by Emily Bishop
“Because you still want me, deep down, Roxanne,” he explains for her, like it’s the most regular, understandable thing in the world. “You remember my cock, and you want to be on it again.” His eyes travel heavily over her body, then his eyes flick to me. “You aren’t the only one who came inside her.” His eyes turn back to her, going soulful and intent with memory. “Every night. For years.”
Roxanne is rigid beside me, her eyes fastened to his with pure hatred. “I was on the pill,” she sneers. “I was on the pill the whole time. The maid got me a prescription. Because I fucking begged her too.”
Jared’s jaw sets. She’s done it. They must have been “trying” to get pregnant, as far as Jared knew. She knows where all his landmines are buried.
But why is she infuriating him like this?
Then it hits me: she knows that he doesn’t really want to kill her, and she can distract him. She trusts me to disarm him. Without a word between us, I know we have a plan. My heart gets tight with such love for her.
Jared cocks the gun, though it is still down. “What did you just say?” His face is eerily blank.
“How could you possibly think that I would let you put a baby into that house—”
Jared’s blank face twists again and he goes to step forward, to cross in front of me and attack Roxanne, with or without firing the gun. It’s cocked, but angled at the floor. He’s not looking at me at all. He’s crossing directly in front of me. I have to take it. This is the moment.
My leg flashes out and kicks into his stepping leg. He staggers and the rifle goes off into the ground. Now someone will come. I grip the barrel of the gun quickly, before he can regain his balance, and ram the butt up into his chin. Jared flies backward and slams into the floor in a full sprawl.
Now I have the gun.
Jared’s not getting up. He groans and rolls onto his side, then goes totally limp.
A fine tremble runs all through Roxanne’s body as she climbs to her feet, using the table and the chair for support, and then clings onto my side.
“Blake,” she breathes. Her voice sounds rough. I gaze down at her face, tracked with dry blood.
“Did he—?” I can’t even bear to voice the words. Did he hurt the baby? How much hell did I miss? “Did he hurt you?”
“He only got in one shot, and it was a cheap one,” she tells me. An actual smile blossoms over her lips, and my heart swells with relief.
“You did good.” I settle the shotgun behind us and come wrap my arms around her.
“Thank you.” She buries her face against my shoulder and, for a moment, we’re just pressed together and still. My hand runs slowly up and down her back. “I love you.”
I pull away from her slightly and touch her cheek with my fingertips. “You’ve never said that before.”
“Are you serious? Never?” she wonders.
“Never.”
Her eyes hold mine, and her eyebrows draw together with intensity and sincerity. “I love you, Blake,” she repeats.
My fingertips skate down to her jaw, and her face tilts. Our lips come together and the kiss tastes of blood and sweat and war, but I don’t care. I just want to feel her. I love her, too.
“Then come home,” I plead, running my fingers over her right hand, the one with the knuckles still wrapped in the chain and my house key. “Come home.” Our fingers interlace over the chain, the key pressed between our two palms, and the kiss deepens. Our lips crack open and tongues entwine. For a few seconds, I just drown in her. I can’t even feel the pain. Then we break for air. “Come home,” I breathe against her mouth, ragged now.
A slow grin spreads over Roxanne’s lips, and she nods. “I’m coming home,” she whispers back, winding her free arm around the back of my neck and pulling me down to meet her body. Our fingers still entwine over the key, and she sighs up at the ceiling as I kiss her neck. “I’m coming home.”
Behind us, I hear a deep voice grumble its disapproval. “Who the hell just ruined my 1967 John Lee McCoy nine iron, and is he dead?”
Our lips separate, and Roxanne’s eyes move to Rudy, shuffling down the hallway and holding the back of his head.
“He might as well be,” she tells him, squeezing my hand. I squeeze it back. “He might as well be.”
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Copyright © 2017 by AG Media, LLC, a representative of Emily Bishop.
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About the Author
Emily Bishop is a breakthrough romance writer from Seattle, Washington. She originally attended University of Washington as a history student but soon found a passion for words and stories. Upon graduating with a degree in creative writing, Emily fell in love and moved away from the hustle and bustle of the city to a quiet little town in Oregon.
She is now a full time writer who loves her job. She enjoys bad horror flicks, hair pulling, lemon pound cake, and spending time with her husband, Charlie, and her dog, Roscoe.
Emily hopes you enjoyed her novel, WET DREAMS, and hopes you’ll be back for more.
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