But maybe I needed a fresh start too.
“Sure,” I said, standing and getting my own purse.
She linked her arm in mine, walking us to the doors.
I attempted to shake off my unease, and push Gage from my mind.
By the end of the night, only one of those things was successful.
The banging at my door woke me up. The sound sent me jerking upright, my spine straight and heart thundering in my chest. I felt like I’d just closed my eyes, and a quick glance at my phone told me I had; it was just after midnight, and I’d gotten home at almost eleven.
Unheard of for me, but I’d shaken off my uneasiness toward Jen to discover she was funny, warm, and easy to talk to. Plus she hadn’t pried when I’d stuck to soda, only nodded once when I informed her I didn’t drink. That was enough for me to lower my boundaries and let myself have a good time. Engage. Maybe not as much as I did with Amy, but something similar.
And though I hated to succumb to clichés, the time did fly. And I almost didn’t think about Gage every second.
Almost.
I’d obviously banished him from my mind enough to get myself to sleep, if my brutal wake-up call was anything to go by. I was halfway down the stairs on instinct, not realizing that someone pounding on my door after midnight did not want to come around for tea. And no one came around to my place for tea, even at a decent hour.
My hand paused on the knob, and the wood rattled underneath my grip as a fist slammed against it. I jumped back, fear working to shake the last of sleep from my addled mind.
My grip tightened as I considered the option of running back up the stairs and hoping whoever was on the other side of that door would go away. It’s what I should’ve done. I definitely should’ve snatched my phone from beside my bed and been prepared to dial 911.
Because whoever thought it was appropriate to bang on people’s doors in the middle of the night was not going to contribute to my logical and calm life.
No, they’d smash right through it.
I didn’t run up the stairs. Because I was quickly turning into one of the girls from all those books and movies, making stupid and perhaps dangerous decisions for men. Because I hoped the person damn near splintering the wood of my door was Gage.
So I opened it.
And I got my hope.
My calm world laid down in pieces at my feet. And it would stay there. I knew that somehow. Gage was no longer going to be a ghost in my memories, a crack in my life. He was there in the flesh and blood, and the view of him was splintering me to my very core.
“Oh my God,” I breathed, gaping at the man in front of me in shock.
The man who was not just flesh and blood—he was covered in blood.
The man I’d been hoping for.
Along with the monster I knew lived inside him.
He didn’t hesitate, didn’t speak, didn’t give any explanation for why he was there, why he was covered in blood that didn’t seem to be his own. Because there was no way he’d have been standing in front of me if the blood covering his shirt, his face, his jeans was all his.
It was sick of me to find relief in that thought. To be glad that someone, somewhere wasn’t standing, likely not breathing, but I was glad.
Gage gripped my arm, crossing the threshold and pressing me to the wall in my entranceway, slamming the door behind us.
The landing before the stairs leading up to my apartment was tight at the best of times. This was far from the best of times. Gage’s expanse barely fit in the small area. But it did. And it fit so his entire muscled body was pressing against me. Blood that was sticky and fresh stained my white flannelette pajamas.
Shit, I’d answered the door in flannelette pajamas. I was pretty sure they had little stars and moons stitched into them. So not sexy. Why couldn’t I be the woman who slept in sexy negligees for no one but herself? Why couldn’t I be the woman who owned a single sexy piece of nightwear?
And why was I the woman worrying about such a thing when the man she’d been damn near obsessing over for the past week was pressing against her covered in someone else’s blood?
Yeah, that needed to be the most important thing in the situation, not my body’s reaction to his being against mine.
“You’re covered in blood, Gage,” I whispered when he didn’t speak, merely held me to the wall, breathing heavily and devouring me with ice-blue eyes.
Those eyes glanced down between us, seeming almost surprised to see the crimson smear on the swell of my chest. But then they darkened, focusing on the fact that though my flannelette wasn’t exactly sheer, I wasn’t wearing a bra, and my body had a visceral response to Gage’s pressed against mine, despite the circumstances.