by E. R. Whyte
I don’t know what’s been running through her head these past several weeks, other than the deny, deny, deny that keeps coming from her mouth. All I know is what I’m thinking, what I’m feeling. All I know is that I need her to catch up with me. Because when I touch her, I never want to stop. When I see her, I see mine.
I need her to see the same.
When we approached the closet in our downstairs hall, it beckoned to me as the perfect place to help her do that.
When my lips meet hers, hers tense initially into a firm line. In the next moment, though, she yields, letting me steal the truth from her. Letting me take what I need. Which is every little thing she’ll allow.
Plus a little more.
I slant my mouth over hers, urging her without words to open for me. When she does, I dive deep into the warm cavern of her mouth, my tongue stroking against hers. A moan escapes her as I move my hands down to her hips and crush her soft curves against me, reveling in how easily she melts into me. I can feel a tremor vibrate through her as I slip a hand beneath her shirt and explore the silk of her skin, moving one hand in a smooth upward sweep along her back to grip her neck through the open neckline of her top. The other hand settles on the back of her thigh and tugs upward.
She responds immediately, lifting her leg to curve as high as it can around my backside. With the height difference, it’s not enough. I bend my knees and pull her leg higher around me, pressing myself against her and letting her know how far she takes me with a single kiss.
“Gunner.” Gasping, she wrenches her mouth away and turns her head to the side. I take it as an offering and trail kisses along her jaw and down her neck to that sweet spot where it meets her shoulder. “Gunner, stop. We need to stop —”
“Negative,” I mutter, directing her mouth back to mine with a press of my fingers at her neck. I kiss her hungrily again, almost desperate in my need to convey my feelings. Desperate for her to understand.
It isn’t until I feel her hands pushing against my chest that it hits me; she really does want me to stop. Reluctant, I break away, placing my hands at her waist and dropping my forehead to hers while we both drag in big gulps of air.
“Dolcezza.” I murmur the word. “I’m not sorry.” Her fingers tense against my chest, and she pushes until there’s space between us.
“I need you to listen to me, Gunner, when I tell you to stop. I’m not—” Her voice breaks before she continues, sounding weary. “I’m not strong enough to keep fighting you. You could break my heart, Gunner. I’m not strong enough for that.” She pulls open the door to the closet and steps into the light.
“You’re already breaking mine,” I reply, but she doesn’t hear me. She’s already gone.
29
Shiloh
Saturday dawns clear and cold. It’s the first Saturday in November and I stare out the window at the dead grass with its lacery of frost, reveling in the cozy warmth of my house and the knowledge that there is nothing I have to do today, save visit my brother. I could stay right here if I chose, stay in my pajamas and ignore my bedhead and binge watch something tasty with Henry Cavill.
I’ve made it through an entire week of tutoring Gunner and having him in class. He has been remarkably well-behaved, appearing to take my edict that our relationship will only ever be teacher-student to heart.
I’m annoyed by the fact that his reversal irks me.
When we meet, he sits across from me in the study at his home, focusing on whatever I’ve set aside for him to work on, an adorable line of concentration bisecting his brow. When he catches me staring—which I’m ashamed to admit is too often—he merely smiles, a languorous tilt of his lips, and then returns to his work.
It’s like he’s given up, which ought to satisfy me. Instead, though, I’m more on edge than I was with his blatant flirting. I don’t trust well-behaved Gunner.
Despite that, I have to admit it’s been a good week. Quiet without the club to worry about. Productive with the extra time. And tranquil because there hasn’t been any activity from my stalker in all this time.
It’s not in me to laze about, though. And Saturday morning is for baking. I take my ritual of baking goodies for Sammy and the staff at Thurston House very seriously.
I pluck my cell from the nightstand and head for the bathroom, already running through a mental list of what I’ll put together this morning. Maybe I’ll get super-industrious and make a sweet spoon bread and a pan of bacon to go with. I can eat that for breakfast and dessert.
