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I adjust my gym bag, lean down to hook an arm behind her knees, and lift her into my arms. I notice for the first time that she’s barefoot, and her feet are scratched and bleeding. Christ, what happened to this girl? What was she so desperate to escape that she’d run barefoot through these streets?
As I look her over as best I can for other injuries, there is no accounting for the way my heart hammers in my chest when her face drops to the crook of my neck or the possessiveness that grows when I look down at her angelic face.
If it weren’t for the fact that I don’t believe in such things, I would think she might be an angel freshly fallen from the heavens. She sells the idea with the knee-length, white floral dress she has on and her sweet angelic features. Her darklashes and long hair that partially obscures her face gives her an innocent, yet exotic feel.
She’s not an angel. On the contrary, everything about her spells trouble.
I should take her to the hospital and let them contact the authorities. I should leave her in the hands of professionals who will know what to do with her. But something inside me rebels at the idea.
Mine!
“Fuck,” I curse, drawing her tight to me and walking back through the gym. This late in the evening, there aren’t many people around, so barely anyone spares us a look as I carry her to a back room.
An attendant at the gym rushes over to me, and I look up to see it’s Shawn. He’s a shy college kid who works night shifts because it means less interaction with people.
“Hey, I know her,” the kid exclaims, peeking over my shoulder as I lay the dark-haired beauty on the couch. At his words, my head whips around, and for a hot second, I wonder if she was on her way to see Shawn when she ran into me and passed out.
That thought alone sends hot jealousy burning through my chest, and I want to snap this harmless college kid with acne on his face in two.
“How?” I demand, and he shrinks back when his wide eyes meet my much darker ones.
“No, like I don’t mean . . . I don’t know her like that. You know what I mean? I’ve seen her, but like, we’ve never talked or anything.”
“How do you know her?”
“We share some classes. She’s an accounting student, but I haven’t seen her around for a couple of weeks.”
I shake my head and turn back to the girl, who seems to be waking up. She lets out a low groan and mutters something I can’t make out. I place a hand on her nape and help her raise her head.
“Hey, are you okay?”
“Water,” she whispers dryly.
“I’ll get it!” Shawn shouts, startling the girl struggling to get her eyes to open.
“Don’t bother,” I say to Shawn, digging my free hand into my bag and grabbing my water bottle. I uncap the bottle and press it to the girl’s mouth. She latches onto the bottle’s built-in straw and starts to suck in mouthfuls of water, her little broken moans shooting straight to my cock.
I keep my face blank even as my cock thickens in my tracksuit pants, and I can’t help but hate myself a little. Here is a pretty girl that clearly needs help, and all it takes to get me hard is to see her drink from my water bottle.
Fuck, I need to get a grip.
“Should I call the cops?” the ever-helpful Shawn asks from my side, reminding me of his presence.
“No!” the girl yells, eyes shooting open, and for the second time this evening, I lose myself in her light chocolate eyes. So warm and inviting. “Please don’t call the cops.”
Her eyes are fixed on Shawn, and when her gaze drops to mine, her brows draw as she stares at me. I don’t blame her for looking at me that way. I am a man built like a tank with a prominent scar on my face, one I got back when I was a boxer. Ironically enough, I did not get it in the ring, but instead when a coupleof guys jumped me leaving the gym one night and tried to rob me. They didn’t succeed, but one of them smashed a beer bottle against the left side of my face that resulted in the scar. They walked away with worse . . . those that could still walk by the time I was done with them anyway.
“Gunner?” the girl whispers, drawing my thoughts back from the past and right into the present where this stranger just called out my name.
“What did you just call me?”
Her eyes drop from my confused look to the scar that starts at my temple and ends along my jaw. Her gaze stays there for a full minute. When she finally looks back up, I am struck mute by the tears in her eyes. Her lower lips start trembling, and she sniffs. The move sends my heart racing and clenching with pain. I don’t think I know her, but I hate seeing her this way. My hand lifts as if to reach for her, but I hold back, afraid I might scare her.
She looks so fragile, staring up at me the way she does, and all I can feel is this strange, powerful compulsion to fix it. To correct whatever is wrong in her world.
Does she need money? Is she running from someone? Does she need protection?
Whatever it is that’s making her cry, I’ll fix it for her. I’ll do anything for this girl, and I don’t even know her name. But there is something about her that calls to something deep within me.
