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But it wasn't until my hand reached for the knob and I pulled the door open a few inches that I knew.
Someone was in the room.
Turning back, I reached into the toiletries bag on the counter, pulling out the gun as I turned on the sink faucet to muffle the sound of pulling back the slide lock, then cutting the water, opening up the door as I took a slow breath.
"Ruger LCP. That's a girly gun," Roan's voice informed me, casual, carefree.
And there he was, sitting in the rolling office chair, turned away from the desk.
"Yeah, well, it fits in my makeup case," I told him, lifting my chin a little, trying to tell if he was armed.
"That M&P Shield was sexy," he added, meaning the gun I'd used to shoot him with. "One or two-point-oh?"
"Two. Has a better grip."
"Thinner too. You have small hands. The SR9C under the bed is nice too."
He swept the place.
He was in my room long enough to sweep the place, and I had no idea.
What the hell was wrong with me?
"You missed the-"
"Springfield XD in your side pocket of your duffle?" he cut me off, smirk pulling at his lips. "Gotta say, keeping your extra ammo in a tampon case is one I haven't seen before."
There was a small, irrational surge of insecurity at the idea of him finding my tampon supply. But that was just a remnant of the old me, the me he used to know, and therefore, his presence reminded me of.
"What can I say, I'm resourceful."
"Who is your supplier?"
"Why? You want to partner up with them?" I asked, pretending not to notice the way my hair was dripping water down my arms, my back, my chest. "A high-level spy to an arms-dealer. Did the fall hurt?"
"Wasn't quite as bad as a bullet to the thigh."
"It's a little flesh wound."
"Ever have a bullet fished out by a cage fighter?"
"Cage fighter? No. A jewel thief in Cadiz once, yes."
"You got shot?"
Was that concern in his voice?
No.
It couldn't be.
That was just the old me trying to find something endearing in him, something good.
The new me knew better.
"Yep. Tore through some ass fat I likely needed to lose anyway," I told him, shrugging it off. I hadn't been able to do so when I'd gotten shot, mind you.
Cadiz was about fourteen years ago. I had been young, green, stupid, and soft. It had hurt. I had cried. Marco, the jewel thief, took pity on me, and patched me up. I still had the bullet in a jewelry box in my storage locker. I wasn't one for keepsakes as a whole, but your first bullet, yeah, that was something you held onto.
"Why'd you get shot?"
"I asked the wrong people the wrong question."
"What people? What questions?"
"See, you seem to be a little confused. I'm the one with the gun here," I reminded him, waving it side-to-side a bit.
"I see that," he agreed, nodding.
Calm.
Casual.
Non-threatening.
Which was exactly what a me who was on my game would have known was suspicious, would have reacted to immediately.
But, as just about everything that had happened over the past twelve or so hours had proved, I was very much so off my game.
I figured this out way too late, though.
One second, I had the clear upper-hand.
The next, Roan was out of his chair faster than anyone, in general, could move, let alone one with an only hours-old hole to the leg should have been able to, his hand grabbing my wrist as he shoved me backward, knocking me into the wall, pinning the wrist - and therefore the gun- up against the wall above my head.
His whole body pressed into mine, solid, familiar in a distant way. And there was nothing, nothing between us save for a thin towel and his jeans and tee. I could feel every etch of his muscles, the hard curve of his hip bones crushing into my pelvis.
"You're pretty good these days, Mack. But, sorry to break it to you, sweetheart, I'm better."
It was the endearment that did it.
Managed to break through the fog in my brain, silence the little voice that wanted me to memorize the way his body fit to mine.
It was all gone in a flash.
Leaving only the familiar rage in its place.
Arm pinned, body pinned, I didn't have a lot of choices for a clean fight.
But lucky for me, I had long since overcome my aversion to fighting dirty. The fact of the matter was, when you were up against someone taller, wider, stronger, more trained than you were, you had to use whatever you could in your favor. Hair pulling to ear biting to groin kneeing.
Or, in this case, using the ball of your free hand to ram down hard on a new, aching wound.
"Fuck," Roan roared, hand loosening on my wrist, giving me enough freedom to yank away, flip the gun in my hand, grip, swing, whipping him across the cheekbone before he could even see straight from the searing pain in his leg.
