Dare to Stay

by Jen McLaughlin

  She held a gun up, a brow raised. “You looking for this gun, the one you dropped back there when you almost passed out?”

  I examined her, unable to look away, because I’d dropped my gun, and because I’d finally managed to piss off the angelic Molly. When Molly was happy, she was ethereal and beautiful and should be forever memorialized in pastel watercolors. But when Molly was pissed off, she was captivating and devastatingly seductive and deserved to be caught in charcoals and black shading pencils.

  My fingers itched to grab my charcoal set and sketch her face.

  Too bad I could barely stand, let alone draw.

  “You have two choices,” she said, finger pointed at me in anger. The other hand held my gun in the most awkward position ever. It made me worry she might accidentally pull the trigger and shoot herself. “You either get in the car with me and let me bring you to my house, or you pass out in this alley, and I stay here with you and your gun, waiting for the guys who did that to you to show up and try to finish the job. And I fight them off, alone and without your help.”

  I snorted. “You wouldn’t last a second. You’d be dead—if you were lucky.”

  “I guess you better get in the car, before we find out if I’m lucky or not.”

  “I know what you’re doing. You’re trying to save me, and you’re wasting your time.” I rubbed my face, trying to shake off the impending blackness. “Yeah, I’m beat-up, and yeah, I might die, but the guys who did this to me aren’t coming around, because I killed them. The guy who gave me a black eye? I literally snapped his neck. Think on that, Princess, and whether or not you really want me to sleep in your home.”

  She paled and bit down on her lip. She rested a hand on my chest, holding me up. Or pretending like she could, anyway. “You did what you had to do. Self-defense.”

  I laughed. I couldn’t help it. Because while the murder in the alley might have been self-defense, what I’d done to Lucas hadn’t been. I’d taken something that was pure between the two of us, and twisted it into this nasty version of our friendship. And then I’d tried to kill him. If she’d known what I had done to my best friend, she wouldn’t look at me as if I could be saved. “You don’t know what I’ve done. You don’t know me at all.”

  “Fine.” She gripped my shirt, completely ignoring the fact that my blood stained her hands red. “Then tell me what you did to wind up in this alley, bleeding to death.”

  I frowned at her, because even high on pain pills, there was no way in hell I was letting that slip. It was my own private shame, and I wasn’t sharing it with anyone. Not even her. So I let my silence speak for itself.

  “Yeah, that’s what I thought,” she snapped, nostrils flaring. “Now get in my car before I shoot you and finish the job myself. You’re coming home with me for the night, and nothing you say will change my mind.”

  Guess I could add stubborn to her extremely short list of faults.

  Seeing as that was the only thing on it.

  I snorted. She was still furiously beautiful, and I still wanted to sketch her more than anything in the world, and I knew when to concede defeat. I wasn’t strong enough to fight her off, so for the night, I would go home with her.

  She must’ve taken my silence to be a rejection, because she entwined her fingers with mine. The second she did that, such an innocent gesture, the ground beneath me trembled and shifted. It was as if her touch alone could change the world, or more importantly, me. Maybe I really was about to die. Or maybe it was the Vicodin speaking. Either way, the earth moved—and it was because of her.

  “Please, Chris,” she said, her voice soft and soothing. “I couldn’t live with myself if I left you here to die. You’ve done stuff for me; now let me do something for you. Let me help you. Come home with me.”

  I couldn’t say no to that any more than I could shoot her. For some reason, I wanted to be seen as a guy who should be brought into her house and nursed back to health, and that was the worst part of this whole thing. I wasn’t that guy, and I shouldn’t want to be him. But with her—

  I sucked in a breath. It hurt. “Okay.”

  “And if you don’t—” She broke off. “Wait. Okay?”

  “You win. I just hope you parked close, because I’m not making it far, and as cute as it is that you think you could catch me if I fell?” I squeezed her hand and tried to smile. “Well, we both know you can’t.”

  She held on to me tightly. “I’m right around the corner. Come on.”

