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“Sweetheart, trust me,” he pleads. “What you see is what you get with me; remember that. Think about all of the steps I’ve taken to keep you safe and take care of you. I’m not the enemy here, Jules.” He pauses briefly. “If I were, you sure as hell would know it.”
Now that I can believe, hands down. He looks like someone you don’t want to piss off, and the way he’s staring at me right now, I can’t tell what’s crossing his mind. I notice how he holds these stone-faced expressions sometimes, remaining impartial to his circumstances so he gives nothing away. He’s a master at it too, and sometimes it puts me on edge…like right now. When I don’t step forward, he continues to reason with me, softening his expression. “If I was the enemy, would I give you your own gun and teach you how to use it? Let alone show you my secret bunker?” Well, he does have a valid point there.
I shake my head. “No, but I’m getting a bit flooded with so many new and overwhelming things, Travis. You’re overloading me, and they’re not simple things for me to digest either. They’re huge.” I begin ticking off the growing list on my fingers. “In the midst of me remembering nothing about myself, I’m trusting you, running from bad people who apparently want me dead, learning how to shoot and kill with a pistol, and now you’re showing me an underground shelter, which I’m sure very few people in this world actually have.” Then I use my hand to dramatically draw a huge circle in the air over his hideout. “This...this is not normal, Travis,” I cry out.
I watch as he lets out a heavy sigh and briefly closes his eyes, and then he looks at me with remorse. “I know I’m throwing a lot on you, sweetheart, and you’re right; none of this is normal; if I could rewind time and change things, I would, but I can’t. I will tell you again, however, that you are a very strong and courageous woman. I’m showing this to you so I can help keep you safe. You’ve come this far; please don’t give up trusting me now.” He holds out his hand again for me to take, and I bite the inside of my cheek, fighting the growing anxiety that wants to surface.
I let go of the medallion and reach out with my hand before I change my mind. Immediately, he pulls me down the steps and into his arms, holding my head tightly against his chest. I can hear and feel his heart thumping hard against my ear, which strikes me as odd. I’m the one who’s stressed out. I didn’t think me questioning his motives at every turn would have him so uptight, but apparently, me trusting him is huge. I feel his lips as he keeps them firmly pressed to the top of my head, his deep baritone voice lined with regret as he tells me, “Oh, God, Jules. I’m so sorry you have to go through this. I promise there will be a normal for us soon.” His voice sounds almost pained, yet relieved I haven’t given up or lost my ever-loving mind over all this weirdness.
His continuous reassurances at every turn make me feel a hundred times better, and I relax in his arms. Suddenly, I realize the room temperature isn’t stifling hot in here as it should be, seeing how this was a closed up bunker and the fact it feels like a hundred degrees outside. My brows furrow together in question as I steal away from his arms and begin looking around the room in wonder. It feels comfortable and cool on the inside. “Do you have central air in here?” I ask in amazement.
He shakes his head. “We do, but there’s really not much need for conditioned air, since it’s built at least ten feet underground. The temperature stays pretty constant, even though we couldn’t bury the entire bunker. We had to pile mounds of dirt over the roof, making it a hill above us.”
“What is this place?” I ask, stepping directly into a little kitchen. I look around in awe; it looks as if someone buried a single-wide trailer into the earth. I expected spiders, cobwebs, and a cold concrete floor, but this is rather posh for a refuge. It’s fully furnished and outfitted for someone to actually live in. “And who is we?” I ask distractedly.
Travis moves up the stairs to shut the metal door with a final thud that reverberates throughout the room, and at the sound, I turn to face him.
“This shelter is a ‘turn-key’ kit,” he explains. “Stryker, a couple other buddies, and I purchased this model from a company a few years back. They’re the same guys who went in on the cabin with me.” He waves his hand around the room, gesturing to the space around me. “You could probably go so far as to say this is our personal reconnaissance hideaway.”
