smooth, and heavy. I swallowed, as afraid of the weapon as I had been of him only moments before. “Do you know how to use it?”
I shook my head.
“It is not complicated. One does not need a fine education to take a life.”
“Uh-huh. What the hell am I doing with this gun?”
“You are protecting yourself.”
“From…?”
“Me. And every man who might wish to take advantage of a beautiful woman. Do you feel safe traveling to my house with me now?”
I blinked, but the gun remained, real and heavy and earnest. “Maybe…” I swallowed and tried not to pee in my pants. “…maybe I should just go home.”
He stared at me for a second, then nodded solemnly and shifted back into drive. “How shall I get there?”
He didn’t know my address after all. I thought that was refreshing and kind of a good sign. I believe everyone who’d tried to kill me thus far had had my address locked into their GPS systems.
I told him the directions, then stared down at the gun, turning it in my hand. “What kind is it?” It seemed like it should say on the product, like Doritos or Virginia Slims or other things that are likely to kill you.
“It is a Glock.”
“Is that good?”
He shrugged. “It will discharge a bullet. That is very nearly all I know. That and the fact that you must have protection.”
“Why do you think that is?”
He glanced at me, eyes fuck-me sober. “So that you remain safe.”
“I mean…” I pried my gaze from his, feeling a little bit sorry for myself. People kept trying to kill me, and I still couldn’t have sex with this guy. “Why me? Why do you think these things keep happening to me?”
He thought about that for a moment. Maybe he was afraid that if he gave the wrong answer I might toss myself out of the car, but it was unlikely. The gun looked so much more expedient.
“I believe it is because you are too good,” he said finally.
Here was a theory I hadn’t previously considered.
“You spend your days helping those who are deeply troubled. Do you not think it likely that these same troubles would come to rest on your own weary head now and again?”
I blinked, then thought about his theory as we rolled along the 210. Maybe the interstate was as hair-tearingly horrible as usual, but I didn’t notice. “David Hawkins was my mentor,” I said. “And my friend. I trusted him. Told him things….” My voice faded off. I pointed to my exit. He took it without question.
“I do not know this David Hawkins.”
“He was—
is
…” I cleared my throat, then gave him a few directions, until he finally pulled the Porsche onto the side of the little street I called home. “…a world renowned psychiatrist. And the first man who tried to kill me.”
He stared at me an instant, then got out of the car and came around to my side. Pulling open my door, he reached for my hand.
“Come,” he said. “We shall speak of these things inside.” Perhaps I hesitated a moment, because he added, “You may bring the gun.”
Harlequin met us at the door, bounding and panting. He seemed to have gotten over Swanson’s untimely death pretty well. Julio stroked the dog’s ears and said something sexy in Spanish. Harlequin grinned like a clown. Better him than me.
“I did not know you had a dog.”
I nodded numbly. “Can I get you something to drink?”
“No,” he said, and taking my arm led me firmly into the family room. Turning me at the couch, he pushed me gently down. “Today, you think of none but yourself. Consider me your servant,” he said, and raised his arms slightly. “What is your command?”
I stared at the width of his shoulders, his lover’s eyes, and cleared my throat.
“You must be hungry,” he said.
“A little,” I admitted, and set the gun on the cushion beside me.
“Good. Unfortunately, I am a terrible cook. I am not so bad at the ordering, however.”
I kept my gaze firmly on his. I wasn’t some oversexed, tuba-playing, cocktail waitress.
I shook my head.
“It is not complicated. One does not need a fine education to take a life.”
“Uh-huh. What the hell am I doing with this gun?”
“You are protecting yourself.”
“From…?”
“Me. And every man who might wish to take advantage of a beautiful woman. Do you feel safe traveling to my house with me now?”
I blinked, but the gun remained, real and heavy and earnest. “Maybe…” I swallowed and tried not to pee in my pants. “…maybe I should just go home.”
He stared at me for a second, then nodded solemnly and shifted back into drive. “How shall I get there?”
He didn’t know my address after all. I thought that was refreshing and kind of a good sign. I believe everyone who’d tried to kill me thus far had had my address locked into their GPS systems.
I told him the directions, then stared down at the gun, turning it in my hand. “What kind is it?” It seemed like it should say on the product, like Doritos or Virginia Slims or other things that are likely to kill you.
“It is a Glock.”
“Is that good?”
He shrugged. “It will discharge a bullet. That is very nearly all I know. That and the fact that you must have protection.”
“Why do you think that is?”
He glanced at me, eyes fuck-me sober. “So that you remain safe.”
“I mean…” I pried my gaze from his, feeling a little bit sorry for myself. People kept trying to kill me, and I still couldn’t have sex with this guy. “Why me? Why do you think these things keep happening to me?”
He thought about that for a moment. Maybe he was afraid that if he gave the wrong answer I might toss myself out of the car, but it was unlikely. The gun looked so much more expedient.
“I believe it is because you are too good,” he said finally.
Here was a theory I hadn’t previously considered.
“You spend your days helping those who are deeply troubled. Do you not think it likely that these same troubles would come to rest on your own weary head now and again?”
I blinked, then thought about his theory as we rolled along the 210. Maybe the interstate was as hair-tearingly horrible as usual, but I didn’t notice. “David Hawkins was my mentor,” I said. “And my friend. I trusted him. Told him things….” My voice faded off. I pointed to my exit. He took it without question.
“I do not know this David Hawkins.”
“He was—
is
…” I cleared my throat, then gave him a few directions, until he finally pulled the Porsche onto the side of the little street I called home. “…a world renowned psychiatrist. And the first man who tried to kill me.”
He stared at me an instant, then got out of the car and came around to my side. Pulling open my door, he reached for my hand.
“Come,” he said. “We shall speak of these things inside.” Perhaps I hesitated a moment, because he added, “You may bring the gun.”
Harlequin met us at the door, bounding and panting. He seemed to have gotten over Swanson’s untimely death pretty well. Julio stroked the dog’s ears and said something sexy in Spanish. Harlequin grinned like a clown. Better him than me.
“I did not know you had a dog.”
I nodded numbly. “Can I get you something to drink?”
“No,” he said, and taking my arm led me firmly into the family room. Turning me at the couch, he pushed me gently down. “Today, you think of none but yourself. Consider me your servant,” he said, and raised his arms slightly. “What is your command?”
I stared at the width of his shoulders, his lover’s eyes, and cleared my throat.
“You must be hungry,” he said.
“A little,” I admitted, and set the gun on the cushion beside me.
“Good. Unfortunately, I am a terrible cook. I am not so bad at the ordering, however.”
I kept my gaze firmly on his. I wasn’t some oversexed, tuba-playing, cocktail waitress.
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