Page 9

Lynette

I knew our house was small, but having a man Bullet’s size in it makes it feel little better than a dollhouse.

The second we walked through the door, Willa gave me a sly look and announced that she was exhausted and just wanted to go to bed. She reasoned that we’d have to be up early to pack our things tomorrow, then walked off to her room, whispering to me that since she’d be wearing her earbuds to bed, I should feel free to make as much noise as I wanted while I was going to bed .

As in, not sleeping. As in, getting my pussy broken by a man who looks big enough to be a total freak in the sheets and very likely tear me in half.

And now, twenty minutes later, I’m just trying to keep it together. I haven’t gone to change into something less formal. I’ve kept my clothing on like a suit of armor.

It’s taken Bullet all this time to search the small garage, the tiny backyard, and to make sure the house was secure. He did a sweep of everything before he even let us inside.

He comes through the kitchen door, shutting it softly behind him. The locks click into place methodically. I’m standing by the fridge, my arms crossed over my chest, but it’s mostly to hide the fact that my nipples are harder than stones. Adrenaline still sings through my body so brutally that it makes me dizzy, but I have to admit that most of it isn’t from what happened tonight. It’s because there’s a huge man in my kitchen who looks every bit like a dangerous predator. A wolf in very obvious wolf’s clothing.

I’ll admit that his face doesn’t match. It’s the same hard face, but the magnetic pull he has probably comes from the fact that somehow his eyes always manage to remain soft. Not soft as in teddy bear soft, but soft as in inherently trustworthy.

“Are you hungry?” I can’t say that I am, but I suddenly remember the poor failed pie left behind at the club. At the very least, it was a way to keep my hands busy.

“I suppose I could be.” His dark eyes sweep over me and a strange restlessness bursts to life in my stomach. It’s like a reactor at my core, sending off enough energy that I could go out there and compete in a car race, but on foot.

“Do you want a sandwich?” My mind goes to a dark place, of me being the sandwich, pressed up between Bullet’s hard body with the wall at my back.

“Yes, thank you.” He pulls out a seat at the table and sinks down into the wooden chair. It’s a solid set, one of the first things I bought new after purchasing the house, but it creaks under his weight.

I find mayo, roast beef from the deli, lettuce, a dubious tomato, and a jar of pickles with only two left. I set that on the counter next to a bag of buns I hope aren’t rock hard.

“There’s not much choice. I haven’t gone out for groceries all week. I was… busy working on other things.” I wanted to give him an update on the security footage, but I didn’t want to do it over the phone. I got it on Wednesday, but since I was heading to the club on Friday, I thought I’d tell him everything then.

“The nightclub gave you the video?”

“Thankfully, they did. I didn’t have to get a subpoena, which might be difficult now that, uh, now that I’m without a job and everyone in this state is probably against me.”

“I don’t believe that. Just because one judge was corrupt and an asshole, doesn’t mean they all are.”

“It’s a lucky thing that, after getting fired, they were still willing to send it a personal email when I called.”

“Does it show that I didn’t do anything?”

I sniff the meat, hoping it’s still good. I can’t remember what day I even got it and there’s no best before date on the package. “I’ve watched it a few times. It clearly shows Willa being dragged to the dance floor and she’s pretty halfhearted about it.” Seeing her face in the black-and-white footage made me want to get ahold of Harold’s piece of shit kid and beat him senseless myself. “You look like you’re on a holy terror when you went after them, so that might cause some problems.” That part, too, had given me shivers, the look of pure intent on Bullet’s face. He could have been capable of ripping actual limbs off, so Donny probably got away lightly. “The footage isn’t all that clear on the headbutting bit, but you can see Donny’s face dip down. Yours doesn’t appear to come up. And then he’s freaking out, grabbing his nose, bleeding all over, and the bouncers are taking you both outside.”

“If we showed it to Harold, would it be clear?”

That’s obviously the part Bullet cares about. Harold is vastly more dangerous than any judge or courtroom at the moment.

“I think he might see what he wants to see.”

“Fuck.”

“Maybe not.”

“Are there other angles? Other footage?”

“That’s all they had. I’m sorry.”

“For a club that size to only have one feed…”

“It seems sloppy, I’ll admit, especially for such a seedy place. You’d think they’d have problems all the time and they’d need to cover their ass.”

Bullet’s brows crush together in a deep frown. His palms rest flat on the square espresso-hued tabletop. It’s got seating for four, but those large palms take up just about all the room there is.