  Taking a deep breath, I let her guide me toward her Jaguar. But when she swung the gun toward her face, I stiffened and grabbed it. The woman had clearly never held a weapon in her life, and why should she? She was a kindergarten teacher, for fuck’s sake.

  “Give me that before you kill yourself.”

  She laughed nervously. “Yeah. Okay. Just don’t pull it on me again.”

  As we staggered toward her luxury sports car, her arm wrapped around me in support, I tucked the gun away. “You were right. I never would have used it on you.”

  She glanced up at me. This close, I could see those gold specks that I’d been thinking about earlier, staring up at me. And I wanted to hug her close and protect her from the world. From guys like me. Hell, especially from me. “I know.”

  We made it the rest of the way to the car in silence, her frail body wrapped around mine, and all I could think about was how good it would feel if she held me like this, but not out of pity. Out of love. Which was the most ridiculous thought ever. Girls like her didn’t love guys like me, and guys like me didn’t know what love was.

  Lucas was the exception with Heidi.

  Slumping into the seat, I finally let my guard down as she shut the door for me. Her car smelled good. Like her perfume and cantaloupe, mixed with the beach. It was a calming scent, and I breathed it in with a smile. Her face swam before me as she slid into her seat and started the car. I just needed to rest, so for one second . . .

  I let the blackness win.

  CHAPTER 4

  MOLLY

  I cast a quick look at my passed-out companion, my slightly sweaty palms gripping the wheel, stained with Chris’s blood and my own. The second he sat down in his seat, he’d passed out cold. I had no clue if that was a good thing or bad, but he wasn’t moving, and I was terrified he was going to die. That my best efforts to save his life, to save him, would all be for nothing.

  What would I do if he didn’t wake up?

  I’d never harbored a criminal before, and besides those Bitter Hill guys he mentioned, I had no idea who else was looking for him. Or who might hurt him. I couldn’t even call his parents because he’d said they weren’t safe, so if they were somehow involved in this . . . I’d be killing him by calling them.

  I couldn’t call the cops. He couldn’t go home.

  So I just had to hope he didn’t die on me.

  When I stopped at the red light three streets from my house, I poked him in the ribs. He didn’t move, so I did it harder. He jerked away from me, groaning, and rolled toward me. And I . . .

  I couldn’t look away.

  He had cuts all over his face and bloodstains all over his nose and his chin, like someone had punched him and maybe broken his nose, and he had to be seconds from dying—but even so, he was still the sexiest man I ever saw. Always had been.

  That’s what made resisting him so freaking hard.

  Not that he’d ever hit on me, or made me think he might want more from me than a friendly neighborhood face. But still. He was near impossible to resist, even so.

  His nose was imperfectly perfect and looked like it had been broken a handful of times. The bruise forming under and over his eye did nothing to detract from the manly lines of his cheekbones and forehead. And that chin dimple—that chin dimple that never failed to weaken my knees when he smiled—had been affected by his fight, too, and was covered in blood. So
was I, after helping him to the car.

  For some reason, it didn’t bother me.

  The car behind us beeped, and I jumped. The light had been green for God knows how long, so I stepped on the gas as hard as I could.

  Chris jerked awake, pointing the gun out the window, and said, “What was that?”

  Well. Not dead yet.

  My cheeks heated, because I didn’t want to admit I got honked at because I was too busy admiring his masculine beauty to notice the light had changed. “I was watching the shadows to make sure no one came too close, and missed the light turning green.” Yeah. That sounded so much better than I was admiring your chin dimple. Sorry.

  “Oh.”

  He sagged against the seat again, resting his gun on his legs. I watched it, swallowing hard, but forced my attention back to the road. I couldn’t imagine living like he lived, always ready for the next fight. Always prepared and willing to shoot before getting shot. Never sure if today would be the day when you didn’t pull the trigger fast enough. And, truth be told, that gun scared me.

  So did he.

