Risk the Burn

by Marnee Blake

  It was the fastest condom application he’d ever managed.

  Then he was inside her, and they both let out exhalations that were part groan and part sigh. He closed his eyes, pausing to be present and there, as close to this woman he cared about as he could be.

  But she wasn’t having any of it. Shifting beneath him, she pulled away and then strained against him. His fingers flexed into the cushions next to her head, where he was holding himself up, and he moaned under the friction of it.

  There was no slowing them now. She edged him forward, and her pace hitched up his own desire. Sweating as he approached the edge, he reached between them, rubbing the spot where they were connected. She cried out as she squeezed him tightly, sending him over the edge with her.

  They lay in the silence afterward, panting and holding each other.

  She had used this to distract herself from whatever fears and concerns remained. He understood that, and he didn’t mind.

  He had no problem being her shelter tonight.

  Gathering her against him, he lifted her up and walked with her cradled in his arms toward his bedroom. After he deposited her on the bed, he went to the bathroom and made quick work of cleanup and condom disposal. Then he returned to her side, crawling under the covers with her and dragging her close, tucking the comforter around them.

  Tomorrow, he would suggest that they meet with the investigator again. He’d talk to Dak and Heidi. Heidi was a Forest Services investigator. She might be able to come up with avenues they could explore, things they hadn’t come up with on their own.

  And he’d keep a closer eye on Charlie. He should have guessed this would tear at her and known that she wouldn’t tell him about it. From here on, he’d pay attention.

  It’d be his job to make sure she didn’t hide inside herself.

  * * * *

  Charlie slept in at Hunter’s. That meant she got a late start getting home, which got her a later start heading into the office to do some paperwork on Sunday afternoon.

  Since she’d taken off some time to work with the investigators, she was behind. She figured she’d go in and get caught up before Monday’s clients.

  She stopped for coffee at the local place, getting some salted caramel something or another because the girl recommended it. Sipping, she could see why it was a favorite. Sweet and caffeinating, her favorite kind of beverage.

  She sighed, happy at the normality.

  In the spring sunshine, she allowed herself to breathe in and enjoy a beautiful morning.

  As she strolled toward her office, her latte in hand, she decided Hunter could be right. All of her scary experiences from over the past weeks could be an unfortunate coincidence. The addict on the street and the break-in might have had nothing to do with one another. And the advertisement? If someone had sent it from here, it might be a disgruntled client. Or even a helpful client who believed she should get a gun to protect herself.

  That was creepy, but not as scary as one person being behind all of that.

  Either way, Hunter was right that she shouldn’t be drawing any conclusions without evidence.

  Trying to juggle her drink and search for her keys, she propped her bag on her knee and fished through it.

  The pops distracted her. Why was someone setting off fireworks in the middle of the afternoon? But then someone screamed and there was yelling. She ducked, covering her head. Was something falling?

  Then she heard it: “He’s got a gun.”

  She crouched down, her pulse picking up. There was a planter nearby, one of those huge concrete ones that people put trees in. She tucked herself behind it, trying to be as small as possible.

  Around her, people were running. She peeked out at the street but couldn’t see anyone.

  A few more pops sounded, and she reached a shaking hand into her purse, the contents spilling onto the pavement next to her and her spilled drink. She tucked her body further between the building and the planter, her fingers fumbling as she attempted to dial 911.

  Another explosion and some of the concrete next to her sprayed, hitting her face and making her flinch. Then another spray.

  The bullets were striking next to her. Through the numbness, all she could hear was the pounding of her heartbeat as shards of cement stung her skin. Around her, everything was moving. There were people running everywhere, ducking, and she could see their mouths moving. They were falling, stumbling, and dropping their personal items. But the sound didn’t permeate the pulsing silence in her mind.

  Her gaze wandered, falling on the phone in her hand. Her 911 dial had connected. She lifted the phone to her ear. Without waiting for any response on the other line, she said, “Hello? Someone is shooting at me.”

  She had to ask the operator to repeat their questions, but when she could finally focus, she hastily relayed the information. Sticking her finger in her other ear in a futile attempt to drown out the gunshots, she attempted to remain coherent. When sirens sounded, the pops stopped.

  She had no idea how long she sat there, behind that planter, breathing. When she glanced at the phone still in her hands, she realized the call to 911 was still connected. That shouldn’t confuse her. Vaguely, she remembered that they weren’t supposed to hang up.

  “Ma’am?” The voice startled her and she cried out. A policeman crouched on the sidewalk next to her, reaching for her. “Are you Charlie Jones? You called 911.”

  She had to clear her throat before any sound would come out. “Yes. I’m Charlie Jones.”

  “You can come out now, ma’am. The gunman is gone.”

  “Gone? As in, dead?” Had someone been killed while she huddled behind a bush?

  He shook his head. “No, ma’am. Took off. Officers in pursuit. But you’re okay now.”

