Picking the lock felt… passive.
Guys in a rush to harm you, they typically kicked a door in when met with resistance.
Picking it felt covert.
Had I read this wrong?
Was someone not here to kill me, but rather to try to gather intel? To search through my shit? To plant listening devices?
Did this have nothing at all to do with the gun shipment going missing?
It wasn’t like it was the only job I was working. I was always fiddling with something. And, let’s face it, no one I did business with was straight-laced. All of them were capable of subterfuge. Or paranoia.
Well, whatever reason he (or they) were here for, they were about to be greeted by the absurdly long barrel of my most obnoxious revolver. It was heavy and had a pretty decent kick. Which was why it was stored in my closet and wasn’t my easy-to-grab weapon.
But it was a nasty thing with a .50-caliber bullet. It could do some damage. And I knew how to use it to that end.
I sucked in a deep breath, held it, and released it slowly.
My father’s voice was in my ear as I did so.
Not gonna shoot shit if you’re all jittery from holding your breath. You gotta relax.
Of course, having someone breathing down your neck telling you to relax after lecturing you about how dangerous the gun in your hand was wasn’t exactly conducive to calming down.
But that was the nature of everything with my father. Everything was pressure. Not to make me crack. But to make me so strong that I couldn’t break.
He likened raising me to the heat and pressure that turned carbon into a diamond.
Was that harsh at times? Sure.
But it was also how my shoulders loosened from my ears, the tremor in my hands eased, and my palms didn’t sweat on the grip.
The door cracked open.
My finger slid to the trigger guard, hovering, ready to curl around the trigger if I needed to.
“Thanks, Dad,” I murmured to myself.
Even if, objectively, I knew all he’d have for me in that moment were criticisms. About my stance. About not having a second weapon. About the fact that my cameras were able to be reached, that my door wasn’t reinforced, that I was caught damn near naked, that I’d gone back to my apartment at all, let alone taken time to make coffee and shower.
All valid criticisms, too.
Mentally, I put them on a to-do list to fix some other time.
When the door pushed fully open, I forced another exhale, ready to do the unthinkable if it was my only choice. Even as I prepared to deescalate the situation.
But then the man moved in.
His head lifted.
And there he was.
“It’s you.”
Same eyes, beard, the same cocky twitch to his lips as his gaze devoured me, lingering a deliciously indecent amount of time at the swell of my breasts over the towel and the spot on my thigh where the towel split slightly.
“That’s sexier than it has any right to be.”
