Which is why Dax is surprised when Storm pulls a gun from a holster somewhere beneath his jacket and casually gestures to Dax.
Fear is cold in my veins but I don’t react at all. I’m staring at Storm’s red-lined eyes more intensely now, more aware, and I realize something isn’t quite right with him. He sniffs, a habit I’ve not heard him do before, and he must be…high.
“If you don’t get out of her apartment in the next ten seconds, you’ll be taken out in a body bag.” Storm says it so quietly, I blink a few times to make sure he actually said that and it wasn’t just some twisted fantasy of mine that he would. But his movements are off, a little jerky, and if Dax doesn’t listen, I’m going to shove him out myself to save his life.
I turn to him and find he’s looking at me, his thick brows furrowed.
He starts to speak. “Sloane, you need to call the police?—”
“No, I?—”
“You’re hilarious.” Storm cuts me off, and the next second, he’s in the apartment. He walks past me and goes to Dax, grabbing him by the fabric of his shirt and dragging him close. He’s got a few inches on Dax, plus the gun in his hand.
Dax’s complexion looks green.
“Get the fuck out,” Storm whispers. He presses the weapon to Dax’s stomach, and I suck in a breath, but I don’t intervene.“Now.”
Dax swallows, then looks at me.
I nod once.
And without waiting for Dax to get his shoes or say anything, Storm turns and shoves him out the door. But he gently moves me away from it, circling his fingers around my arm and tugging softly. When I’m safely out of the way, he slams the door on a bewildered, barefoot Dax, and flips the lock.
Then he bows his head to the door, gun still in his hand, by his side.
I try to regain the sensation of steadiness on my feet and force myself to push past the chill of nerves. Slowly, I come up behind Storm and reach for the weapon. Before I touch it, I say, “I’m going to take this from you, baby,” the tender name coming on instinct.
I pull the gun from his fingers by the grip, my heart racing, and he doesn’t stop me.
Then I head to the kitchen, open a bottom drawer with dish towels in it, and gently lay the gun inside even though I want to drop it like it’s on fire, then close the drawer.
I never want to hold one again. I don’t know how to use a gun and I don’t want to learn. It felt like holding a bomb and the relief I feel not having itoutnearly sends me to my knees.
But Storm is still leaning against the door.
I don’t want to babysit him, but something in my chest aches, seeing him like this.
On slow steps, but not quiet so as not to scare him, I find him again in the darkness of the foyer. It’s cold here, since the door was open so long, and goosebumps pebble my skin, and I don’t know what to do, but I fling my arms around his middle without thinking and rest my head on his hard back.
Then I squeeze him tight.
He tenses at first, his body rigid.
I can feel the muscles flex around his spine.
But after a moment, when I don’t let go, he shifts to face me, wraps his arms around me too, and collapses back against the door.
I inhale the cigarette he must have smoked, along with the leather and his cologne.
I’m pressed so close to him, there’s nothing between us but heartbeats. I just don’t know if vital signs are enough to keep us together.
“What happened, baby?” I whisper against his chest, my face buried beneath the lapel of the bomber jacket.
His chin is on my head.
He squeezes my waist so tight.
“Call me that again,” he whispers in my hair.