Decision made, I take a quick shower and throw on a pair of ancient joggers and a loose-fitting slub sweater that tends to slide off one shoulder. It’s a comfortable outfit, a stay-at-home and don’t-be-seen outfit. It’s exactly what I need to wear for binge-watching television and stuffing myself with carbs, all of which is why I’m surprised and dismayed when my doorbell rings just a little later.
I glance from my baking supplies, scattered around the kitchen, to my clothing, now dotted with flour and vanilla. Grimacing, I grab a dish towel to wipe my hands and head for the door.
I swing open the door to find Gunner on my porch, hands bridging the door frame as he leans in. “Good morning, dolcezza,” he greets me, bopping my nose. And just like that, the old Gunner is back.
I groan. “Enough, already. I don’t want you to talk sweet to me.” I open the door wide enough for him to saunter in and he does so, heading towards the kitchen. “What are you doing here?”
“I’ll talk sweet to you if I want to. What are you making?” I trail behind him, studiously not admiring the way his rear end filled out his jeans.
“A banana fosters spoon bread with caramel sauce, I think,” I say, moving past him in the small room to get to my ingredients.
“You think? Why don’t you know? Damn, dolcezza, you have bacon. You should have led with that.” He snatches a piece from the plate resting by the stove.
“Please, help yourself. And I’m experimenting with this one. I’m putting together a banana bread first —” As I speak, I place a pan with several bananas on it in the oven to roast, knowing the extra step will pull out the fruit’s sweetness. Tugging the bowl of batter to me, I get some on my fingers and look around for the dishtowel. “—and then, when it’s finished, I’ll chop it into a pan, mix up a kind of custard with egg and cream, and pour that over it. It goes back in the oven to soak and cook and—what is it? Do I have something on my face?” Gunner’s staring at me, an expression I can’t interpret on his face.
“You’re different this morning. Happy. Relaxed.” He snags the wrist of my hand and trails his grasp down to my index finger, where a glop of batter clings to my nail. Slowly, giving me plenty of time to pull away if it’s what I choose, he pulls my finger to his lips and sucks it into his mouth, laving the batter off and swirling his tongue around my flesh until my finger is thoroughly clean. A band of tension pulls taut, a direct line from my finger in the wet cavern of his mouth to that pulse between my legs. I swallow. “Delicious.”
With difficulty, I pull my finger from his grasp and push him away. “Enough of that. I told you we weren’t going there.”
He blinks. “What do you mean? I was referring to the bacon.”
“Maple syrup. I put maple syrup on it.”
“You’re a goddess. A bacon goddess.” He stops and looks around. “You’re not expecting company, or anything are you? This all seems kind of extra.”
“No. I do this every Saturday. I take treats to Sammy’s nursing staff when I go visit. Why are you here, anyway?”
“First, I want to state for the record that if you cook like this all the time, I’m going to marry you one day. Second—” He continues in his matter-of-fact tone while I attempt to slow the room spinning around me. Did he just say marry? “I just came by to see if you wanted to come hang out. I thought I might show you the vineyard and the winery. And Dad said he might make his famous eggplant parmesan.”
I remove the b
ananas from the oven and resume mixing the batter. The heavy, sweet aroma of the fruit fills the kitchen, and I decide to ignore Gunner’s first statement. It was just a joke, anyway. “I always spend Saturday with Sammy. Would tomorrow work?”
“He has to leave again tomorrow morning.”
“Where does he go all the time?” I glance up at him as I work the black peeling off a banana, curious. He’s watching me and gestures at the pan.
“May I?”
“Sure.” I slide over and he steps in, his large hands manipulating the hot peels with ease, sliding the gooey flesh of the banana into the waiting bowl.
“He meets with different retailers and private buyers to continue expanding our brand.” He peers at me sideways. “Honestly, though, I think there may be a woman somewhere.”
I raise my eyebrows. “Ah.” We work quietly for a few minutes and I try to gauge his mood, but his expression is unreadable. “Would that be a good thing or a bad thing?”
