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She grins. “Make yourself at home.”
The hell. She looks calm, even though sweat shines on her face and neck. Her hand doesn’t shake on the grip of the gun.
Filing this information away for later inspection, I pull my cell from the pocket of my shorts, about to turn it on, when a male voice rings from outside.
“Step out!” the man shouts, his voice so clear he has to be at the door or one of the windows of the main hall, less than twenty feet away. “Do it now, and we won’t harm your friend.”
Her face goes gray. “They’re here for me.”
“Fuck them.”
“Maybe he’s right.” She swallows hard. “Maybe I should—”
“Screw that. No, Ray, you shouldn’t.”
“But you—”
“I’m where I want to be.” I grip her arm and squeeze. “Stay put.”
I turn on my cell for the first time since I snuck out of the hospital weeks ago. It starts chirping immediately with alerts for messages and missed calls. She glances around the door, lifting the gun like she knows what to do with it. It’s my favorite, a Browning HP, 9mm.
I lift a brow at her and she shakes her head. She can’t see anyone. Damn. I’m about to call nine-one-one, when Hawk’s name flashes on the screen.
I connect the call.
“Fucking asshole,” Hawk’s voice thunders down the line. “Florida, huh? What the fuck? How about turning your phone on and telling people who give a shit about you that you’re still breathing, huh? Motherfucker.”
I hold the phone away from my ear, sorting through the info. One thing sticks out at me. “How the hell do you know where I am?”
“You fucking kidding me? Who doesn’t? It was splashed all over the tabloids this morning. Online, man. Boom. Post went viral. Photos of you with a brunette at the house on the beach. I thought your uncle sold that monstrosity years ago.”
What. The. Fuck. “Hawk, I need you to do something for me.”
“I’m riding over to see you, asshole. Just parked my Harley so see what’s going on—someone’s been firing shots nearby. Hey, I’ll be at your door as soon as we hang up. You’re lucky I was around here—”
“Stay right there,” I hiss. “Someone’s shooting at us.”
“What? You in that paranoid mood again—”
A bullet slams through the folding door, crashes through and strikes the wall a few feet away, leaving a hole.
My blood roars in my ears as I jerk back. I check on Raylin. Her face is white, but she looks okay. I grab her hand and drag her away from the door, expecting any moment now more bullets to tear through. The store room will have to do for now. I pull her inside and we crouch there.
“Holy shit,” Hawk is yelling in the phone. “What the fuck was that?”
“Hawk, shut the fuck up and call the police. Now, dammit.”
I hang up, shove my cell back into my pocket. I stare down into Ray’s pretty eyes, and pray we survive until the cops arrive.
Chapter Eleven
RAYLIN
The storeroom smells musty. The only light comes through the door. No other doors, no windows. We’re trapped here, and the way Storm stands close to the door means he realizes it, too, and doesn’t like it.
We should get out of here. Walls won’t protect us from these bullets. This isn’t like the movies.
I point to the right, and he’s already rising and moving, his hand wrapped around mine, pulling me along. He checks around the corner, the gun in his left hand, thumb on the safety. He seems to know how to use one. I wonder if he brought the guns with him, or if he found them stashed here.
