Page 71 of Red Retaliation

“Think what you like.” Red cuts me a withering look. “Whatever it is youdothink, save it until the morning. I’m knackered and I’ve had enough of you and everyone!”

My mouth opens to launch into another diatribe of exactly whatI’msick of when he removes the towel and chucks it unceremoniously through the en-suite door. All I can do is stare at his heavily muscled legs and allow my eyes to move up his body where the very distinct and large outline of...

Hang on!

“What are you doing?” I squeak as Red pulls back the bedcovers.

“Getting into bed, what does it look like?”

Grabbing the sheet, I pull it back over myself, the long T-shirt I’m wearing now feeling inadequate protection. “Aren’t... aren’t you putting something else on?”

Flopping down on the pillow next to mine, Red flashes me anunimpressed look. “Why? This is my bed, and now I’m in it. I’ve only put underwear on to be polite. I don’t usually wear any.”

My throat goes dry, and everything else I want to say desiccates and drifts into the ether. I’m grateful when he turns over to face away so he can’t see the fire in my cheeks.

Oh God.

I remain silent.What should I do? Christ, this is dreadful.

There’s no point shouting at him when I doubt I can string words together. Besides, he’s not listening. But how can I sleep withhimin here? In this bed. Withme?

I grit my teeth. If I can be so easily distracted, it just underlines how pathetic I am.

I swipe away a thin layer of perspiration from my brow, his scent clouding around me. Despite the shower, the heady aroma he alone has remains.

Holding my breath, I listen.Has he gone to sleep?

He has - his breathing has changed. How can men just go to sleep with the flick of a switch? I’ll lie awake for hours with the frustrations, worries and stress of the day going round my head in relentless repetitiveness, yet he has no cares in the world!

I tense as he snuffles and turns onto his back but can’t help taking the opportunity to study him. It’s easier when his eyes aren’t ripping a hole into the center of my being.

I focus on the tattoo - the edge of what has intrigued me for days. The man’s chest and large muscular arms are covered with tattoos. He’s got many of them, but it’sthatone.

I trace the outline of the scorpion on the right side of his chest with my eyes, its sting spiraling up onto his neck. The scorpion is black, and the sting is red.

Scorpio Red - the name of the casino.

Is it something to do with that or a parody ofhisname - a scorpion with a red sting? A killer filled with red poison.

Him.

Does it mean that? Does it mean anything? What do any of these tattoos mean?

Furthermore, why do I care?

I consciously stop my hand from moving. It was halfway to Red’s shoulder. I shudder, knowing I was about to touch the almost-healed bullet wound.

I focus on the pink, indented flesh of the scar he took for me that night in the car park, and my confusion returns. If Red has the agenda I believe he does, why did he take that bullet and honor everything he’s promised so far, including not laying a hand on me?

Is it possible I’ve got him wrong?

No!

I quickly remind myself of that fact, annoyed that I’m my own worst enemy.

But what if I’m wrong...

And that does look sore...