He shrugs. “It is what it is. Wouldn’t bother me unless she’s a bitch. Dad’s a smart guy. Good judge of character. I trust him not to bring home some evil stepmother type.”
I nod. “That’s good.” We continue to work companionably alongside one another, Gunner placing dishes in a sink of soapy water while I finish the batter. “I can visit Sammy tomorrow. Let me just call his staff so they’re aware of the change of plans and can let him know.”
“You don’t have to do that, Shy.”
“No big deal. I want to.” I’m surprised to realize it’s the truth. At some point, in spite of my protests, I’d grown to crave time with Gunner. This past week spent tutoring him, eating Nonna’s delicious suppers, and spending time with Esme, has filled this corner in my heart I hadn’t realized was empty. It’s been like having a family again.
The batter is ready for the oven, and I brush past him to slide two pans in on the racks. “Would you like to come visit him with me? I usually try to leave just before noon.”
I wait what seems like endless minutes for Gunner to respond. He takes his time.
“You sure it won’t bother him?”
“I’m sure.”
“Then, yes. I’d like that.”
I smile up at him, and although I try to keep cool, I know my excitement peeks through. “Okay, then. It’s a date.” I realize what I said and slap my palm to my forehead. “I mean, it’s a plan. It’s definitely not a date. What time are we going to your place? I need to change.”
Gunner’s eyes travel up and down my body. “What’s wrong with what you have on? I think you look and smell delicious.”
I roll my eyes. “I look like a mess and smell like dough. I’m going to change.”
Gunner jerks a thumb toward the oven. “We’ll leave when that finishes baking. And Shy?”
I turn back at the door, hand on the jamb. “Yes?”
“You’re beautiful. And you smell like…” He breathes in deeply and releases it. “Home.”
Uneasy, I laugh. “There you go sweet talking again.” Turning, I flee for the bathroom.
My phone rings as I’m climbing from my second shower of the day. Wrapping a towel around myself, I fumble with tucking the edges as I hit the green dot to answer.
“Hello?”
“Shiloh Brookings, please.” The voice is vaguely familiar, but I can’t place it right away.
“Speaking.”
“Miss Brookings, Detective McCall calling. We picked up your vehicle from Sanson Auto last week?”
I recall Gunner telling me that his friend had taken it there. Or was he a vineyard employee? I forget. “Yes, you wanted to take a look at it for the police report?”
“Exactly. I wanted to let you know what we found on your vehicle inspection.”
“Go ahead.”
“The fuel line was tampered with, ma’am. There was a tiny incision in the line, which caused a slow leak of fuel over the period of several miles.”
“I…I don’t even know what to say.” My knees feel soft all of a sudden and I drop to sit on the edge of my bed. “Do you know who did it?”
“No, there was no evidence left on the vehicle, unfortunately. We have commissioned the video footage of the school parking lot, as that is most likely where this took place, and hope to have more information soon. In the meantime, I wanted to let you know and ask that you take precautions. Be aware of your surroundings. Try to stay with groups, or at the very least a friend. Stay with a friend, if you can.”
A knock sounds on my door. “Shiloh?”
“Just a minute, please.” I needed a minute, time to wrap my mind around the pieces that were beginning to settle into place. “Thank you, Detective. Will my car be sent for repairs now, or…?”
“I’ll have to ask the lab about that. We’ll be in touch.”
Thanking him, I hang up, and then just sit for a few minutes longer as I let everything sink in.
I’m quiet on the ride over, the conversation with McCall troubling me. Someone was going to extraordinary lengths to…what? Harm me? Frighten me? Send me a message?
It just doesn’t make sense. I’m no one. I haven’t even been in the area very long. Until May, around five months ago, I was still in school and closer to Kendrick’s than here.
“Penny for ‘em.”
“Huh?” I snap my head around to see Gunner looking my way as he drives.
“What’s going on in there?” He taps a finger to his own temple. “You haven’t said two words since we left.”
“Detective McCall called after I got out of the shower. He said my fuel line had been tampered with.”
