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JOHNNY
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AHAND SLAPS my side. “Johnny? Wake up.”
“Hmmm?” My mouth is dry and caked. A cracking headache splits my head.
“Did you hear that?” Bexley’s sweet whisper is ten levels too loud.
“Hear what?” Damn it, my whisper is ten levels too loud.
“The crash. The voices.” I hear her digging around the trailer. I can’t see anything in the pitch-black trailer. Weren’t there lights when I stumbled in earlier? And how long ago was earlier? An hour? Two? Is it almost morning? Fuck, I hope it’s not almost morning.
“I didn’t hear a noise—”
Bexley springs at me. She clamps a hand over my mouth. Her knees dig into my side, and I forget my muscle pains. It’s like a hit of adrenaline pumps through my entire body, erasing my hangover and alerting my body to every inch of her touching me.
“Shhh,” she hisses. “Listen.”
We wait.
We listen.
But all I hear is her quick, steady breathing. Her arms press against my bare torso. I’m fully aware of the heat burning through the material of her pajama shirt.
Then I hear the tent rustle. A tiny, small rustle.
I lift her hand away. “It’s the wind.”
“It’s not the wind.” She sits up, and I see the shadowed outline of a gun in her hand.
“What the hell are you doing with that?”
“They want to play Devil’s Night, I’ll play Devil’s Night.” Her tone sparks danger.
I catch her arm. “Give me the gun.”
“No.” She squirms and pulls, trying to yank free of my grasp.
I reach for the weapon. Bexley swings her arm in every direction. My arm circles her waist.
“No! Get off,” she hisses, quiet enough the intruders don’t hear but loud enough that I can’t miss it.
“I will wrestle you to the ground,” I snarl in her ear.
“You’d like that wouldn’t you.” She wiggles and twists her ass against my lap. Not intentionally. She’s trying to escape, but my firm hold has her stuck.
“One of us is going to end up shot,” I growl.
I do the only thing I know how: I flip her over as gently as I can. I pin her to the floor and catch her forearms above her head.
“Asshole,” she grumbles.
I bend down. “It didn’t have to come to this.” Her panting breath hits my skin. So does a wave of nausea.
“It’s not a real gun, you dick.” When I don’t reply, she adds, “It’s a paintball gun.”
“A paintball gun?” I sound as dumbfounded as I feel.
