Page 48 of A Stop in Time
She left. I heave out a breath and close my eyes. Shit. I thought for sure she’d stick around, at least until dawn.
Damn if I don’t feel kind of used.
I shift to sit on the side of the bed and rest my elbows on my knees. Staring at the shitty carpet, I attempt to push Mac from my mind, knowing it’s for the best.
Of course, it’s futile, because when I close my eyes, I swear I can still see the way she looked at me hours ago. Gorgeous eyes hazy with lust, and her silver hair fanned against the pillow.
The sense of pride that rushed through my veins when she allowed me to fuck her face to face was undeniable. It shouldn’t have mattered, knowing it was a one-time thing, but it did. I didn’t want to be like any other fucker she’s slept with.
I pad naked toward the bathroom, scooping up my pants on the way, and set my gun on the vanity while I take a piss.
Once I wash up and pull on my pants, my thoughts drift back to last night while I brush my teeth. The way her pussy strangled my cock when I fucked her through her release was so goddamn—
Christ. I adjust myself. What the fuck am I doing, getting so damn distracted by this woman? I splash some cold water on my face, hoping that’ll help me snap out of wishing Mac were still here. That we could’ve gone another round.
Get your shit together. I shouldn’t be mooning over her like some pathetic bastard.
“She’s long gone by now.”
My head snaps up, and I have my gun in my hand, safety off, finger on the trigger in an instant. I scan the bathroom for the man’s voice only to come up empty. The clear shower curtain doesn’t hide anyone lurking there either. So, where the hell did the man’s voice come from?
Carefully, I pad into the room and scan it methodically. Nothing is out of place and no one is here. The fuck?
Something draws my attention back to the chair near the small desk, and that’s when it happens. A man materializes before my eyes.
Holy fucking shit. I keep my gun trained on him, because he’s the one who showed up uninvited in my motel room.
“How the hell’d you get in here?”
Pale blue eyes are fixed on me, and I get the weird impression he’s attempting to read my mind. His white-blond hair is in a buzz cut, and even though he’s seated, I can tell he’s tall. Wiry but lean, muscled.
His gaze is hardened, cold, as if he’s experienced death and emerged from it multiple times. “Let’s not bother with questions you won’t believe the answer to.”
He raises a brow. “If I wanted you dead, you would be. Now, put the gun down, Mr. Madrano.”
Every muscle in my body stiffens in alarm. “How the fuck do you know my name?”
He slowly exhales a long breath, as if I’m testing his patience. “You’re as aggravating as Mr. Cortez was during our first meeting.”
He knows Bronson? I cycle through my brain, trying to recall what Bronson might have mentioned. Did he ever say anything about a guy who can be invisible?
“I can see you’re thinking hard.” The barest trace of arrogance laces his tone. “I helped Georgia once.” His mouth tightens, and I’m not sure if it’s from irritation or to suppress a smile. Either way, the fucker looks like he’s battling constipation. “Or twice.”
“Yeah? So, you’re here to help me, then, is that it?”
He pinches the bridge of his nose, eyes closing briefly, and mumbles something under his breath I can’t decipher. Once he opens his eyes, I’m pinned in place by that eerie pale blue stare.
“We don’t have much time, Mr. Madrano, and I’m already intervening again when I shouldn’t. Why don’t you start by putting on a shirt like a gentleman?”
“I’m not a fuckin’ gentleman.”
Tense lines frame his mouth. “Pretend you are.”
It’s a silent standoff, but I want to know why the hell he’s here. Especially if he actually helped Georgia. Fuck it. I grab my discarded shirt and tug it on, quickly buttoning it.
“Why don’t you have a seat.” He phrases this more as a command than a question, and when I remain standing, he simply says, “Or not. Your call.”
Shifting slightly in the chair, he studies me carefully. “What exactly are you hoping to accomplish here?”