Gunner raises his chin in acknowledgement and pulls the brim of his ball cap lower on his forehead. “Were they able to recover any evidence?”
“Nope.” I turn my attention to the scenery flashing past the window. “I don’t get it. Why would anyone want to do this to another person? To me? What did I do?”
The thickness in my voice is a dead giveaway that tears are close, and Gunner takes my hand in his, interlocking our fingers. He strokes my hand with his thumb and I let him, craving even the simplest of contact.
“You didn’t do a thing, dolcezza. Whoever this sicko is, he’s not stable. There’s no rhyme or reason for why people do stuff like this.” There’s only the sound of the tires on the road as I process. Then, “I can promise you this. He won’t get fucking close to you again.”
“You can’t promise that. He’s all over the place, Gunner. In the school parking lot. At my house. At Kendrick’s. I’m almost at the point where I think I need an armed guard.”
I’m half-joking, but Gunner levies a serious look my way. “About that.”
“Gunner—”
“I was worried after I heard what was going on, so I might have hired someone to watch you.” He mumbles the sentence in a rush, maybe hoping that I’d let it go.
“You did what now?”
“Shit, Shiloh, you had this guy putting cameras in your house and sending you creepy text messages. I couldn’t do nothing.”
“You hired someone… so there’s been some stranger watching me, aside from the other stranger watching me? When? Where?” Suddenly I’m wondering if I’ve been inadvertently giving someone a show now and then. Were the blinds in my bathroom open or shut?
But should I really be upset over this?
“He’s been there every afternoon when you’ve gotten home from school and stayed through the night. If you go out, he follows. He said he doesn’t stick to a pattern in case your stalker is watching but picks a different vantage point to watch your house from each time.”
“Okay.”
He gives me a cautious side-eye. “Okay?”
“I’m not mad. I mean, I guess I am, maybe just a little. But I get it.”
“You do?” He shifts in his seat. “This is not the reaction I expected.”
I shrug. “It’s not that big a deal. I already had one watcher,
what’s one more.” We fall silent until a thought strikes me. “Was it the man across the street from my house…the one with the Irish accent?”
“Yeah. His name’s Brodie. He’s the same guy that picked up your car.”
Nodding, I cast my mind back to that night.
I remember how the man towered over me, a hint of bad boy tattoos peeking from the collar of his jacket. The scent of tobacco—something a little different from the typical cigarette—clung gently to him. Despite his size and rough exterior, however, Brodie hadn’t raised my instinct for alarm.
The encounter had been on the entertaining side, in retrospect. He had seemed both amused and outraged that ‘my man’ would allow me to accost him as I had done. I wonder, now, if he had been thinking of Gunner.
“You’ve been paying this guy for what…two, three weeks now?”
Gunner makes the turn into his driveway. “Something like that.” He raises his eyebrows at my incredulous expression. “I didn’t figure you’d let me hang around and make sure you were safe, so that was the only other thing I could think of to do.”
“But, Gunner, hiring someone to… stand guard? That’s crazy. And expensive.” My brain whirls with the thought of how much I’ll have to pay him back.
“No, not crazy. Concerned. And you don’t need to worry about what it costs.”
I cross my arms over my chest and twist to look out the window. “You should have told me.”
“Then I’d have had to admit that I knew you worked at Kendrick’s.”
“Honesty! Imagine the possibilities.”
Gunner pulls to a stop in front of his house. “Shiloh. Just say thank you.”
“Psh. In your dreams.”
The sound of his laughter follows me as I open the door and step out into the brutal cold.
30
Gunner
November in Virginia can be bitter or mild, depending on the region and Old Man Winter’s whim. Here in our mountain locale, it tends to frost early and stay chilly until spring is entrenched. Now, though, fall still lingers. Winter tiptoes through the bare grayness of the tree branches that flash by alongside the highway, peeping through as if to say, it won’t be long. It teases louder than any herald as it sends crunchy, deadened leaves one after the next to sleep beside each other on the ground.