Page 80 of Pistol Whipped

“Eventful,” Dutch answers. His weariness is enough of a clue to make Tina frown.

While Dutch grabs his stuff, I make quick work of gathering both mine and Kitten’s shit. Mostly Kitten’s, actually. In just a few weeks, she’s gone from scrawny street cat to one very spoiled princess, and I’m happy I could make that happen. Still, she watches me apprehensively as I collect her things. This bus has become her whole world, and anxious mews as I pack up her stuff are a frequent interruption while I repeat the events of tonight for Tina.

The mews transform back to purrs once I finish, and I lift her into my arms while Dutch loads both his stuff and my own into the truck. With a goodbye hug, I promise to keep Tina and the Ds updated via our group text chain before we’re off, back to Dutch’s apartment.

Despite our earlier teasing, all I want once we arrive is to get out of my dress and into the coziest clothes I can find. Then, maybe eat something and fall right to sleep. First, though, I ensure Kitten has everything she needs. Food, water, a litter box. Unsurprisingly, she doesn’t give a shit about any of those things and beelines it straight for the closed door that I can only assume hides Dax’s bedroom. Like she knows it’s his.

I’m still stuck in the condo’s narrow kitchen, and Dutch has barely got inside—the man insisted on carrying all of the bags himself—yet he manages to cross the room and open the door before I’ve finished filling a bowl with water for her.

“We both know he won’t mind.”

The last time we were here, just a few nights ago, I never got the full tour, but the room is so obviously Dax’s because both the walls and the bed inside are a dark thunder-cloud grey with what appear to be hand-painted lightning bolts artistically spread across the walls. It’s the opposite of the light, neutral grey of Dutch’s bedroom. Kitten seems to like it though, because she leaps onto the bed and stomps around the duvet before settling into a small black ball right in the middle.

“Besides,” Dutch says, pushing off the door frame and walking back towards me, “I want her to be comfortable here. I want you both to be.”

Sincerity shines in his brown eyes, and though part of me welcomes it, my heart is so beat up from tonight that I’m not sure I can handle any more emotional confessions. Not even a good one.

Dutch’s arms wrap under my ass, and he lifts me onto the counter. It’s no fancy marble or anything, but Kelly’s apartment still has a nicer kitchen than any place I’ve ever lived. Grams’ place included. It’s both new and clean. Though Grams was a spotless housekeeper, living on a fixed income meant making things last as long as possible; appliances, pots, pans and cutlery, all very much included.

Dutch’s thumb brushes across my cheeks and he asks, “Hello? Earth to Rainy?”

I realize that while I’ve been lost in the past, he’s been watching me.

“All good,” I reply, though my smile stretches uncomfortably. My muscles are forced into an unnatural shape.

Always one to see the things I think I’m hiding; Dutch chides, “Don’t.”

He runs the pad of his thumb over the edges of my lips.

“Don’t pretend. Not with me.”

There he is, going and being all sincere again.

“It’s fine. Really. I’m just tired.”

“You’re not,” he objects softly. “You’re lying for my comfort, and if you don’t cut that shit right now I’ll—”

“You’ll what, Dutch? Because I’m not lying, I’m just fucking tired.”

“No. What you are is pissed about tonight’s events.”

Okay, maybe he has me there.

“And, in denial about your feelings. About tonight, about the past, about what you want now and, well, even about me.”

That statement makes me recoil. And to my surprise, it makes him laugh.

“You can run from my feelings all you want, Rainy-girl, but I’m done pretending I don’t love you.”

My whole body tenses again, but that doesn’t stop Dutch from holding me tight. I owe him an explanation, but all I can manage is a stuttering breath and a few measly words.

“Dutch, I…I…”

He leans in and stops my attempts with a kiss similar to the one he gifted me in the truck.

“It’s really okay, Rainy. You don’t have to say it and you don’t owe me any explanation.”

Maybe it’s his simple act of acceptance or the pure patience he’s shown since we came back into each other’s lives, but my shoulders finally drop. It’s not that I don’t feel something for Dutch—and my body definitely has some strong feelings for him, judging by how his admission makes wet heat rise deep in my core—it’s just that admitting to any of it scares the shit out of me.