Page 38 of A Stop in Time
Run-flats.
A trace of anxiety flickers like a tightening rubber band around my chest before releasing. I may not feel like I’m in danger with Daniel, but these tires remind me of who he is: a dangerous gang member. Because the average person doesn’t tend to put the kind of tires on their car that allows them to drive after the rubber’s been punctured.
When I lean down further and aim my flashlight at what I can see of the undercarriage of the car, I let out a low whistle.
The entire chassis of this car was made with tempered steel to enable it to sustain the extra weight of everything else being armored and bulletproof. To have this done cost a pretty penny, and I’d give anything to be able to put this car on the lift in my garage and look my fill of it.
Switching off the flashlight, I pocket my phone and straighten to peer at him. He hasn’t moved from where he’s been resting one hip against the bumper of the car, arms crossed.
“An armored car with run-flats, huh?”
A beat of silence hangs between us before he answers. “There’s always a chance somebody’ll wanna try to eliminate us.”
My breath suspends in my chest because I can’t even fathom living that kind of life. One where you’re always looking over your shoulder, wondering if someone’s after you.
Crossing my arms, I survey his expression—somber yet still possessing that unapologetic steely quality. It gives me the impression he’s prepared to unleash fury unlike any other at a moment’s notice.
I can’t say what compels me to say it, but the words emerge before I realize it. “I’m not exactly well-versed when it comes to gang members, but…how bad of a person are you? Like, on a scale of one to ten—ten being Ted Bundy.”
A frown pleats his brows while something dark and forbidding crosses his features. The nearby streetlight illuminates a section of his face, a muscle in his jaw flickering.
Green eyes pin me in place, and his voice may be hushed, but it holds an undeniable ruthlessness. “You wanna know if I’m a murderer.”
He tips his head to the side, his stare raking over me as if to assess whether I can handle his answer. After what seems like an eternity, he finally answers. “Yeah, I’m a murderer.”
Calm. Collected. That’s the only way to describe his response and demeanor. The visual snare of his gaze renders me powerless to look away.
His mouth flattens into a thin, punishing line. “But it doesn’t mean I go around killin’ for the fun of it.”
A small sound of disbelief bursts from me. “Forgive me, but maybe dumb it down for those of us who don’t have any experience killing people. Just because you don’t kill for the fun of it, it’s okay?”
Tense lines border his mouth, indicating he clearly doesn’t appreciate my tone. “Never said that.”
A pause lingers between us, and I get the impression he’s gauging whether I’m willing to hear him out. I am, but it doesn’t mean I’ll understand how someone can take another person’s life.
“Every single thing I’ve ever done that anybody’d consider ‘bad’ was to help our own people. To better our community and ensure it thrives.
“If it means beatin’ the shit outta somebody or cuttin’ off a finger as a warnin’ to the motherfuckers who act outta selfishness, or outright hurt others, so be it.
“Sometimes, though, a warnin’ just won’t do.” He pauses for a beat, his voice turning arctic. “That’s when they get a bullet between the eyes. But it’s always done with a purpose: to keep our people safe.
“I don’t know where that puts me on that scale of yours, and if you wanna part ways here, that’s your call. I’ll respect it. But know this…”
His stare rakes over me, as if he’s committing it to his memory. “None of us ever lay a goddamn finger on women or kids. We’re criminals, we’re murderers—not denyin’ that—but women and kids are where we draw the line.”
Silence blankets us for a long moment before he utters quietly, “So, what’s it gonna be? We partin’ ways here?”
Every fiber of my body riots against the idea of saying goodbye to this man just yet. More than that is the instinctive need that’s risen inside me, the yearning to have one night with a man this complex and alluring. The first man who hasn’t flinched or recoiled at the sight of my face.
Maybe it’s because he has scars of his own. I don’t know, and I’m not sure I even care. What I do know is I’ll regret walking away, especially if he’s experiencing the same pull I am.
Simultaneously, though, a small voice in the recesses of my mind whispers, He’s too dangerous. You can’t let your guard down with this one.
Taking slow, purposeful steps toward him, I stop once we’re toe to toe. Tension crackles in the air between us while his gaze remains watchful. He may not move a single inch, but his body grows rigid.
Everything about this man is unique, and I know, deep down, if I hesitate, I’ll lose my nerve. That’s why the words pour out of me rapid and near breathless. “This can’t be more than a one-time thing, so let that be known. But if you’re maybe interested in just—oomf!”
It all happens in an instant. Wordlessly, he fists the front of my shirt and gives a sharp tug on the gathered fabric. It sends me stumbling against him just as his other hand knocks my ball cap off to cup my nape and steer my face to his. Our mouths fuse, his tongue diving inside to taste mine, and my toes curl inside my boots.