Page 19 of Heavy
I’m just being paranoid.
Digging my hand into my purse, I fetch my key fob and tap the lock twice to get the engine going. The moment my thumb is pressing the unlock button, I feel a presence at my side.
I don’t even have time to gasp before a body slams into mine, a gloved hand clamping over my mouth. My legs instinctively kick out, and since I’m walking right beside a parked vehicle, I press my foot against it, trying to push off and throw my attacker off balance.
Unfortunately, it doesn’t work. Their arm tightens around my arms and chest, and I scream against the hand covering my mouth.
“Shut your fucking mouth,” a male voice reverberates in my ear, sending a wave of heat to the corners of my eyes.
No, please, not again!
“Stop! Someone, help me!”
My fingers claw at the man's jeans, desperately trying to find a grip, but I'm tossed roughly against a car. The hand over my mouth remains firm and he releases my arms only to force one of them behind my back. My free hand attempts to push myself off the cold metal, but he swiftly grabs the back of my head and slams my forehead against the vehicle.
Stars burst behind my eyelids, and I fall limp against the hood of the car.
“We aren’t here for your cunt this time, Calista.” My vision blurs as I watch a shadow approach.
“Please, I’m sorry… I-I’m trying!”
8
Ronan
Whydon’tdrugshitthe same way they used to?
The marijuana I’ve been pulling into my lungs is barely giving me anything more than a light headache. I’ll have to tell Ken he’s losing his touch, though maybe it’s more of a me problem than the substance. I also can’t deny I’m a bit distracted.
It’s almost midnight and Calista still hasn’t returned to the cabin. I’m not keeping tabs on her, but it’s hard to imagine she’d be working this late. She never has when she’s working from home.
Ever since she installed cameras around the house, I’ve half-considered putting a tracker in her car. Not that I’m worried about her; it’s more morbid curiosity. Why would she need security in a supposedly ‘gated’ area? There’s a single, monitored entrance, and short of trekking several acres on foot, no one could get here without serious determination.
Maybe it’s for me? Maybe she finally googled my name.
“Guilty,” I mutter, tossing back the rest of the beer in my hand.
I’ve got the garage door open, lights off, keeping myself hidden as I sit here on one of the couches that once filled the living room. She’s thinking of selling it, but I’m tempted to have her keep it. After a workout, it’s nice to sit on something that isn’t a bench.
Leaning my head back, I slouch as the blunt in my hand burns down to my fingers. I haven’t taken a hit in a while, just letting it smolder past the butt.
Calista is an intriguing person. She’s got a lot going on in that head of hers. I’m pretty sure she struggles with ADHD; it shows in her habits. The kitchen has been her main focus, but she can’t seem to stick with it for more than thirty minutes before jumping to something else.
And there’s that little stutter when she talks to me. It can’t be because she finds me attractive; she must know she looks just as damn good. If I weren’t the person I am, I’d have tied her wrists to any of the beams inside this cabin and fucked the soul right out of her.
I’m not gentle in any aspect of my life. Violence is my security, my protection. Whether it’s slamming my cock into someone or punching them in the face, nothing about me is soft.
Calista’s curiosity is obvious. Her eyes often linger on the scars across my abdomen or drift up to the “SIT” tattoo over my eyebrow. I think she wants to know what made the ‘Ronan’ standing in front of her. Maybe that’s why she’s so hesitant to ask about me. She’d rather fumble over a question like “How tall are you?” than ask, “Where’d you get the knife scars?”
The low rumble of tires on gravel pulls me out of my thoughts. Her Mustang rolls up the driveway, headlights cutting out as she nears the house.
Once she’s parked, I crush the blunt in my hand, letting it die out before dropping what’s left onto the couch. I walk right out of the garage, not taking any precautions to hide myself.
She’s getting out of the car, looking a little unsteady. For a second, I think back to her innocent demeanor. There’s no way she drove home drunk, is there? Part of me doesn’t even want to know, because if she did, I might not be able to stop myself from bending her over and spanking the sense back into her. How reckless would she have to be to drive drunk out here? One wrong turn and she could end up in the lake or wrapped around a tree.
Steadying herself on the car, she leans over, slips off one heel, then the other, before making her way to the cabin.
You don’t care, Ronan…A low groan escapes my throat. Is she so inebriated that she can’t see the garage open? She doesn’t even mutter about it.
