I want him and if this growing determination has anything to do with it, I’m going to have him. I just need the information out of Eddie first and then I’ll cut myself free, walk away clean and do what Bronson said to—find him.
Yet, there’s only so long I can avoid Gunter’s advances before it sets off alarm bells in the idiot’s head. So tonight, I caved. I bit back the pang of deceit and I promised him I’d make up for my distance, blaming my previously cold attitude on shifting hormones before Aunt Flo. Which brings me to now—exactly twelve minutes after we walked in the door, and here I am, lying beside Gunter while he snores his alcohol- and sex-induced sleep away. He took twelve minutes. I was over it in two. And yet, here he is, satisfied with his effort, oblivious to the fact I’m staring at the ceiling and angry that he never got me off. I’m horny as hell . . . and thinking of another man.
Like I shouldn’t be.
Yet, sometimes the heart wants what it wants, and all we can do to keep our head screwed on straight is give in to the craving. And right now, my heart wants nothing more than to get close to a man with friendly brown eyes to see if my body reacts the same way as it did at the party. Is there something to explore, or did I imagine the whole thing?
Fucking heart.
All it’s done is screw me over. Actually, no. All I’ve done is screw myself over. My life has been heartache on repeat, constant reminders of that damned night my world shifted, when I made the decision to walk down a long, straight road to slavery. Because that’s all this is—slavery. I’m not here in Gunter’s bed because I enjoy it. I don’t act the good little bitch for Eddie because it’s what I need.
I’m surviving the only way I know how with the skill set I was given at birth—the ability to bat my fucking lashes and charm my way out of any sticky situation.
I disgust myself. The lack of morals and dignity I show every day repulse me. But I’m also not a quitter; I want what’s mine, and what’s mine is stored away in Eddie’s head, waiting for me to find a way to get it out.
Blackmail, extortion—whatever the price, I’ll pay it to find out why Harris shot his best friends—my parents—and why he then left me to go it alone when he could have taken me with him and saved all this heartache. I’ll get the answer to the question that’s been lodged in my throat for twelve fucking years, and then I’ll take Eddie down as retribution for keeping it from me. Because as many times as I tell myself he won’t let me know because he’s just that kind of asshole, I can’t shake the feeling he’s keeping the secret to benefit him. My history has to be tied to his business. He must have leverage with me. Why else would he make such a point of keeping the reason a girl’s parents were murdered from her?
The fucker will never see it coming—little old me, taking down the big, bad man with nothing more than a good set of ears and an ever better memory. The posters from the Second World War they taught us about in school said it best: ‘Keep Mum, she’s not so dumb’.
Yeah, he’ll wish he’d kept quiet around me, because I’m a damn genius. One who’s biding her time.
Gunter stirs in his sleep, throwing a hand over my leg possessively. Even out to the world, the thug needs to know he has me close. I’d find comfort in his need, but the kind of things he does make me sick. The lies he believes about racial inequality, that the white man is oppressed and that the world’s problems can be traced to the ‘impure’ races make me want to stab him every time he opens his mouth to spout off the propaganda.
The only thing he’s useful for is to keep me safe from the other predators in this group, and to keep me close to Eddie and the inner circle. If I’m going to get what I need, I have to stay a part of the inside workings of Eddie’s little ‘Team White Power’. So far, so good. The things I know could take them down with one carefully placed phone call to the local PD, but I’m not ready to let Eddie discover that just yet. I need answers before I do.
Gunter’s breaths slow and even out, his eyes twitching as he enters the REM phase of his sleep. Easing his hand from my leg, I slide out from under the covers and tug a pair of panties and my T-shirt on. My phone flashes where it lies on the floor amongst my jacket and jeans. Scooping it up, I make my way quietly out to the living area, skirting a sleeping Tommy where he passed out on the sofa and heading through to the kitchen.
The pipes complain as I run the tap, pouring myself a glass of water. Lifting it to my lips, I scroll through the notifications on my phone with my other hand. And then, same as I do every night, I open a fresh Google search window and type in the keywords to my life: fire, invasion, Harris Friar. I flick through the results, nothing new catching my eye, and sigh. All I want to know is what went through his head that night. Why would a man who treated me like his own come into our house and kill his best friend and his wife? I wish I’d had ten simple minutes with him while he was alive to find out why my life had to change. Ten short minutes to understand what went wrong.
Footsteps on the wooden floor draw my attention away from the phone and yet another dead end. I kill the screen and place it down on the counter, finishing off my water as Gunter rounds the corner in nothing more than a silly grin.
“Wondered where you’d gone,” he whispers, looking over Tommy’s way.
He’s got nothing to worry about—that kid could sleep through a nuclear war.
“Thirsty,” I say, lifting the empty glass to prove my point.
He slips in behind me as I set the glass in the sink, and places his large hands around my middle. Moments like this, my dead heart sometimes gives me a glimmer of hope that I’m not completely cold, that deep inside there’s a part of me that cares something about these people in my life. When the big idiot is being nothing but loving, showing me how much he cares about me, my heart almost aches for how I’ll betray him.
Almost.
“Can’t you sleep?” he asks, nuzzling in to my neck.
“Not really,” I admit, stopping short of having to explain why.
“More nightmares?” Gunter places gentle kisses along the side of my neck, down over my shoulder as he pulls the fabric of my T-shirt aside. “I hate how things haunt you like that.”
“I know,” I say, rubbing my hand over the one of his still on the flat of my belly. “I’m okay. I promise.”
“You never cry.” He runs a hand down my side, curling it around my thigh and tracing a line up my body with his palm. “You look so sad, but you never cry.”
“Crying’s a waste of time,” I tell him truthfully. “Nothing gets achieved with tears.”
“I wish you would sometimes,” he whispers, running his nose up the nape of my neck. “I wish you’d let me help you forget. I want to make you feel better. I want you to feel good because of me.”
My heart struggles against the ice holding it captive, trying to beat for this man. “I do. You make me feel safe.”
Gunter pulls back, spinning me inside his arms and placing his forehead against mine. “That’s not what I mean.”
“It’ll do, though. It’s the best you can give me.”
He sighs, leaning closer and kissing me with a gentleness that completely betrays the rough asshole he is outside of our house. My heart seizes, the exertion on it too great. The chill sets in, and the ice thickens, pounding my heart back into the frigid rock that it is. I want this, the closeness, the care, but not from him.
I want it from a guy who’s infected my thoughts, and left me dreaming at night of a life other than my own.
Gunter slips his hands under my backside, lifting me on to the counter and pressing himself between my legs. I automatically drape my arms over his strong shoulders, placing my palms on his muscular back, and sigh. But instead of shutting out who he is and concentrating on how he feels like I usually do, my mind wanders.