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Lance paused, his jaw stiffened, eyes moved back to me. They were cold, challenging, kind of scary and also kind of hot. I could see that through my annoyance.
He didn’t speak. The stare likely worked on its own most of the time. I was tempted to give in, let him do whatever he wished. But I had my pride. What was left of it at least.
“Thank you for the kind offer,” I said through gritted teeth. “But as I said, you’ve done enough and I want to do this as a thank you.”
And before he could say anything more, with his words or his frickin’ smoldering eyes, I turned and walked away.
Chapter Eight
I’d gone into the house feeling all triumphant over facing off with a badass who looked like he could melt paint with his eyes, I’d had another donut, my third for the day. I’d hugged my kid again. Then I’d gotten ready to leave for the store, mental list in hand and ready to spend money I didn’t really have on people who went out of their way to help me and my son when they had no need to.
I got as far as the driver’s door of my car.
A hand fastened around my wrist as I was going to open it. The grip wasn’t painful, but it was firm, intended to get me to stop what I was doing.
It did that.
And more.
I couldn’t think about the more since I had to make eye contact with the man holding my wrist without turning into a puddle at his feet. So I sucked in an uneven breath and looked up.
“Keys,” he ordered the second my eyes touched his sunglasses.
His hand stayed on my wrist. I tried not to focus on that. But when a man like Lance was touching you, even if it was only to restrain you while he tried to get your car keys, you focused.
“What?” my voice was far too breathy for my liking.
The grip tightened only slightly, still not enough to be painful, but enough to be forceful. To show me how easy it would be for him to make this painful. As a survivor of abuse, this should have sent me into a panic, triggered something in me. It had happened enough times at the diner, when a customer grabbed me to ask a question, or even Bobby coming up behind me in the kitchen. I got flashbacks, I flinched for a hit, my breathing got shallow and I’d come close to passing out a few times. All from contact not intended to be violent, and none of that contact originating from violent people.
Lance was a violent person.
I knew that the second I laid eyes on him.
It served me well.
It served my son well.
But I should have left it at that, been more forceful about his presence in my life. In Nathan’s life. Not because of that violence. Because of my reaction to it. To him.
“Your keys,” Lance said, jaw hard. “I’m drivin’.”
My spine stiffened at yet another sentence where my bending to his will seemed like a forgone conclusion.
“If you need to drive anywhere, you’ve got a perfectly good SUV parked right on the curb,” I informed him, jerking my head.
He stared at me, annoyance radiated off him, coated me.
The silence stretched long.
The pressure on my wrist remained.
For once in my life, I hoped for a bruise, a mark, something physical as a reminder of this contact.
And with that thought, I realized I really needed to get my head examined, or at the very least my ovaries, they were taking control.
“Figured it would take me carrying you across your front yard to get you into the SUV,” he said finally. “And figured that wouldn’t go down too well. So I’m drivin’.”
“No, you’re not,” I said, trying not to imagine what it would be like to have Lance carry me across the yard. “I’m driving. And I’m going to the store. Alone.”
“Think you’ve forgotten why I’m here,” Lance replied, his jaw ticking, obviously this conversation was too long and too tedious for his liking.
“No, I’m not soon to forget my son being kidnapped,” I snapped, my voice sharp. “I know exactly why you’re here, to make sure that doesn’t happen again. And considering my son is inside the house and not in this car, definitely not in the store, you’re not needed here.”
He stared at me for a long time. Long enough to make me uncomfortable, make me want to squirm under his gaze like ants underneath a cruel kid’s microscope.
“I’m exactly where I’m needed,” he decided. “You’re wearin’ a bruise as evidence of that.”
I flinched, even though the words weren’t flung with force. His presence was violent, his touch was coated with it, it radiated from his stare, from his very aura, but the words themselves were not meant to harm, not meant to rub anything in my face. Just a simple statement of fact, spoken as gently as the truth could ever be spoken. And truths like this were a proverbial wrecking ball to the soul.
