Page 1

Gunner

T he dark-haired woman with the red and white polka dot dress has no idea that I’m standing just outside her window watching her.

With an array of food spread out in her tiny kitchen, the dishes sprawled out leisurely on her countertops and overflowing onto the round wood oak table, she looks like an advertisement for a nineteen fifties cooking magazine.

She’s a kindergarten teacher, not a chef, but she does this because she’s lonely and this gives her joy. On Sundays, she cooks and bakes long into the night.

I’ve missed most of it, given that full dark comes so much later in May, but at the moment, I’m treated to the sight of her bending over, her perfect curves and the lush swell of her tight ass and shapely hips accentuated by the dress.

She removes a steaming glass pan of lasagna from the stainless-steel stove, the thin glass window can’t block out smells of rich meat and the sharp tomato sauce that she’s made from scratch. My mouth waters, and despite a virtual lifetime of training to tune out my physical needs, my stomach cramps with hunger.

The scene is so domestic, that one would never know that it’s all a front, that this woman isn’t a qualified teacher. Her paperwork is fake. So is her name, her age, her country of birth, and whatever backstory she tells people.

Her wooden shingled house is painted green and consists of two bedrooms, one small kitchen, a tiny living room, and an unfinished basement. The front yard is three times the size of the house, bordered by a tall wooden fence with a broken gate. The backyard is miniscule, all the lot space allocated to the front. Two flower gardens trace the house, bisected by concrete stairs that lead to the front white wood door. A steel door opens off the back of the house, into what passes for a yard, it’s a weed-filled space with a clothesline strung from two metal posts that sags so low when in use, the clothes almost brush the ground.

Even in the transitional parts of Hart, there are adequate streetlights. They paint the yard in gold, but I’ve long since learned exactly where to stand so I don’t cast a shadow. Tall trees border the yard on either side, the thick trunks taking over her neighbor’s yards, but overhanging her house.

A festering rage rises in my chest as I stand amongst those branches. Hart might be the last place anyone would think to look for her, but couldn’t her asshole of a father at least ensure she has her property secured? No. They gave her a yard that anyone could hide out in.

Case in point.

Me.

For months.

Alright, years.

I promised myself after I tracked her here across the ocean, that it would be just once. I’d see her safe and that would be it. The trouble with one is that it always turns into two, two to three, three to nineteen hundred and ninety-two days.

Her bobbed hair bounces as she pours herself the smallest amount of red wine into the bottom of a bubble shaped glass. She swirls it, raises it to her lips, and though I can’t hear it, I imagine her small sigh of contentment. She always buys good wine. She was raised with everything, but it never spoiled her. She gave up all the fineries of her old life. All her miseries too. Family. Friends. Everyone and everything.

The wine is the one small pleasure from home that she still allows herself.

When she eats dinner, it’s always at the table by the window. She doesn’t compromise even though she’s alone. She doesn’t eat on her couch or in the reclining chair. She would never take a plate into the back bedroom and devour it in bed. Sometimes, she lights a candle in a jar, nurses a quarter glass of wine, and just sits at the table long after she’s done eating. She doesn’t distract herself with a book. Doesn’t do lesson plans there. She never uses her cellphone during dinner.

I’d give just about anything to know her thoughts. Not to read her mind like a creep, but to sit down and have a conversation with her in the language she hasn’t spoken in nearly six years. I want her to tell me how she feels about all of it, or just the simple shit, like how her day was. Her face is the opposite of mine. She has so many emotions on display, I could never pick out just one.

If she feels like a prisoner of her circumstances, she never shows it. She’s lucky to be alive, while others are not.

She knows this.

In the shadows, I raise one black gloved hand. The hood of my black sweater is drawn tightly around my face and the black balaclava covers my face, wicking away my every breath.

I hold my hand in the air, framing her lovely, oval shaped face. She has eyes so brown they’re almost black. She chooses her makeup and wears it quite heavily in order to disguise her natural olive skin tone. She doesn’t ever look out of place and it’s never too much. Never enough to make anyone wonder. Never enough to stand out, though by her natural beauty and her radiant kindness, she does that even without trying.

She spreads light wherever she goes.

I could never stand in that light. My home is the shadows.

She portions the lasagna while it’s still steaming hot, spooning it into glass containers so she has meals ready for those days when she doesn’t have time to cook. She’ll transfer some in the freezer later, when their contents are cold. Probably a few in the fridge.

