Hold On

“What’s goin’ on,” he cut me off to start and he didn’t let up, “is tonight, you learn you got a man who gives a shit in your life, shit goes down in the night that more than likely would never touch you, but it’s still goin’ down and we both know shit happens, you don’t sleep alone. You don’t because he doesn’t sleep alone. He sleeps where he knows you’re safe. So get your fuckin’ gun. Lock that fucker up. And come to bed.”


I liked that. I wanted that. I wanted to learn that in a way it sunk so deep, I wouldn’t even remember there being a time when I didn’t have it.

And none of that was smart.

“Merry—”

“Now is not the time to fight me, Cher. I been out in the cold with a gun in my hand and a vest on my back, huntin’ a man with my brothers. A desperate man, prowlin’ through family neighborhoods. A man who demonstrated he’s all right with pullin’ a trigger. In a situation like that, anything can happen, to me, to one of my brothers, or to some random citizen who’s in the wrong place at the wrong time. That’s done, so right now there’s one thing I need. And right now, I’m askin’ you to shut your mouth and give me what I need.”

What he needed.

Him sleeping where he knew I was safe.

No man, not one my entire life, needed that from me.

Or wanted to give it to me.

So what the fuck did I do with that?

“Cher,” he growled an impatient prompt.

“All right, all right,” I snapped, pulling my head from his hold. “Keep your pants on.”

I moved to the gun. I grabbed the gun. I went to the kitchen and turned out the light. I walked to Merry, by Merry, and down the hall.

I felt Merry at my heels and he stayed at my heels until we hit my room.

I heard him close the door.

I went to my closet, shoved the beaded curtain that hid my shit aside, and reached high to my safe that was on a shelf.

Nothing was in that safe but Ethan’s birth certificate and our social security cards, so I hadn’t bothered locking it up after I got the gun. I shoved the gun in, locked it, and went back through the beads.

I stopped at the sight of a barefoot Merry, leather jacket on the floor, shoulder holster with gun lying on the nightstand, his hands and shoulders moving to shirk off his unbuttoned shirt.

There was a lot of goodness that was Merry that I’d discovered the previous Friday.

His body was definitely a part of this.

I knew he had sinewy forearms because I’d seen him in tees. Those sinews writhed with movement in a way that I had to guard against watching or it would put me in a happy trance I might never want out of.

This, I’d learned Friday night (or actually Saturday morning), was just a hint at the tall, lean mountain of goodness that was Merry without clothes.

I would struggle to rank my favorite parts (outside of one in particular, which was obvious). He had great everything—shoulders, chest, biceps, abs, the hip V, his thighs.

But however that list came about, special mention would have to be made to the dark hair he had on his stomach. Not a heavy mat across his chest and down. The hair started on the upper ridge of his abs, spreading out and down, sparse and enticing.

It got better as it gathered and thickened at the center of the second ridge, down more, more, more, like a line on a map with the arrow at the end, pointing at buried treasure.

And one could definitely say the arrow at that particular end pointed to serious buried treasure.

“Babe.”

I started, my eyes darting from his crotch to his face.

Even though he caught me checking out his package, all he said was, “Tired.”

I nodded and moved to him.

I was barefoot too, in my jeans, tank, and bra from work. I stopped a couple of feet from him, but he wasn’t paying attention. He was twisted to turn out the lamp beside my bed.

I saw the range of his ribs cutting down from the swell of his lat before the room was plunged into darkness.

I undid my belt buckle, the button, unzipped my fly, and pulled my jeans down my legs.