What would those hands feel like on my body?

He could break you, break you, break you. You’d enjoy it.

I grab a knife and slice far too forcefully into the overripe tomato. It pretty much explodes, juicing red pulp all over the place.

I snatch the towel off the stove to soak it up.

“The tomato is squishy.”

“Doesn’t matter. I’ll eat anything.”

Don’t go there. Don’t you dare go there. Of course, an image of me spread out on my bed, my skirt pushed up around my hips, him feasting on my pussy pops up in my head. My body turns into a sizzling inferno, my hands shaking as I wash the lettuce and chop the rest of the tomato, slice pickles, and assemble it all on a bun that’s only stale, not rock hard.

I wonder what it would feel like for him to put his rock-hard cock inside me, inch by inch.

Oh. My. God. I need to sleep. I need to take all the melatonin. I need to do that right now, but with my luck, I’d only go straight into dreams that I couldn’t control.

I set the two sandwiches in front of Bullet, who eyes them, but doesn’t take them.

“The deli meat might not be edible. Actually, the whole thing is doubtful.”

“Getting sent all over the world gives you an ironclad stomach.”

“I hope so.” It would be in poor taste to food poison him after all that he’s done tonight.

“Aren’t you going to eat?”

“I’m not hungry.” Unless you’re on offer, no thanks.

I sink into the chair across from him, so far back from the table that I should be at a safe range, but our knees almost graze. My one leg starts bouncing with nervous energy and I can’t stop fiddling with my watch.

It should be more attractive to think about wrestling a grizzly bear than to keep having thoughts about going to bed with a man I shouldn’t want.

Correction. I shouldn’t be continuously allowing my mind to keep returning to a place of wrestling in bed with an attractive grizzly bear of a man, because he’s a client and that wouldn’t be professional or even legal.

He’s not a client yet , my traitorous mind offers up.

Dating isn’t something I do. Not only did I not have time, I straight up didn’t want a partner. I didn’t trust anyone around Willa, and when she was older, I was busy building my career and didn’t need distractions. Sure, there were a few men here and there, but the regret was always worse than what little satisfaction I got out of the encounter. In the end, toys and my own fingers were far less awkward.

All those years of ignoring my body’s needs seem to pile up, crashing down on me like a flash flood after an exceptionally dry spell, and there’s nothing I can do to stop it from happening. Sandbags? Please. This is the kind of flood where the waters are twenty feet deep.

More like ten or so odd inches long.

I jerk so hard on my watch that the clasp undoes, and it clatters to the table. I quickly scoop it up, holding it tenderly and checking for damage before tucking it into my pocket.

Bullet devours the first sandwich in two bites, but takes at least three to finish the second. He grunts and sits back like he’s satisfied.

It would be delightful to satisfy him.

I duck my chin down so that he can’t see the blatant want on my face. “Do you—we have snacks. Uh, cookies? Willa made some yesterday.”

“Yes, please. Can’t turn down a homemade cookie.”

I race to the tiny pantry, finding the bright pink plastic container. The rich aroma of chocolate chip goodness hits me as soon as I crack the lid. I set them down on the table, then fill the kettle for tea. I don’t want tea. I don’t care if Bullet doesn’t want it. I’m making it. I need somewhere else to look other than his face, his hands, his body, and his mouth.

I gulp, trying to be subtle, and it sounds like a gunshot.

“Maybe we can just show Harold the footage and he’ll back off. This whole thing stemmed from the fact that his kid lied to him. He might see what he wants to see, and that would be unfortunate, but maybe he’ll be reasonable.”

“And go back to being our club’s lawyer after escalating like a crazy person, getting you fired, stalking your sister, and burning a business down? I think we’re beyond reasonable.”

“I didn’t say everything could go back to normal.”

As soon as the kettle boils, I throw two Earl Grey teabags into the monster-sized brown teapot—one of Willa’s thrift scores—and fill it to the brim. There’s probably enough tea for eighteen people.

I carry it to the table before it’s too hot to lift, throwing a crocheted hot pad down first. Also one of Willa’s finds. Pretty much all the small furnishings in this place have been thrifted, but somehow, it works with the furniture and the fabric blinds that were custom fitted to every window and cost an obscene amount of money. I won the battle on those two things, and man, do I hear about it every single day, as Willa complains that our couch, the table and chairs, and even the beds have no souls.

