Van narrowed his eyes at Amber's door as a restless vibration itched behind his ribs. What the hell was this girl's problem? And why was he so hypnotized? Was it her slap-it-hard, fuck-it-harder physique? The breathless waver in her voice? Or the challenge of not knowing what made her freak the fuck out?
Beneath her trembling, however, lay an assload of backbone. And a very, very fine ass. What if every torrid trigger that had ever set him on fire waited behind that door?
He dropped his brow on the weather-beaten frame and tilted his face toward the dark windows next door, his real reason for being there. Liv and the dick monk had moved to the other side of the house and out of hearing range. He should move along, too, return to his cold, empty cabin, and forget all about the fear widening Amber's gorgeous eyes.
And yet, despite the risk of being seen, he gathered the last of her mail and knocked on her door a second time. Christ, he was riding a vicious need to discover her secrets, a craving to break her apart and play with the pieces.
He knocked again and infused his tone with authority. “Amber.”
“You should run,” she shouted. “I've got a gun aimed at the door.”
Sure she did. “What kind of gun?”
“The kind that shoots ball-seeking super-bullets at unwanted visitors.”
Cute. Even if she owned a gun, she wouldn't be able to still her fingers long enough to pull the trigger. He released a slow breath, an attempt to expel the impulse to pop the deadbolt. He should leave the poor girl to deal with her demons, but instinct demanded he take control of this...of her.
He was the worst combination of his parents, his very blood blackened with human slavery. Hell, his moral code was fucking fried the moment he was conceived by a ruthless slave owner and a weak, used-up slave. Besides, it was easier to blame his DNA than to examine the decisions he'd made or, rather, the choices that continued to choose him.
A nice guy—like Saint NinnyBalls next door—would stop, but he ripped the edge of one envelope, slid out the document, and activated the light on his phone. “You should see this, Amber. Looks like your electricity is going to be shut off” —he skimmed the red print— “in five days.”
A thump jiggled the door. Her fist? “Opening peoples' mail is a federal offense, you sick pig.”
He smirked. Couldn't argue with the truth. “Don't insult pigs. It's dirty, and the pig likes it.”
“Until they're slaughtered,” she yelled, “and served with eggs and coffee.”
A smile tickled his cheeks. “You inviting me to stay for breakfast?”
Funny how brave she sounded behind the barrier of a door. A cheap door, in fact, given the hollow rattle and the sorry-ass lock. Didn't she realize one kick would bend it from the casing? He tapped the tarnished kick plate with his sneaker and made it clatter, just to taunt her.
“I'm calling the cops.” Her threat pierced through the door, but the waver in her shriek lacked conviction.
She wouldn't be calling anyone. Was it a general fear of people? Or something far more complicated? He leaned a shoulder against the jamb and thumbed through her bills and leathercraft catalogs. “What would keep a beautiful woman locked up in her house?”
His stomach hardened in anticipation of her voice as soundless seconds crawled down his spine. Her silence deterred him more than the door. What was she doing in there? Texting a friend? The friendly neighborhood delivery guy, perhaps? Or was she pressed against the frame, same as him? Was her hand on the knob? He didn't dare twist it. Didn't want her to flee deep within the house where he couldn't talk to her. Instead, he opened the largest package, ripping through the bubble wrap. Four bottles of...leather dye? “I'm waiting, Amber. What's the reason?”
More silence. He rolled the toothpick between his lips. If she didn't respond in three seconds, he'd simply move the mics to her windows. Three, two—
“Why does there have to be a reason?” Her voice reverberated through the wood, soft, close.
He shifted, his mouth hovering over the seal in the door, and matched her tone. “What's the leather dye for?” He turned the bottles in the envelope, revealing directions on how to dye shoes and furniture. “Fixing up a pair of cowgirl boots?” Fuck, those toned legs would radiate sex in a miniskirt and boots.
She growled, loud and guttural, and the door thumped again. “After I flay the skin from your body, I'm going to dye it and sew it into a handbag. Special order from your momma.”
A laugh erupted from his throat, and he darted a glance at Liv's windows. “Hate to disappoint you, gorgeous. My dead mother has no use for handbags.”
The door held as still as the quiet behind it. If she felt bad about his mother, she shouldn't bother. Isadora Quiso chose the slow death of crack over feeding and protecting her son. She could burn in hell.