Page 45 of Positively Pricked

His nostrils flared, and he reached out, as if preparing to shake some sense into me. His hands never made it, because suddenly, he was yanked back by a shadowed force.

That force was Zane Bennington, who had crossed the short distance and pulled the guard away – all in the blink of an eye.

Already, he'd spun the guy around, giving him a hard shove in the opposite direction. The guy stumbled backward before catching his balance. His mouth opened, as if preparing to lodge some sort of protest. But then, he apparently thought better of it. He clamped his mouth shut and looked from Zane to me. His gaze narrowed, and he looked almost ready to spring.

Zane said, "Whatever you're thinking, don't."

After a long, tense moment, the guard lifted his hands in mock surrender and took a single step backward. "I wasn't thinking anything."

Zane flicked his head toward the guard shack. "Now, get your shit and go. You're fired."

"But…" The guard shook his head. "You can't fire me."

Zane gave him a look. "I can. And I did."

"But, uh, I don't work for you."

"Right, you're done," Zane said. "So get the fuck out."

The guy cleared his throat. "I mean, I was hired by the Board of Governors."

I wasn't familiar with the term, but I could only assume that he meant something along the lines of a home owners' association. After all, this did seem like the kind of place that would have one.

"So really," the guard said, "I work for them."

"Not anymore," Zane said.

"But—"

"Get out," Zane said, "or I'll toss you out."

From the look on Zane's face, he was willing to make good on the threat. Still, it was one of the strangest things I'd ever seen, because for all of Zane's harsh words, he looked in absolute control.

And for some reason, that was ten times more terrifying than if he'd completely lost it.

I looked from one guy to the other. In spite of the guard's beefy size, he was decidedly outgunned in the face of Zane's quiet menace.

Already, the guard was stepping backward. "But my ride's not here."

Zane flicked his head toward the road. "So walk."

The guard looked down and muttered, "Son-of-a-bitch."

Zane took a single step closer. "What's that?"

"Nothing," the guard said. And then, with a final muttered curse, he turned and trudged to the guard shack. He opened the door, went inside, and emerged a moment later, carrying an uncorked bottle of wine and a big, brown backpack, bursting with who-knows-what.

He slung the backpack over one shoulder and gave me one final, disgruntled look as he turned away and began trudging toward the road that led into the neighborhood.

Watching him go, I couldn’t help but feel at least a little sad. It was true that Zane probably did the right thing – as much as I hated to admit it – but it was still such a sorry sight that I almost felt like crying.

And I wasn't a cryer.

Who knows? Maybe itwasn'tbecause of the guard. Maybe it was because, well, today had been one giant crap sandwich, and I'd had just about enough. All I wanted now was to be home, away from all of this, away fromhim– the guy who'd brought me nothing but trouble.

I glanced at the exit gate and wondered if I'd need someone to open it. If so, I was screwed, unless –damn it– my gaze shifted to Zane. Wouldheopen it for me?

He was the only person around, and I yet hated the idea of asking him for anything.

Summoning my last bit of optimism, I decided that the gate would open automatically, if only I pulled up my car. With that in mind, I turned away, intending to get the hell out of Dodge.

But before I could climb into my car, Zane's voice cut through the shadows. "What the hell were you thinking?"