“Do you take cream?”

“I don’t know. What’s in that?” he points at the teapot.

“Earl Grey tea.”

“Never had it. If you’d be so kind as to make a mug how you think best, I would appreciate it.”

The polite words don’t trip me up. It’s Bullet’s easy willingness to try something that he’s never had before, though anyone would say that big macho men and little teacups don’t go hand in hand.

“Is your club going to do something terrible if Harold won’t stop?”

Bullet shrugs casually, like we’re still talking tea here. “They’ll do something, but I don’t think it’ll be terrible. That would be traced right back to us, and Tyrant doesn’t mess with murder at the best of times.”

“Have you ever killed someone?” I blurt, like an imbecile, then add even more foolishly, “I mean, off the record.” There’s no way he should tell me this one way or the other.

He leans back in his chair. It creaks once, like that’s the only warning he’ll get before the thing collapses into a pile of kindling. “I was a soldier for twenty years.”

“You’re still a soldier. Just not the same kind of soldier.”

“That’s not the way our club works. We don’t get our marching orders like other clubs would hand down to their men.” He turns his hands palms up. “I’m not gonna pretend these hands aren’t bloodstained.”

I’ve never justified myself to anyone before, but tonight I feel the need to make it obvious that I wasn’t asking so I could turn into a walled-off, judgmental bitch again. “Mine are hardly clean either. Look at the job I was doing.”

“If you’re asking because you need to know for yourself, then I stand by that. My hands are bloodstained. I didn’t join the club to pick it back up again. I didn’t have much family left and was looking for somewhere to belong. Somewhere I could just be who I was.”

His words physically hurt. My throat aches, but it’s nothing compared to the cramp in my stomach and my chest.

“Is my past as sad and violent as what some of those guys have known? Hardly. I was raised by a single mom. Grew up poor. She died young of cancer. I got leave for a few months to look after her, and when she was gone, I didn’t have anywhere else to go, but right back to it. I didn’t hate it. It was a family of sorts, and I was always the loner type. Never had any good friends.”

I don’t know why he’s giving me this intimate look into his life. I don’t know what to say, so I stay quiet and just listen.

“I liked books, but was shit at school. I couldn’t focus. I’d probably get diagnosed with something now, but I think they pretty much just slap that shit on everyone if you don’t want to sit still and regurgitate what you’re told without so much as asking a single question or having an independent thought. But anyway…” His sigh breaks over the kitchen like a gust of wind. “I still have ties with some of the guys I served with. They’re good men for the most part, but none live close.”

After he tells me all of that, I’m at a loss. I’m not good at emotions, at sharing, or opening myself up. Willa was right when she said I need friends. Outside of lawyering, I have no idea how to even talk to people.

My throat works and I finally come up with a question. “Were you born in Hart?”

“No. In Portland.”

I don’t know why that surprises me. “How did you find the club?”

“One of my buddies who got out a few years before I did, met a Canadian girl. I was driving up to visit them. Hart was on the way. I stopped in for a bite to eat at Patterson’s. It had a homey feel and I hadn’t eaten before I left. Just got in the truck and decided to go on impulse. There were a few guys there, having lunch. I was staring at them like an idiot, and one of them was Zale Grand, Tyrant’s old man. He was a decent guy at one time.”

That sounds ominous. I don’t know what Zale did to his son, but from the shadow on Bullet’s face, it wasn’t good.

“I guess I had a certain look about me, because he asked if I’d be interested in prospecting for the club. I told him I was just passing through, but when I was back, I’d come see him, and I did.”

I can’t stop the smallest smile from peeking out. Bullet notices and responds in kind, which makes my heart race madly.

“I know, it’s a funny story. Pretty token.”

“No. It’s not that. It’s just… I’m sorry, but I did think there must be a height and weight requirement to be a biker. You’re all so huge.”

Bullet’s eyes dance and his smile grows. He’s so beautiful this way.

My pulse beats wildly at my neck. I did that. I made him smile. I’ve never felt a glow of pride like the one that filters through me now. It’s insane, the smallest accomplishment, but I don’t care.

“We’re not all this big. Just the few that you’ve seen so far, I guess. It’s more the inside stuff that pretty much fundamentally makes us all the same. Just lonely, fucked-up souls searching for some kind of purpose, rest, and family. A place that we can breathe.”

