Armed and Dangerous (The IMA) (17 page)

“
I know how to do a lot of things.”

The old Michael would have said that with a leer, and I half-flinched in anticipation, but he kept his eyes on his plate and his tone was as bland as if he were discussing the weather.

“How is it?”

“
I—it's fine.”

“
Only fine?”

God, he was making me nervous. “I'm just going to get changed. I'll pick up some clothes for you and we can, um, talk. Like you said.”

“Don't you need my size?”

I froze. “What?”

“My clothing size,” he repeated. The corner of his mouth lifted a little. “Or did you do more than look when you took my clothes off?”

“
No,” I said tightly. “I did
not
.”

I yanked open a drawer and tossed a memo pad and a pen at him. I'd meant for them to hit him, but he snapped them out of the air.

“Unlike you,” I said. “I respect people's privacy.”

And then I turned and walked away before he could see that he had gotten to me.

Fifteen minutes later found me at the stupid drug store near my apartment with a stomach full of something too dark to be butterflies. His compelling presence made it hard to think. I didn't want to get sucked into this nightmare, though I suspected it was already too late.

I looked down at the crumpled post-it in my hand. The ink was smeared from my sweaty palm.
Shirt size, XL. Pants, 36. Shoe size, 15.

He was probably snooping through my things at this very moment. Anything not bolted to the floor would be considered fair game. I was trying not to worry about it. I had nothing to hide. Nothing except
my pills, my pepper-spray, and the switchblade, and all three of those things were tucked safely away in my purse.

I bought three t-shirts, two pairs of shorts, jeans, track pants, socks, sneakers, and a pair of hideous leather sandals that looked like something my father might wear. It was my pathetic attempt at revenge, not that Michael would notice.

I could feel a stress headache forming. On impulse, I grabbed a six-pack of energy drinks and a bottle of aspirin from the racks of stuff near the register tempting you into a last-stand of impulse buying.

The Asian guy at the register gave me a strange look as he rang up my purchases. I winced when I saw the price glaring at me on the LED display.  Michael's new wardrobe had cost more than my textbooks had, even with my student discount. Between this and the damage to my apartment's bathroom, he was going to ruin me.

I bet there are other ways you'd like him to 'ruin you.'

“
Can you twist off one of those for me?” I asked him, pointing at the energy drinks. “And the aspirin.”

“
Sure. Let me just finish bagging what you've got here.” He trailed off. “Hey, wait, I know you.”

He did? “You do?” I asked guardedly.

“You're the girl—” he snapped his fingers. “The girl whose dress was unzipped on picture day. Man, you really tore out of there fast.”

Oh crap. He was right. “Yeah. Thanks. That was me.”

He cut the tags and removed the sensors from the clothes. “Sorry. Didn't mean to remind you. I never forget a face or a place.”

I was too mortified to speak.

“So,” he said, nodding at the clothes. “These for your boyfriend?”

My head jerked up. “No,” I said, too sharply.

His eyebrows zoomed up to his hairline. I felt like a fool. “Well, just so you know, our return policy is thirty days grace period with a receipt—oh, and a five-percent restocking fee on student merchandise. Would your—I mean, would you like a gift receipt for the clothes?”

“
No. That's all right. Thanks, though.”

He tore the receipt from the printer and handed it to me with a flourish. “Have a nice day.”

I was having anything but.

This is what normal feels like
, my brain informed me as we left the store.
It looks like him
.

“
Here are your stupid clothes.”

Michael was reclining on my couch, flipping through my psychology textbook—proving my theory correct that he had done a casual search through my meager belongings. “Put that down,” I snapped, batting it out of his hands. It hit the floor with a loud thud that made me jump and him smirk. “Put
these
on.”

“
Does bossing me around get you off or something?”

“
No.”

“
Are you sure?” He bent down, his face was level with mine. “You seem to like it an awful lot.”

I averted my eyes with a startled yelp when he let the sheet drop without pretense to step into the boxers. “For God's sake,” I said. “Cover your shame!”

“I'm not ashamed,” he said.

I struggled for words. “Those — those haven't even been washed yet.”

“You want me commando?”

“
I want you to put on some pants.”

He laughed. “My God, you're acting like a virgin on her wedding night. Loosen up, darlin. I don't have
anything you haven't seen before,” he added, making me flinch. “Don't tell me you didn't sneak a look when you stripped me down, either.”

The sting of my nails in my palms was a cutting reprimand. It hurt even more because he was right. “You're disgusting.”

“Only if you're a prude.”

I bit my lip and said nothing. The rustle of clothing filled the silence. I squeezed my eyes shut, trying to push away the series of images that came, unbidden, to my mind. “You can't talk to me that way,” I said. “That is unacceptable.”

When I felt his hand on my shoulder, I jumped. “Do I pass inspection?” His voice was low, and made my heart rate kick into overdrive, filling me with the urge to run —

Towards him, or away?

I steeled myself and turned around, putting a step between us as I did so.
Away
. He was wearing the jeans and one of the wife-beaters. The school logo warped across his muscular chest, which was all too visible beneath the snug white fabric.

I looked away. “Everything but good conduct.”

“I think you like it when I'm bad.”

