Page 46 of Trigger Happy Ending

She studies me for a beat longer, then sighs, finally tossing the knife aside, the blade landing on the floor. She collapses back onto the mattress, still drunk and exhausted. One hand rests above her head, the other over her toned stomach. I try not to notice her hard nipples under my shirt, but I fail. I’m a man, I can’t help but notice shit like that.

My chest rises and falls as I steady my breath, lowering my heart rate to a rhythm that won’t kill me.

“What were you dreaming about?”

“Nothing,” she says, eyes on the ceiling.

Lies. Sweet little lies dancing on those beautiful lips.

I’ve thought about those lips far too many times since that day on the plane. I don’t know why I’m thinking about it now after she just held a knife to my fucking throat.

I press my hands into the mattress and begin to rise off the bed, but Raine grips my forearm.

“Wait,” she whispers, her eyelids heavy. “Stay. Until I fall asleep.”

I try not to show my surprise at the request, but I feel my jaw hang open slightly. No one’s ever asked that of me. Not in a way that felt like they meant it anyway. Usually, I leave because I never care to stay.

After a few moments, I ask softly, “Is this another one of your mind games?”

She doesn’t answer, instead choosing to roll into me, half-asleep, her hand still on my arm.

The silence should be uncomfortable. It isn’t.

I should be uncomfortable. I’m not.

She closes those emerald eyes—eyes too pretty to have seen the horrors I suspect they’ve seen.

I wait a few minutes before whispering, “Who hurt you?”

“Everyone …” she breathes, before falling into a deep sleep.

I tell myself I’ll stay for five minutes.

Five become fifteen, then blend into thirty. An hour goes by. Then, the sun rises. Time loses shape as I watch her sleep peacefully. She’s like a bouquet of dying flowers … Drained of color, yet still remarkable. I memorize the lines of her face, the way her hair fans out like a dark halo, and those little freckles that are fast becoming one of my favorite features about her.

Her hand is still on my forearm.

I fantasize what it would feel like to have her nails scratch down my back. It takes all my military discipline not to imagine those long legs wrapped around me while I move inside her. I trace her skin, smooth and warm … Flawless except for the faint scars at her wrists. Huh. Interesting. From ropes? Zip ties? Handcuffs?

I could ask her, but I doubt she’ll tell me.

She trades in secrets, and the reason she’s probably still alive is because she’s kept hers.

Chapter 22

Raine

It’s always the same unforgiving nightmare. It starts out normal, like it always does.

I’m on the lounge, my head in Mom’s lap, her fingers weaving lazy braids into my hair while a trashy housewife blares obscenities from the TV. The women argue about the same shit on repeat, and Mom’s low giggle vibrates through me. I never understood why she likes this trash. She says it’s because it calms her which only confuses me more.

Mom’s hands smell faintly of jasmine. Her favorite scent. She uses jasmine soap, jasmine room spray, and jasmine lotion … Everything is jasmine.

She feels so alive in my dream.

Like nothing in the world could take her from me.

Then, the scene flickers.