Was I breathing? Why have I felt like these past few days have been days where I could actually draw a lungful of air? I should have been straight up panicked about not having a job, getting blacklisted, having to move and start all over again.

“Sometimes, when life gives us the shit lemons, when we peel them open, we get a surprise and find them to just be regular lemons after all. Good for token lemonade, or squeezing on fish or Greek ribs.”

Laughter bursts out before I can put a damper on it. It’s not the little chuckle I give where appropriate, even when I don’t find things the least bit amusing. There’s nothing token about this. It’s a laugh that comes deep from my belly and leaves the cold spots inside me feeling slightly less frigid.

This man isn’t a thug, and if I would have given him even half a second of consideration, or half a chance, I would have realized that long before now. He’s smart too. I should never have judged him as being a cliché himself. A toxic male caveman who reveled in his hedonism.

I get the cream from the fridge, then force myself to sit down despite the restless energy that makes me feel caged when I’m still. I carefully pour tea into two mugs, my wrist just about breaking off from the weight of the teapot. I add a splash of the whipping cream in each.

That’s right. Only the good stuff.

“Just wait a minute, unless you want to scald your mouth.”

“Doesn’t sound like my idea of a good time.”

“The worst burn I ever gave myself was on a potato.”

His long lashes flutter in a quick blink. “A potato?” He doesn’t believe me, but at least he’s not laughing riotously.

“It stuck to the top of my mouth. Burned me so bad that it hurt for close to two weeks. Eating was torture.”

“My god. Those things can be dangerous.”

“It’s like getting wasabi stuck between your lip and gums.”

He chuckles, pointing a finger at me. “Now that, I can sympathize with.”

I laugh again too, savoring the feeling as it rolls through me. Small talk to me is the equivalent of sticking a fork in my own eye, but is that what we’re doing here? I’m surprised how easy it feels now that we’ve started. “You said you like to read. What books do you enjoy?”

“Not law books.”

“Does anyone really enjoy those?”

His eyes narrow, pegging me with a stern look. “You can’t bullshit a bullshitter.”

“What are you bullshitting about?”

“Nothing. That just sounds good, doesn’t it?”

More like, he knows about every single assumption I’ve never made about him. My face heats in shame, so I duck over my mug, inhaling the rich aroma.

“I didn’t like reading the really dry ones, but some of them weren’t so bad. They were interesting. If you’re passionate about something, you can get into them.”

He groans, swiping a hand over his face and down his long beard. I refuse to get another mental image of me in some contorted position, using that beard as a handhold the way some men wrap a woman’s hair around their fist.

“My favorite is probably anything and everything about Ancient Rome, but my other guilty pleasure has to be Shakespeare.”

“That’s… wow . You make me feel distinctly uncultured. The only stuff I’ve ever read of the bard was what we had to read in high school. Romeo and Juliet , and Hamlet .”

“As with most things, I find the popular plays to be the least rewarding, but they’re fun to see live. You really get a feel for it when you see it acted out.”

I’ve never thought of that.

The guilt comes again, swamping me. I never wanted to be that person. I hated people who judged my mother, not knowing her story. How have I stepped across to the other side and become someone I don’t even recognize? Why did I think being cold was a good form or protection against life and all the goodness it could offer?

I swallow my shame down a burning throat. I’m not ready for this conversation to be over. “What else do you like?”

“True crime, thrillers, mystery, westerns, biographies, non-fiction, and I’ve read a few romcoms in my time. I assume you were asking about books.”

Thank god I wasn’t drinking this tea yet, or it would have exploded all over the table. I snap my head up, but he’s either got the world’s best poker face or he’s not yanking my crank.

“Romcoms?”

“Sure, if they’re well written.”

“I haven’t read a single romcom ever.”

“You’re missing out.”

“I’m pretty much missing out on everything. I haven’t had time for reading the fun stuff in years.”

Bullet sips his tea, the mug ridiculous in his bear paw of a hand. He grins, the creases around his eyes crinkling deeply with it. I think he’s learned that he likes Earl Grey.

And I’ve learned that I like this.

Talking. Camaraderie. Being close to someone, even if it’s just talking books.

“I guess that’s the silver lining. Harold is a dangerous asshole who hasn’t yet been apprehended or stopped, and your association with me got you fired, rattled, and relocated, but at least you have a small amount of time for books now. And you can choose which cases you want to take on. You can make yourself a partner, and all the money you make, you get to keep, slash overhead costs and taxes.”

