Page 111 of Grace

“What you’re like.”

“And what am I like? Tall? Strong? Handsome?”

“Crazy.”

A dark smile dances on his lips.

“And I think being on the run with one lunatic, running from another, is enough excitement. And don’t you think this is pretty obvious?” I point at the baseball cap he’s trying to put on my head again.

“Okay. But the shirt stays on.” He tosses the cap onto the back seat.

“Come on.” We get out of the car, and he takes my hand. The touch is innocent and natural, and still it makes my heart beat faster—even though we’ve been far more intimate. Yet holding hands makes my skin tingle and butterflies flutter in my stomach.

Sadness stabs at my heart, because this is what Cyrus wrote to me about in his letter—the butterflies that are real. He is feeling the same thing I’m feeling, the only difference being my butterflies aren’t for him. It isn’t fair. Life isn’t fair.

We’ve been on the road for a week. Chase is good at this. And he’s good at distracting me, too. The only time I thought about that lunatic was when I pulled that ugly teddy bear out of the bag. Even if Cyrus has noticed my absence, I haven’t heard from him. I don’t have my phone with me, so that isn’t surprising. And knowing Lucas, it’s no surprise the police aren’t after me, either.

Maybe I should be afraid. But I’m not—not during the day, not at night. I wake up every night, because the back of my head and the space between my shoulder blades is tingling. The feeling is bloodcurdling, but I know it’s just Chase watching me—in that obsessed, dark, inviting way. When I don’t fall back asleep right away, I watch him for a while, too.

I haven’t felt this free in four years. I feel free and safe. With him, I feel like I can be anything I want, that I can finally feel everything all the way through. I can start crying out of nowhere—or, just as easily, I can laugh, carefree and happy. I can be myself.

We haven’t kissed since the gas station. Chase hasn’t made a move. The sexual tension between us keeps thickening. Sometimes I think about touching him, but I’m afraid it would set us on a path there’s no coming back from. And I’m still Cyrus’s partner, even if I’m not a “proper” girlfriend. I miss him. But I had no idea what I’d been missing from my life—I didn’t realize it until Chase Baker came back.

That quiet hour we spent in the storeroom made me understand how much he means to me. We were just holding each other. Still, that embrace was everything. And I’m tired of fighting my emotions. People can lie to others about what they feel, but not to themselves. The days and miles we’ve left behind, the way daylight replaces night… I’m starting to come to terms with what I feel. I’m his. My heart has always been his. Of course I can be mad at him, but hate won’t help me. It would trap me in a toxic swamp I’d eventually drown in. But I don’t want to drown anymore. I want to live. And not even that lunatic chasing us can stop me. I fall asleep with sweet dreams in my head and wake up happy.

Chase might be an obsessed, crazy killer… I’m no less crazy. And do I have to make excuses to anyone for the fact that I love him? That my heart beats faster whenever I see him? That his gaze makes my skin burn? No. And no. My conscience is the only thing I have to make peace with.

It’s like I opened a completely new chapter in my life—not consciously… it just happened. At some point, it wasn’t a surprise anymore.

We halt at the entrance.

“Don’t look at anyone for too long. But don’t drop your eyes, either. Act natural.”

He strides through the little, ordinary bar with long, confident steps, exuding power, dominance, and quiet darkness. He’s dangerous enough on his own, but with a brother like Lucas at his back, there’s no one he should be afraid of. I take a quick, furtive look around. There’s a pool table in the middle of the room. The lights are dim, and the jukebox is playing a country song. Blinking slot machines and red-leather booths line the wall. Thick smoke stings my eyes, and my hair and clothes soak up the sour smell instantly. The crack of the balls colliding on the pool table sends a shiver down my spine.

My heart starts racing, and my breathing turns shallow. As we head for the counter without slowing, I realize I haven’t chewed my nails in a week—and I haven’t had an attack of any kind. The realization is strangely refreshing.

I sneak a glance at the man who hasn’t let go of my hand for a second, the man who can scare people to death with one look.

I stumble along—his dark bad-boy vibe, his chiseled, cold features, his long dark lashes, the steel edge in his deep brown eyes, the dark lock of hair falling into them—it all puts me under a spell.

“Where’s the bathroom?” he asks the bartender without even saying hello. The guy isn’t surprised by the lack of manners—he just jerks his chin toward the far corner of the bar. He rolls a toothpick around in his mouth with his tongue and smiles in derision. “The ladies’ doesn’t work.”

Chase’s hand tightens around mine. He swallows hard and narrows his eyes, and the bartender’s arrogant smile disappears. I smile inwardly, but when I take a careful look around, my throat tightens painfully.

The men at the counter and around the pool table turn to us. If they surround us, we’re done for. Chase isn’t an action hero—he can’t handle this many people at once. And I’m sure he doesn’t have a weapon on him.

I squeeze his hand lightly. He looks at me from the corner of his eye. His posture loosens, his muscles ease, and gentleness slips into his cold eyes.

“The men’s bathroom is fine, too,” I whisper.

He nods. He turns and leads me to the men’s room, then opens the door and steps inside. I clamp my hand over my mouth—the stench is brutal. But I really have to pee.

“Wait for me here, and don’t get into trouble.”

“What could be more trouble than you?” I ask, dryly, lifting one eyebrow. He takes a step back and trails his fingers over the soft skin of my flushed cheek, and heat coils low between my legs. A pleasant, heavy warmth settles in my lower belly. I drown in his deep brown eyes. His lips draw dangerously close.

“I love it when you show your humorous side,” he whispers against my lips.