My mouth waters, surprising me again. I’ve learned to block out the basic bodily functions. I was hungry all the time when I was younger, before I found the only kind of family I’d ever be fit for. Lucky for me, I found I have a knack for crime of many varieties. A natural born villain, if you will.

Far luckier, I’m also very good at pulling important men out of burning vehicles.

I didn’t know I had a talent for kidnapping until I stole this woman.

Her name is Diletta. It means beloved. Her father’s gem. Born to him when he and his wife were old and had given up hope of ever having children of their own blood.

She goes by Haley Black now, which doesn’t suit her at all.

I lower my hand slowly, realizing that I’ve been holding it in the air for far too long, framing Diletta’s sweet face. I’m so careful. Always.

But there’s always that time when you’re not careful enough.

Her head snaps to the window. In an instant, the spoon in her hand clatters to the casserole dish. Her serene expression transforms to one of horror, but there’s rage there too. It’s something to behold, this woman changing from the passive, innocent schoolteacher with a penchant for baking, to a warrior goddess.

I’m instantly hard as granite.

And dumb as fuck.

Instead of running off after giving myself away like a goddamn amateur, I stand transfixed, watching her whip out a Glock. I find the weapon distasteful myself, but in her hands, it looks right. My chest swells with pride. Her father told me that she’s been well trained. She could hold off one attacker, maybe two, but against many, she didn’t stand a chance.

I wasn’t the first kidnapper in her life.

Just the last, and so far, the only one who ever stole her to give her back her freedom.

Diletta gets away from the window and kills the lights. Smart woman. I approve.

But then the back door creaks open, slowly and carefully, and my brow creases beneath my mask in a frown. That’s stupid. If it was anyone else out here, she’d be at the disadvantage. Bravery is often just another word for stupidity, no matter how it’s done, and intentions count for nothing in the kind of lives we’ve led.

She steps out and away from the door.

“Hello?” Her voice is as sweet as all those desserts she pours her soul into. At first, there’s the slightest hint of fear, but then her tone hardens. “Who’s out here? I don’t need to call the police, asshole. I know how to use the gun I’m holding and you’re trespassing.”

I’m gone in an instant, turning and hauling myself over the fence. One of the boards is cracked and jagged at the top. I noted it months ago. There are nails sticking out all over the place, rusty and unsafe. I’ve wanted to fix that for Diletta for ages, but I can’t without giving myself away.

One bites me straight in the ass tonight. Or rather, in the forearm. My hoodie catches on it, and I tear it away with a hard, soundless jerk. Fabric tears. Not so soundless. I have a t-shirt on underneath, and when the hoodie gives way, there’s nothing there to save my skin from the nail.

It’s not just fabric that tears. I feel the metal biting into my skin. Deep. There’s going to be blood.

Another rookie move.

What the fuck is wrong with me? I don’t stop to analyze why I’m suddenly worse at this than when I was a little punk kid, stealing shit from all over the place just to have something to stave off the endless gnawing of hunger.

I keep to the shadows, my escape route well planned, and my body well-conditioned. The fire in my arm only adds to the adrenaline spiking my bloodstream. I use it to power down the streets, eating up the blocks without so much as a heavy breath, even in my combat boots.

The sigh let out when I reach my bike, parked nearly a mile away, is one of utter disgust at myself. How fucking stupid to leave my DNA behind.

It’s not like Diletta is going to call the police. Not when she’s in hiding.

I kick the Harley to life, the low growl a clear signal that one of Satan’s Angels is out tonight and people should steer clear and mind their fucking business. We might be a better club than most, but we own this town. I might not be wearing my cut, but I don’t need to be. A man as huge as I am, is easily recognizable.

And isn’t that just a fucking problem?

I doubt Diletta saw anything but the ghost of a shadow from where she was standing, but she knows now that someone was there. She’ll be more vigilant. I want her to be safe. I need her to be safe.

I’m not in love with her. Love is a laughable word.

I’m so much deeper. I’m fucking obsessed. Going a single night without seeing her will destroy me, but how can I go back to her yard again when I compromised everything?

Diletta can’t be the one who pays for this. I need to be there to protect her. I need to watch. Guard. Always.

Mine .

I need to fix this.