“I could get a cat if I could set my own hours.”

“There you go! I love cats.”

Another surprise. “Better than dogs?” I splutter.

“There is no better when it comes to animals. I love all of them. A guy in the club, Crow, he got himself a dog not too long ago. She’s a good dog, her name’s Connie. A German Shepherd. She got hit by a car right in front of them.”

“Holy fuck.”

Something passes between us without any words being needed. I don’t even do that with Willa, have a silent communication where we just seem to understand each other.

He steeples his hands on the table and doesn’t even attempt to hide how vastly entertained he is. “I think that might be the first curse word I’ve ever heard you say.”

“It probably won’t be the last. You should hear what I say in my head most days.”

“It’s always so much more interesting in our heads, isn’t it?”

“Sometimes it’s dark and unpleasant.” Where the hell did that slip out from?

His eyes darken and hold mine, shadows leaping and twisting between us. I can’t back down and he’s not going to pretend that he didn’t hear it. If anything, I appreciate his ability to meet that head on. “Yeah? Those times are shit.”

“They are shit. I’ll drink to that, even if it’s just tea.” I hold my cup up and he does the same.

We drink together in silent communion. How is it that I feel as though I’ve been reborn sitting here? That after trailing down the wrong path, so blind, I’ve opened my eyes, my hands, and my heart, and let all the energy in the world flow back into me. I’m usually so far removed from emotion, so cut off from true feeling, that I don’t even remember what it’s like to allow myself those small moments and mercies.

I have to stem the swelling in my chest before it breaks over me and shatters me. I’m not ready for this yet. I can’t go from ice to fire. You can’t warm yourself that way when you’ve been deathly cold. It can actually kill you.

“Has anyone ever told you you’re doing a good job? That you’re quite amazing? That you’re straight up motherfucking inspirational?”

“Stop.” If he doesn’t, I’m going to lose it. Control. Myself. The tears burn and burn at the backs of my eyes. I study the table, tracing my finger over the rim of the mug.

“I think you need to hear it,” he insists, those dark, honest notes a melody drifting through a body that’s forgotten how to dance.

“I’m the boring one. The dry one. The strict, unfun, unpopular, humorless, stick-up-the-ass, plain sister.” I shoot up, but stand there, towering over the table. Now that the fight has leached out, all I have left is the flight, but I can’t seem to even do that.

Bullet rises slowly and I’m transfixed by the way his huge body moves. The tension in the air between us fairly radiates through the house. It’s a wonder that the ground doesn’t shake and the windows don’t burst out at the building pressure.

When he moves towards me, I don’t move at all, missing my next step in this dance that we’ve been doing around each other. His hand closes around my wrist, but not like a manacle. His touch is as tender as the brush of morning fog, his fingers skating up my skin beneath my blazer.

My jaw clenches tightly, my mind in such turmoil that my brain can’t give proper impulses. I don’t pull away.

He circles his thumb over my pulse point. The vein is literally leaping in my wrist where my watch should be. “You’re wrong,” he practically purrs. “Definitely about one part.”

My eyes slam shut. “I hope it’s the stick in the ass bit.”

“It’s slowly working its way out.”

My eyes fly open to find him leaning even closer, his dark, blown-out gaze on my face, as seductive as black midnight, calling me to fold myself in its embrace, to lose myself where no one will ever see.

“I was talking about the plain bit.” He steps into me, nearly pressing our bodies up against each other. There’s nothing more separating us than a thin bit of air. Adrenaline creeps into my bloodstream, jacking up my heartrate. He can feel it. His thumb is still pressed to my wrist. “You couldn’t be anything less than beautiful if you tried. You’re gorgeous because you’re natural. You’re not pretending to be something you aren’t.”

Sensation explodes in my chest, raw energy swamping me. Combined with the adrenaline, it’s like getting into a car accident. “Yes, I am. I pretend every day. I have since my mother died,” I snap.

“That’s not what I’m talking about.”

I’m filled with the urge to prove him wrong. If I can’t make my body pull away, I can at least refute him. “I’ve pretended to have it all together, to have the answers, to not be scared, or sad, or worried. I hide behind a professional exterior because that’s what people want to see. I’ve been regulating my emotions and suppressing others for so long that I don’t even know what real feeling is anymore.”