  She doubted that, but she allowed him to help her to her feet. She patted her clothes, desperate to get the concrete dust that covered her off. On the ground, everything from her purse littered the sidewalk. Her makeup, her wallet. Seeing her personal belongings scattered around seemed like an invasion of privacy. She stooped, sweeping her things back into her bag. Except her fingers didn’t work. They tingled, pins and needles like they were asleep. That’s when she noticed her cheeks were damp. She swiped at them, coming away with moisture.

  Was she crying?

  The police officer didn’t seem to know what to do, so he crouched, dragging everything he could find and depositing it into her bag. Together, they cleaned up the remaining items. Then he led her to his cruiser wordlessly.

  She followed, her arms wrapped around herself.

  As he filled one of his fellow officers in, she stood, watching the chaotic scene. There were other policemen asking witnesses questions, and they were all pointing and shaking their heads. Every face seemed to say the same thing: I don’t know what happened.

  She couldn’t say that, though, could she? She was willing to bet that when they pooled all of the gunshot sites, they’d find most of them had been centered around her. A bunch of them had hit close enough to spray her with debris. Pretending anything else would take more denial than she could work up.

  As she sat in the open car door of the cruiser, waiting for them to interview her, she stared at the sign for her therapy office. A week or so ago, she had been considering buying into it, setting up roots here, in Bend. Had it only been a handful of days?

  Now, as she studied it, she couldn’t imagine ever feeling safe here again.

  Would they catch the shooter? Even if they did, would he be able to give them any indication of what was going on or would she be stuck wondering again, having no clue why she was being targeted?

  The possibility made her stomach clench.

  She couldn’t live like this. She’d been threatened with weapons, shot at, and her home had been burglarized. What if someone she cared about had been with her today? Leslie, Meg,
or even Hunter? The gunman had missed her, but there wouldn’t have been enough room behind the planter for two people to hide.

  If Hunter had been with her, he’d have tried to shield her. Where she’d been nauseous before, now her body was icy.

  She wouldn’t have been able to live with herself if something had happened to him. Even if she could manage the risks she was taking for herself, she wouldn’t tolerate putting her loved ones in jeopardy.

  As the police officer joined her, she asked, “Did they catch him?”

  His mouth thinned. “They’re still looking.”

  Which meant no.

  Her chagrin must have been on her face, because the officer took out a notebook, and determination wrinkled his brow. “Don’t worry, ma’am. We’ll get him.” He nodded, as if convinced of his colleagues’ competence.

  Right now, Charlie wasn’t feeling as certain.

  “What can you tell me about this?” he asked, his pen poised.

  She launched into all of the things that had happened to her, explained how she suspected that she was the target. When his eyes widened, he folded his notepad and said, “Maybe you should come with me to the department. So we can piece this into your file.”

  It was overwhelming. She got that. She nodded, swinging her feet into the cruiser. As she rode the short distance to the police department with him, though, she couldn’t shake the feeling that they were missing pieces of the puzzle.

  And by the time they found them, it’d be too late.

  Chapter Sixteen

  After receiving Charlie’s voicemail, Hunter arrived at her apartment in record time.

  When she opened the door after he rang the bell, he folded her into his arms, breathing in the curls on her head. His eyes closed, and he allowed the strands of panic that had been attempting to weave their way through him to dissipate.

  She tucked her head against him, dropping her forehead to his chest. He wasn’t sure if he expected her to cry, but she only gripped his shirt tightly.

  When he finally found his voice, he asked, “Did they find him?”

  The rub of her forehead against him was a headshake, not a nod. “No. He took off as soon as the police showed up.”

  Damn it. Another dead end. He still couldn’t believe that someone had tried to shoot her. The holdup, the break-in…but an actual attempted murder?

  Again, he tamped down on the rage slicing through him. Someone had tried to kill her. It was unforgivable.

  “Do the police have any idea what is going on here?”

  She pulled away, and he immediately missed her body’s warmth. Add the new distance on her face, and he wanted to sweep her up again and never let her go. “They have no idea what’s going on.”

  “They’re going to figure it out, Charlie. You haven’t been here that long. You don’t know that many people. They’ll be able to find the link, I’m sure of it.” He didn’t have the words to convince her that everything would be okay.

  “I’m glad you are, because I’m definitely not.” She sank down on the bed in her room.

  Only then did he see the suitcase. Her face was closed, as if an argument had been fought—and lost. “What’s going on?”

  “I called my parents. I haven’t spoken to them in a while, but I tracked them down and I’m going to visit with them.” She lifted her phone off her bed, checked it, and threw it back down. “I explained what was going on, and they’re worried.”

  “Wait, you hadn’t told them?” He couldn’t imagine a world in which his mom didn’t know that he’d been shot at. “Why not?”

  “You don’t understand my parents.” She waved him off. “They were busy. I didn’t want to bother them.”

  She was right. He didn’t understand her parents. How could being kept up-to-date about their daughter’s well-being be a bother? “You make it sound like you’re an inconvenience.”

  She blinked at him, but she didn’t rebuke his assumption. “It shouldn’t be any problem for me to stay with them for a little while. It will give the police time to do their jobs.”

  “You’re leaving?” The panic he thought he’d left in the car sprang forward again, full force.

