Shutting the door, I toss my purse and briefcase on the ground beside it, and walk to the closet, gathering my workout clothes and unzipping the front of my dress. That’s when I catch the image in the mirror with the gun between my breasts. My gaze lingers on the thick steel, and for the first time in my life, I imagine really killing someone. I want to kill him. And he would have only himself to blame if I did, because he caged me. Pushed me. Didn’t think about me being my father’s daughter, which, considering all I’ve been through, means being a survivor. I am not giving up.
I unstrap the weapon and set it on the shelf running around one side of the tiny space and dress in black leggings before pulling a pink tank top over a sports bra, where my gun should be returned. Instead, I fold my dress, set it on the shelf, and then hide the gun in the folds of the material, out of the sight of anyone who might be nosing around. I walk to the bathroom, and somehow manage to tie my long brown hair back without looking at myself in disgust for even feeling what I feel right now. Every single one of the girls that were pushed in the sex trade have it brutally, horribly worse than me. And now I need that run ten times more.
Exiting the bathroom, I cross the bedroom and open the door, finding Kyle in the living area, his scanner in his hand, his hot, hard body hugged by a snug white t-shirt and black sweats. “I’m ready,” I say, and even to my own ears, my voice sounds strained. “Are you ready?”
“I need to sweep your room and we can go.”
“Don’t you just have to do it again when we get back? I mean, every time we leave, this issue exists, right?”
“Every time,” he agrees, setting down the device. “And yes. This can wait.”
“Thank you,” I say, already crossing to the hallway, traveling toward the door, ready to escape, but just as I reach the doorway, I have a thought, and I face him. And damn it, he’s so close to me that my hand lands on his rock-solid chest, heat radiating up my arm and across my chest. “I’m sorry,” I say, but when I try to pull my hand back, he holds onto it, and I’m struck by the fact that I feel no fear. He doesn’t scare me. In fact, he draws me to him, arouses parts of me I thought would never feel anything again. And he’s done it now, after I’ve mentally relived hell with Michael Alvarez. I don’t understand how that is possible or why, when he slowly releases my hand, when my fingers slide away from him, that I just want to touch him again.
“I left my gun,” I say. “I thought you should know that.”
“I have mine and you have me.”
“I have you,” I repeat.
“Yes,” he says firmly. “You do.”
He’s right. Now, I have to decide what I’m going to do with him, or what I think he intends to do with me. I turn and grab the door, exiting to the hallway and I don’t stop until I’m in the elevator. Kyle is right there with me, both of us in the center of the car, neither of us moving away from each other. And I have this crazy realization that when my hand was on his chest, I was thinking of nothing but him. It was a welcome escape and suddenly, I want to touch him now, but the doors open, saving me from my insanity.
I dart forward, hurrying to the gym door. Thankfully, there is just a keycard and no sign in, and in a matter of two minutes, I’m on a treadmill, Kyle claiming the one beside me. I start running, and push up the speed, pushing my body with it. My mind starts working. I start replaying my plans in my head. My past. My decisions. For forty minutes I do this and I still can’t get my mind around what comes next. Somehow, I shift my thoughts to every moment I’ve spent with Kyle, which feels like many, when I’ve only just met him. He’s close to me. I’m going to let him get closer. He’s either my friend or my enemy, and I have a sudden realization that comes with a lot of self-hate. I know what I have been missing.
I step off the belt and hit the “stop” button and turn to find Kyle, who does the same. “We need to go to the room and talk right now.”
He grabs his towel. “Lead the way.”
***
Kyle
I have no idea what Myla is about to tell me but the minute I open the hotel room door, she’s inside. Entering after her, I shut the door and lock it, only to find her dashing down the hallway toward her room. Considering the urgency of her need to talk to me, I need to pursue, but I force myself to dial Asher. “There’s been no one in our room to create an issue with bugs, right?”
“You’re clear.”
That’s all I need to hear. I pursue Myla, pursue her, rounding the corner just in time to find her disappearing inside her room, but she doesn’t shut the door. Considering that an invitation, I head right in as she exits the closet and points her gun at me.
“Do you know why I didn’t take the gun with me to the gym?” she demands.
“I’m guessing because you wanted to shoot me,” I say, “given you appear to be considering it now.”
“Not you. Them. Him. I hate them all. I hate them so much. And I need you to tell them that. Get your payday. Get this over with.”
I officially have no clue where this came from or where it’s going, but I toss the scanner on the bed and step closer to her. “Stop,” she orders.
“I’m not going to tell anyone that you hate them.”
“You are going to tell them, or I swear to you, I will shoot you. And I’m desperate enough to do it.”