His hand tightens, and for just an instant, I want him with everything that I am. I want to curl up in his arms, to be enfolded in his strength, to be supported and held up. I want to lean on him and draw from him, to not be the strong one, just for a moment.

That’s insanity. I’m wrong with anyone .

He leans down, his breath hot against my face, delicious and fragrant, just like the tea we drank. “You’re beautiful. I’m not changing my mind about that. Everything else, you’ve done because you had to. You’re a fighter and you had someone worth fighting for and protecting. That’s called love, and I think it’s remarkable.”

Unlike most other men, he’s not just saying the words. The sincerity of his words blankets me, a comfort I didn’t know I needed.

He’s so close that if I arched up, he’d take it as an invitation and lower his mouth to mine. The dark bloom in my lower belly and the buzz in my thighs nearly doubles me over. I need to move, to protest that we can’t do this, to put space between us, but it’s hard to do anything when I can’t even draw a breath.

I sweep my eyes over his face, pleading silently, but I don’t know that I’m giving him the right signals. I don’t know that I’m asking for him to let me go. My body is an inferno, begging for him to draw me in.

My hand is drawn to his cheek against my permission. I rest it there, his beard tickling the underside of my wrist. He inhales sharply, which draws a gasp from me in turn. He bends his head, but instead of claiming my lips, he ducks lower, inhaling along my jawline by my ear, right where I dab perfume every morning.

His grunt is involuntary, but ends in a growl.

My nipples bead so hard and fast, and the throbbing between my legs is so brutal that I can’t ignore it. I know my panties are soaked, and for a second, I’m panicked he can smell it. Me. Like a beast.

I want him to.

What would it be like if he picked me up, slammed me onto the table, and tore my clothes off my body, scraping his teeth over my nipples, worshipping between my legs with his hot mouth? I’d part my legs for him after, wrap them around his waist and welcome his thick cock into my body.

Fuck.

His lips caress my leaping pulse, kissing along the column of my neck. His beard tickles my tender skin, arousing me strangely, throwing me into painful awareness.

This is what it would be like to feel alive when I didn’t even realize how dead I’ve been.

His kisses scald me, but he never goes for my mouth. His lips are tender at my jawline and then he chastely kisses my cheek. It’s not even sexual, but it is intimate, which sends both tendrils of heat and panic twisting through me.

It’s the latter that finally gives me the strength to pull away.

“No,” I plead brokenly, wrapping my arms around myself. “I can’t do this, Bullet.”

I can’t look at him, though I want to trace my eyes over his body to see if there are signs that I’ve affected him the same way he’s done to me. He has more control that I do, because he’s able to control his breathing, while I’m all over the place.

He backs off immediately, walking over to the table and pouring himself another mug of tea. His hands are firm and steady on the teapot, not a shaking, trembling mess like mine.

“Get a few hours of sleep,” he says, nothing angry or offended in his tone. “I’ll keep watch. You can trust me with your safety and with Willa’s.”

If an army was coming for us, I know one man couldn’t hold them off, but for some crazy reason, I want to believe him.

If I stand here a second longer, I’m going to lose my resolve. I’m going to beg him to taste me, to drink me like he’s drinking that tea, scalding hot with steam curling all around his face.

I’ve never known myself to be such a coward, but I give a nod he can’t see, and race away from the kitchen.

I lock myself in the bathroom and run the tap on cold, splashing my face with the water until my hands are numb. I attack my teeth with my toothbrush, then throw open the door and creep stealthily down the hall like it’s strewn with traps.

I shed my clothes and throw on a set of silk pajamas. I love the feel of the fabric against my skin, but tonight, it might as well be burlap.

My body is a livewire, sparkling crazily as I slip between the cotton sheets and turn off the lamp on the nightstand.

My first instinct is to thrust my hand between my legs and take care of the aching sensation, but if I do that, I’ll be thinking of Bullet. I’ll want it to be his hands, his mouth, his cock.

It’s wrong.

It’s wrong and I won’t allow myself to go there. Even in my mind, it’s still dangerous.

I’m three hundred percent sure that I’m not going to be able to sleep, but after a few minutes of listening to Bullet’s steady, low tones from the living room as he talks to someone from his club, I feel my grainy eyes close.

Lulled into a sense of security that comes from having a virtual warrior in the house, standing between us and whatever is out there, I find the darkness soothing, not frightening, and it’s easier to lay down my spinning thoughts and give myself up to the stillness than it usually is.