“
I really don't think so,” I said, still not looking at him. I could see him in the corner of my eye, though. Walking around me. “The clothes fit then?” I asked loudly.

“
More or less.”

“
What does that mean?” He had disappeared from sight again. “What doesn't fit?”

The sudden, tickling warmth at my ear was the only warning I got before his arms wrapped around me from behind. “My pants,” he said. “They're too tight.”

I whirled around. Standing this close, I would have had to tilt my head back to look him in the eyes. I didn't do that; it would have seemed like an invitation for him to kiss me. And he
would
have — I knew that instinctively.

“
What are you doing?” I tried to ask. My lips moved, but my voice was silent. I cleared my throat and said, “You shouldn't joke about such things.”

I was proud of myself; I sounded steadier than I felt. I felt like I was a step away from shaking to pieces.

There was a heavy pause. The set of his mouth didn't change. I put my hands over his and lowered them from my hips. His hands flipped and closed over mine before I could completely pull away.

“
I missed you.”

My heart stopped. “What?”

“You heard me.”

“
Please,” I said. “No. Don't do this.”

“
I dreamed about you.” Pause. “Every night.”

Oh God, I was weak. Weak.

He tilted my face up. I felt the burn of his words on my lips. “Want to know what you were wearing?”

The illusion shattered. I jerked out of his now-loose embrace and glared at him, furious at him for sneaking past my defenses so easily. Furious at myself for wanting him to. “I'm going back to bed.”

“Is that an invitation?”

“
No,” I ground out. “It's a dismissal.”

“
Sounds more like a challenge to me.”

I pointed a finger at him. “Stay
out
of my room.”

“
Mais oui
, I'll do that. Let's just see if you can stay out of mine.” He spread his arms, indicating the whole of the living room and kitchen. “Sweet dreams, Christina.”

Michael:

When she came out of her room two hours later she was wearing khaki shorts and a red tank top, her hair bound into an unruly braid. She shot me a defiant look. With a set-up like that it was tempting to say something, but I had always prided myself on my sense of restraint.

Or I had until Christina entered the equation.

As long as I didn't act on anything I was feeling, that wouldn't change. I just had to keep my distance.

I just had to stop having a cock.

While she brushed her teeth and glared at her reflection in a way that led me to suspect that it was really me she was glaring at, I said, “Where do students at your college normally go to have their chats?”

She spat in the sink. “Campus coffee shop.”

“
Good. We'll go there. Where is it?”

“
On campus.” She put the toothbrush in its stand. “It's pretty loud in there. Are you sure you wouldn't prefer to go someplace quieter?”

“
I don't mix business and pleasure.”

I liked seeing the color rise up her high cheekbones like the tide coming in. “That's not what I meant.”

“Well, you want loud, trust me. You never know who might be listening in.” Her blush deepened. I hadn't meant it that way, but, well, looked like she had herself a dirty little mind. “How are we going to get there? You have a car?”

“
No. But I live on the bus line.”

“
When's the next bus come?”

She glanced at her phone. “Twenty-five minutes.”

“Good. Make sure we're on it.”

“
Do you ever say
please
?”

“
You could have found that out last night.”

Toothpaste spattered the rim of the sink when her mouth fell open. I saw a lot in her face. Desire. Fear. Anger. Pain. She was an open book. Always had been.

Not like me.

She saw me watching her and closed the bathroom door with a small cry. I left her to compose herself. Forcing my presence on her wouldn't do either of us any favors.

I picked up the psychology book and flipped through it some more. Some passages were highlighted in green. She had made notes in the margins. Cramped handwriting, slanted, with lots of flourishes. Distinctive, but not neat. That surprised me. I'd expected something more girlish.

Who the hell cares? What is this, Penmanship 101?

I closed the book.

About ten minutes later the bathroom door opened. She grabbed her purse without looking at me. “Come on. Let's go.”

Heat slammed up against me the moment she opened up the front door. The night had been warm, yes, but it hadn't prepared me for this.
This
was like walking into a giant oven. Jesus Christ. It had to be in the triple-digits. What a fucking nightmare.

“
Is the weather always like this in the summer?”

“
This is a pretty bad heatwave.” Her voice was tight. Still angry. Still defensive.

“
Where's the stop?”

“
Just around the corner from here.”

I shoved my thumbs through my belt loops and settled in for the wait. Christina played with her phone. Sweat beaded on her skin, soaking into her top, making it cling. I was thinking of other ways to make her sweat when the bus arrived. From dreams about hot fucking to hot, fucking reality. At least the bus was air-conditioned.

She sat down beside me in silence, face grim. I wondered if she was remembering that ride to Seattle. I wanted to tell her to cut it out, that there was no need to worry or look around so suspiciously.

I also didn't want to lie.

“Don't look so tense,” I said.

She glared at me. Definitely angry.

“Okay. You want to look like someone just shoved a taser up your ass and hit the juice, you go right ahead. Far be it from me to keep a woman from what she wants.”

“
Just leave me alone,” she said. “Please. Please, just stop talking for a little while.”

Her face was so raw. I nodded shortly.

When she'd mentioned her college to me I'd been expecting something pretentious. Redbrick buildings and grassy quads. Ivy League. I should have known better. It seemed like everything was crafted from white-hot metal and blinding glass.