  I mean, I wasn’t scared he’d hurt me, or kill me. It was pretty clear he had no intention of doing so. If he wanted to get rid of me, he would have done it in that alley, with his gun, and he would have taken my car and driven off. He hadn’t.

  The thing that really scared me was my reaction to him, and the fact that no matter how hard I tried, I couldn’t talk myself out of feeling it. Out of wanting him. I was a rational person and was capable of going over the pros and cons of every situation. If the cons outweighed the pros, I moved on and forgot all about what I was deliberating over. I accepted the fact that the risk was not worth the benefit.

  But with Chris, when the cons clearly outweighed the pros, I couldn’t shake off that annoying urge to do it, anyway. He was the first risk I couldn’t walk away from.

  And that was unsettling, to say the least.

  I’d just have to make sure to play it safe. I lived by one rule in my life: Never let anyone in too close. Never care about them enough to let them have power over me. Never love anyone so much that their death would leave a hole in my heart. I already had one of those. I didn’t need two.

  But something told me my heart would be safe from Chris O’Brien. Despite my desire to help him, and my attraction to him, I wasn’t stupid enough to love a criminal.

  He’d be lucky if he lived to see thirty-five.

  “We’re almost there,” I said, to fill the silence.

  “I know.” He rubbed his face with both hands and blinked rapidly, as if trying to stay alert. “I’ll be gone by morning.”

  “That’s fine,” I said, my voice thick. I wasn’t sure why, though, besides the fact that this sexy man was beside me. “I don’t mind if you stick around a little longer. My house is always empty, so it’s not like anyone will bug you.”

  He looked at me. Like, really looked at me. And I got the feeling that he saw me better than anyone else had, ever before, in that short, two-second span. “Do you like it that way? Empty?”

  “Not really.” I tightened my grip on the wheel and turned left into my development. Huge brick mansions and gray stone-front homes were lit up like prizes on a hill, separated enough to provide the luxurious privacy the development’s residents expected. Mine would be dark and empty. “I miss Dad, and having people around for holidays and for barbecues . . .”

  He turned away from me, gripping his knee so tight that his knuckles went white. “I’m sorry.”

  “It’s okay.” I bit my tongue. “You didn’t shoot him.”

  “Someone like me did. Granted, I don’t shoot innocent people—just the bad guys like me,” he said, his tone casual and unconcerned, as if he weren’t talking about, you know, murders. “But still. It could have easily been me.”

  “Yeah, but it wasn’t,” I said, staring out the windshield.

  He didn’t say anything to that.

  The man who had killed my father had not been from Steel Row. He’d been from another gang outside of Southie, Moss Stones. They wore green. Not brown leather jackets. Chris might be a killer, but he wasn’t my killer.

  He peeked out the window toward my home. “Will a boyfriend be coming around, wondering why there’s another guy at your place?”

  I glanced, too. It was gray stone and light yellow siding. Big bay windows in the front and white shutters, with a big stone chimney on the side. Pink and red flowers on either side of the porch and nothing but hardwood floors and empty rooms on the inside. “No. I don’t have a boyfriend.”

  He clucked his tongue. “Surprising.”

  “Why’s that?” I asked, frowning. “Because I’m a ‘princess’ and shouldn’t be left alone to do anything for myself?”

  He lifted a shoulder. His uninjured one. “If the glass slipper fits . . .”

  I hit the open button on the garage door opener. “I am so not Cinderella. No one locked me in an attic or made me wash their petticoats.”

  “Who’s Cinderella?” he asked, deadpan.

  “Glass slipper. Prince Charming. Evil stepmother.” I pulled into the triple garage and shut it behind us. “Two mean stepsisters that she has to wait on hand and foot? Like, the most classic fairy tale ever told? A popular Disney movie? The one you yourself just referenced?”

  He gaped at me like I’d grown two heads. “If you say so.”

  “How—?”

  “In my house, we didn’t watch Disney movies. I was taught to fight and survive, and how to become a man.” He grabbed the door handle and peered over his shoulder at me. “Because life isn’t a fairy tale; it’s a horror movie.”

