Blane stalked toward him. Suspicion was heavy on the fellow’s face. “You moved so fast when you attacked me. Barely even saw you—like you were a freaking blur. Then you jumped out of that window like it was nothing. Didn’t even stumble from a three-story drop.”

  Once again, John shrugged.

  “That shit isn’t normal.” Blane’s gaze swept over him. “You’re hiding secrets. Fair warning, I’m going to discover them. Every single one.”

  “Good luck with that.” John swiped his hand over his jaw, scraping at the dark shadow that had grown there. “When you find those secrets, be sure to share them with me. I’d kinda like to know them myself.”

  The floor creaked as Shelly
crept closer.

  Blane leaned toward John. His voice dropped as the sheriff said, “Hurt her, and I’ll bury you.”

  The sheriff didn’t need to worry on that score. “Hurting Shelly is the last thing I’d ever do.”

  But Blane didn’t look convinced.

  “You should go now, Blane,” Shelly urged him quietly. “It’s getting late.”

  After another glare at John, Blane headed for the door. Shelly followed him, and John heard her promise that she’d call the sheriff if there was any trouble. While she locked the door, John bent and put fresh wood in the fireplace. He took a few moments to get the fire blazing, pushing at the wood and watching the flames flare as he crouched before the blaze.

  He could feel Shelly behind him. She was a few feet away. Not close enough to touch. Not yet.

  He’d tasted her before. He’d had her in his arms, and then some asshole had taken a shot at him.

  “You have blood on your shirt.”

  He’d almost forgotten about that. “Bullet grazed my shoulder. It’s nothing. Already healed.”

  “I can’t quite get used to that. You being Superman and all.”

  He rose and turned toward her. The warmth of the fire was at his back. “I’m not Superman.” But if he was, fuck, she’d damn well be his kryptonite. Did she get that? Did she understand that he’d do anything for her? That he went a bit crazy when she was in danger?

  She rubbed her hands over the front of her jeans. “You saved my life again. You’re making a habit of that.”

  “Not so sure he was aiming at you this time.” Because that hit to his shoulder had been deliberate. “I think he wanted to take me out.” John took a step toward her. He heard the growl of Blane’s engine outside. “Smart move on his part. Because as long as I’m standing, I’m not going to let anyone hurt you.”

  Her head tilted as she stared up at him. John closed the last bit of distance between them. He wanted to touch her. Wanted it so badly that his hands clenched into fists so that he could control the temptation. She gazed back at him, and for a second, John could have sworn he saw yearning in her eyes. The same kind of stark, desperate yearning that he felt.