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I clamp my lips shut and bring my eyes up to study his.
“I think the fact you stayed in that hospital longer than you needed, all so you could heal and show your mother a girl who could walk again, so she wouldn’t worry, a red flag. I think your insistence on being the hardest done by in the room is your red flag.”
“Fuck you.” I turn and toss the milk back into the fridge, slamming the door shut again so bottles rattle inside. “Iamhard done by! Every fucking minute of my life is a battle against a system set up to smack me down. I don’t whine about it. I get on with things and get through.”
“That’s what I’m saying!” he booms. “Not that you complain about bad shit. But that you are the most hard done by, and still, you push on like you’re the fucking Chosen One and the world would implode if you didn’t.”
“So you’re mad Idon’twhine?” I grab a stool with jerky movements and tug it closer so I can sit down. “Youwantto spend time with a whiny little bitch?”
“I want you to acknowledge how fucking strong you are. I want you to not be targeted by a killer. I want younotto be the woman I need to protect. And when life is normal and we happen to meet in a bar, I want you to like me, too.” Frustrated, he reaches up and shoves a hand through his hair. “I want you, Aurora. I would do anything to get a fucking taste.”
My heart thunders in my chest, a staccato that stings and pushes blood faster through my veins. “Y-you do?”
“Don’t act stupid now, Little Bird.” He stalks around the counter and stops only when his thighs touch my knees and his hand grips the side of my face. “You already know. You see the way I watch you. You hear the shit my dumbass self can’t help but speak.” Bending, and stopping two-inches from my face, his cologne settles deep in my lungs and his eyes flicker between mine. “Youknow, Aurora. But for as long as guns are pointed your way, there ain’t shit either of us can do about it.”
“You could put me out of my misery,” I whisper, nerves thickening in my throat. “You could touch me, and I can touch you. You can have me. Because I’m right here, and I’m not crazy about the things I see.”
“You’re not crazy.” He inches closer, his breath fanning my lips. “You’re not wrong.” Another inch, so I can almostfeelhim. “But I won’t have you until this is over and you’re safe.”
“Banks?” The front door opens and shuts again, startling me in my seat until I knock my cereal bowl and send milk sloshing over the edge. “Everything under control here?”
“Yeah.” Drake releases me and steps away just as Detective Malone strides into the room and stops to study my face. No doubt, I look stunned. Perhaps like I’ve witnessed another shooting today. But that tracks just fine for him, because he has no clue Drake is an utter bastard, or that my stomach whooshes with nerves that have nothing to do with Gregory Vallejo. “Took your time getting here,” Drake continues, completely unaffected by whatever it was we just experienced. He opens the fridge door and takes out a soda. “You here to watch her?”
My eyes shoot wide. “What?”
“Yeah.” Archer comes to settle on the opposite side of the counter and rests his arms on top. “You get two hours,” he continues. “Then I’ve got somewhere to be.”
“Your private life is none of my concern.” Shutting the fridge and flashing a tormenting smile, Drake sets his soda on the counter and checks his weapon instead. “Hospital or station?”
“Hospital, under police guard.” Like ping-pong balls being tossed back and forth between the men, Drake and Archer seem to pick up a conversation I’ve missed the first half of. “Officer Clay is out of surgery, by the way.” Archer gifts me with a small smile. “Bullet went straight through and missed all the important bits.”
“Yeah,” Drake drawls, “straight through and clipped Aurora.”
Archer’s eyes blow wide as he shoves up from his chair. “What?”
“Just scratched me,” I murmur, reaching across to touch the mark that’ll scar eventually and leave me with a memory. “I’m not even bleeding.”
He looks to Drake, as though he doesn’t accept my word for it. Which is both infuriating and, well… no. That about covers things. It’s infuriating.
“Just a scratch,” he agrees. “No stitches needed. Not bleeding.” He slips his gun back into his holster and nods down at my cereal. “Guess that’s your dinner?”
I narrow my eyes to dangerous slits. “Yes.”
“Great. I’ll be home later.” He looks to Archer in goodbye, then he stalks out the door and just… leaves me here. No discussion. No understanding. No nothing.
“Looks like you guys are getting along.” Like it’s all a game to him, Archer pops up from his chair as the front door slams and a car engine roars to life, then wandering around to the pantry, he peeks inside for something to eat. “He as much an asshole as I imagine he is?”
“You have no clue,” I growl. Picking up my spoon before my cereal goes soggy, I dip it into the milk and scowl. “He’s getting worse with time.”
“That’s what I thought.” He steps out of the pantry again with a bag of Doritos and a shit-eating grin. “Did you know his father is high-level DEA? He’s a fucking machine with accolades that just don’t seem possible enough for his age.”
“Did you know I don’t care?” I push up to stand and grab my bowl, and hobbling out of the room and into the one at the front of the house with high-back chairs and an unused fireplace, I settle in and wait.
And wonder.
Drake Banks is an asshole, and his assholishness is making me an asshole.
Goodie.