  “Not forever.” She offered him a smile. “Just for a week or so.” But her movements were jerky, as if even they knew she was lying.

  “Charlie, no.” Reaching her in a long stride, he gathered her hands in his. “Come on. Give the police a little time. These kinds of investigations are difficult. Did they tell you that they could do anything else to keep you safe?”

  “They offered to do additional patrols of my house. But they couldn’t give me round-the-clock protection. Because they don’t know what they’re protecting me from.” Her mouth tightened, and he could see her frustration. She exhaled shakily and attempted a smile. As if it was fine that she needed protection from an unnamed threat.

  But the smile did nothing to conceal her fear. She’d already been in danger before, in Chicago. Living under that kind of constant threat was exhausting. Doing it twice in a lifetime… Well, he could see why she was ready to run.

  “Stay with me, then.” He was probably holding her fingers too tightly, but he got the impression that if he let go, she might disappear.

  She lifted her gaze to his, her eyes pleading, but her voice remained even, as if she were trying to pacify him. “What then, Hunter? Whatever horrible thing chasing me finds you, too?” Her grip tightened. “You know what I thought today, after they pulled me out from behind the concrete planter where I was hiding? As I brushed the debris from the gun blasts off of me, I couldn’t stop thinking that there wasn’t enough room back there for two people. What if someone I knew, someone I cared about, had been with me while I was the target of that gunman? What if someone I cared about—someone I loved—had been shot because of me?” Her eyes were full of pain, and she whispered, “I couldn’t live with that. Please, don’t ask me to.”

  Oh God, she’d been hiding behind a planter? He closed his eyes, hiding the flare of anger that came over him.

  He wiped her hair out of her eyes, cupping her cheeks in his hands. Then he dropped kisses on her upturned face, desperate to wipe the uncertainty and panic away. She closed her eyes, gripping his forearms, her breathing shallow.

  But he couldn’t kiss this away. He had dealt with guilt, had worried about what could have happened. That was heavy weight to bear.

  His brother had caused his accident. Not directly, but it was close enough. Will had twisted the parachute he’d worn, believing Lance would get it. He’d expected to scare the other man, to get him to quit rookie training. If Will was to be believed, he hadn’t meant to hurt anyone. He’d expected Lance to cut his first chute and deploy his reserve.

  But when Hunter had gotten the twisted parachute, he’d panicked. When he’d gone for his knife, it had slipped in his sweaty palm, and he’d been left with a jammed parachute. He’d attempted to detach it, but he’d been racing for the ground, running out of time. Lance had saved him, but he hadn’t recovered well, landing hard.

  There were so many things about that jump that could have gone differently, things that could have left others hurt—even killed—instead. While his own recovery had been long and arduous, he wouldn’t have wished any of what he had dealt with on anyone else.

  “What are you going to do, then, Char? You going to run away?” he whispered, still holding her face.

  She didn’t open her eyes but shook her head, her face rubbing against his hands. “I’m not running. It’s a trip. To let the police do their jobs.”

  She stepped back, breaking the contact and returning to the clothes on the bed, stacked in neat piles. Folding, she still didn’t make eye contact. “I’ll stay for a week, maybe two. The police have all of my information. They can keep going without having to worry about protecting me or any of the people around me who could get hur
t, too.”

  The way she mapped it all out sounded like she was convincing herself. It didn’t tell him anything about what was going on in her head.

  “Then why do I feel like I’ll never see you again?” His voice broke. Apparently he couldn’t hide any weakness from her. He should have known. She’d been there for his panic attacks and doubts about his future. Why pretend with her?

  Her hands stilled on her clothes, and her head dropped. So he was right. She was running. He wanted to be angry, but he could only manage a bittersweet sympathy. Of course she was afraid. Who wouldn’t be?

  “Are you ever planning to come home?” He wanted to ask if she planned to return to him, but the words lodged in his throat.

  Sinking down on the bed, she gazed up at him. “Hunter, I don’t know what’s going to happen. You have to understand how hard all of this is.”

  “I do understand. Truly. But instead of staying here, standing your ground, you’re giving up.” He shook his head. “You’ve been running your whole life. Don’t you want to stop?” He wanted her to stop, to stay with him. To lean on him when she was afraid.

  Color burst onto her cheeks, and she stood. “I have not been running. You don’t really know me that well.”

  “Oh, I know you, Charlie Jones.” He reached for her hand, but she remained out of his reach. “When we met, I feel like we recognized each other. When you’re around, I can sense you, as if we’re tied together, linked somehow. You can’t pretend you don’t feel that.”

  When her head dropped again, he reached for her, gripping her shoulders. “If you do, then stay. Fight for this.” Fight for us, he meant.

  But when she looked up again, she was already gone. “Some of us aren’t like you. You”—she waved his hand over him—“you kept going, even after the worst happened. I’m not that person. I’m not that strong. And I won’t put you or anyone else I care about in danger.” She inhaled, but he could hear how much she struggled to remain in control. “Some of us aren’t made for staying when things feel lost. I’m sorry.”