“This is all I got.” I hand her the things, making sure I don’t look at her. When she takes them from me, her hand brushes mine, and that tentative accidental contact sends an electrical current down my spine. Stiffening, I quickly snatch my hand away, but this only causes her to seem offended. I barely withdraw my fingers fast enough to avoid getting a crush injury when she slams the door shut.
In the kitchen, I heat up some sauce while putting water to boil. I like to eat in if I can. You’re never more vulnerable than when you’re eating, shitting, and sleeping. Or been kept in sexual slavery for two months. I pause. No, Regan’s not vulnerable. That’s what makes her so attractive. In the months I’ve been searching for my sister, I’ve seen hundreds, maybe thousands, of girls and none of them has been able to walk out with pride and fire like Regan Porter. The thing that draws me to her isn’t just her looks, it’s her attitude. I admire her. She’s a rarity. And I decide then and there I’m going to do everything possible to make sure she’s returned safely to the bosom of her family, because sometimes the good guys have to win one in order for there to be enough fight left in the white hats.
I’ve got the food plated and ready for her when she finally opens the door. Her long blond hair is turbaned in a towel, and the white shirt hangs open over the beater. I think I can see the shadow of more intimate places, and I force my gaze up to her face.
She looks speculatively at me, as if she’s a customer at the butcher’s shop, counting and weighing what kind of cut of meat I am. I’m the part you leave behind, honey. I’m old, chewy, and about as tasty as a leather shoe.
“Come eat.” I gesture to the table, shoving aside my gun parts. My primary weapon is a Ruger SR45, and it’s the one I cleaned first. I’ve got it lying on a chair next to the table. Easy to grab and shoot if necessary.
“Milk?” she asks, with raised eyebrows. “Are we five?”
“No. I’m twenty-seven, but I still need it.” I pull out a chair for her and she sits down. I wonder if she’s wearing underwear and curse mentally. Of course not; I didn’t give her any. “Do you need anything, uh, downstairs?”
“Like French bread?” she asks.
French bread? Is that a special term for a woman’s pussy? I gape at her, and she flushes under my scrutiny. It takes a superhuman effort on my part not to allow my gaze to drop to her chest to follow that rush of blood and see how much of her body turns rosy.
With her eyes cast downward, she gestures toward the food. “Sorry I asked. This is fine. I don’t need any bread.”
Oops. I guess maybe she took downstairs to mean me literally going downstairs to find more food. I try to be more direct. “I meant, do you need any underwear? I forgot to give you some. I don’t have boxers. I’m more of a briefs man myself.” When I wore any. This causes Regan to turn beet red.
“No, I’m fine.” She shifts uncomfortably on the chair, which tells me she’s not fine at all. I don’t want to leave her by herself, but I need to get her some clothes.
“Eat. I’ll be right back,” I say and turn toward the door.
“No,” she jumps up, her hip catching the table and knocking it over. Sauce, noodles, and milk go flying. “Oh shit!” she cries, and then suddenly the warrior princess breaks down. She crumples to the floor and begins to sob, huge, wracking cries that sound like she’s being torn apart. My promise to not touch her until she gives me permission dissolves like sugar in water and before I know it, I’ve scooped her up in my arms and am carrying her over to the sofa. I try to set her down but she clings to me, and I take that as consent of an unspoken kind.
Settling into the corner, I hold her body as she trembles and quakes against me. There’s a storm inside of her, and I don’t know how long it’s going to take to die down, but as I cradle her in my lap I realize that the world could burn up and I wouldn’t let her go. Not at this moment. Not until she doesn’t need me anymore, because I can’t remember the last time I felt this good. Maybe I never have.
CHAPTER FIVE
REGAN
I’ve totall lost my shit.
I thought I was holding together pretty well. That I’d buried everything so deep inside that nothing could affect me anymore. Guess I was wrong because the longer things seem normal, the more frayed my nerves get.