  He climbed out and shut the door behind him.

  Shaking my head, I got out of the car, too. “Then how’d you know about the glass slipper?”

  He came around the front of the car and grabbed the driver’s door. Once I stepped out of the way, he shut it for me. So he was a gentleman and a killer. Interesting. “I saw the billboards on the highway exit where I kill people who fuck with what’s mine.”

  “Oh. I see.” Shaking off the unwanted lust harder than Taylor Swift shook off her haters, I headed toward the door, and he followed me closely. Too closely. “Do you always kill people in the same spot? Is that your killing ground?”

  His gaze briefly traveled down my frame before slamming back into mine. The unmistakable appreciation glowing in those warm brown depths made my heart pick up speed and my thighs press together. “Do you always leave your house pitch-black at night?”

  “If I’m not home?” I glanced over my shoulder and slipped the key into the door. “Yeah. Why?”

  “Just making sure nothing’s out of the ordinary.”

  “You’re worrying too much.” I shoved the door open and flicked on the kitchen light. “Why would anyone, anywhere, look for you here?”

  He shot me a look that said he thought I was off my rocker. “It doesn’t matter what you think should happen or will happen. I live in a world where someone’s always trying to kill me, or I’m trying to kill someone else before they get to me. It’s a dog-eat-dog world, and there’s no happy ending for me. I live in a world full of evil stepmothers.”

  “That’s not a fun place to be,” I said softly. “And for a guy who doesn’t watch Disney movies, you sure know a lot about the plot.”

  His cheeks flushed red, giving him the only hint of color he’d had all night. He kicked the door shut behind us and collapsed against it. Aside from his cheeks, he was even paler in the bright lights. It was a miracle the man was still standing. “I admit nothing.”

  I didn’t say anything to that, mostly because I didn’t know what to say. He clearly didn’t want me to know he was a closet Disney junkie. Whatever. If he wanted to keep his dirty little secret, I’d let him.

  Walking over to my fridge, I yanked it open and pulled
out a bottle of orange juice. After filling a glass, I held it out to him. He stared at it, then at me, but didn’t take it. I shook it a little bit under his nose. He still didn’t budge. “Chris. Drink this.”

  “I don’t like orange juice.”

  “I don’t care,” I said, gripping the glass tighter. “I don’t need you passing out before we get you cleaned up and in bed.”

  He took the glass and lifted it to his mouth. He stopped just short of drinking it. “Wait—till we get me cleaned up? What the hell is that supposed to mean? Are you giving me a sponge bath? I hope not. I’m not fully able to appreciate those soft hands running all over my body, if you know what I mean.”

  Even though he was baiting me, my cheeks heated up, anyway. I couldn’t help it. The image of me running my hands over his body was . . . stimulating. “That’s not what I meant, and you know it.”

  His lips quirked, and he laughed. The orange juice remained untouched. “You sound so serious.” He lowered his voice. “So very strict. Do you make all the little kids cry in school when you use that tone of voice?”

  “I’ll show you how good I am at making little boys cry if you keep it up,” I snapped. “Drink. The. Stupid. Juice.”

  He laughed again, but he did as he was told. Within seconds, the glass was empty. He set it on the gray granite counter and ran the back of his hand across his chiseled lips. “Fuck, that shit’s nasty.”

  A laugh escaped me. He was acting like a petulant child, and it was easier to deal with him like this. I was good at dealing with kids . . . it was my job. If he stayed this way, I’d be okay. By the time he got better and left, I’d have worked up immunity to him, and I would stop fantasizing about how amazing those arms would feel wrapped around me. Opening a cabinet, I pulled out another item. “It’s over. Now, the good part.”

  He glanced down at the chocolate chip cookie, slowly lifting his gaze to mine. When he frowned at me, something slammed into my chest. Something real and strong, and a lot like desire . . . “You do realize I’m not one of your students, right?”