Stop it. Noah was minutes behind her, and he had a key.
“Sarah?” His voice rumbled through the shop and breathed a flush through her cheeks. What would her real name sound like in that baritone?
Familiar footfalls closed in. So did her decision. The weight of it pushed against her chest and clenched.
Fuck Roy for making her so damned fearful. She hadn’t signed up to be the girl whose father sold her as payment for his gambling debt. Yet that terrified girl endured. And she had escaped.
She closed her eyes and let herself want. She wanted to swing on front porches and cross streets holding his hand. She wanted to share her past and participate in his future. But did she want to marry him?
Her eyes flipped open and collided with his where they glittered over the counter.
A smile creased his face. “What are you doing down there?”
Was she trying to break down her options so she could fill her future with better ones? Her pulse pumped hollowly in her ears.
If she bared the ugliness of her two year enslavement, would he respond as detective or lover? Would he go after Roy Oxford and inadvertently lead him back to her, catching a bullet in the process? Her musings of a normal future only delayed the inevitable.
She’d fought so hard to keep distance from Noah, to keep him safe from her and Roy. He was a Marine and a cop. Did he need her protection? Probably not more than she needed his.
She powered on the speakers. “I want to dance with you.”
He arched a brow, and the side of his mouth kicked up. “Oh?”
Stooped over her bent knee, she picked at the black polish on her big toe where it poked through her sandals. Was he thinking about the note he left in her oatmeal squares, wondering if she was going to answer it? Her gaze floated back to his.
He smiled down at her, arms outstretched, waiting for his dance.
“Swing Life Away” she murmured and pressed play.
“Rise Against. Great band.” His face transformed into sweeping bowed lips and white teeth and shining eyes. The beauty of it cartwheeled the distance between them, filling her with longing.
The instrumental intro carried her to her feet, around the counter, and toward the arms of the man who loved her enough to cease his proposals. In return, she wished she could give him her name, her story, and above all, a Yes.
A counter’s length away, he stretched his arms wider.
She hummed with the vocals, etching the moment in memory, never looking away from his eyes. Freedom was forward. A freedom she couldn’t have. Still, she reached her arms toward it, toward him.
A board creaked, paralyzing her. The walled entry way blocked her view of the front door. Oh God, did he not lock it? Was it a customer? She wouldn’t wait to find out. Where was her bag? Her gun?
She lurched to move around the counter, and her gaze skidded across the room, slamming into hard eyes deeply set in a familiar face. The horror that bolted through her locked her legs, stripping away four years of freedom, every moment of happiness. The scrap of hope she’d harbored in the depth of her chest shriveled behind her galloping heart and fell away.
Toxic energy buzzed from his taut posture. He raised a pistol, a silencer extending the barrel, intent scorching from his glare.
Her heart stopped. “Noah!”
A pop whistled through the room. Noah’s smile collapsed, as did his legs. She spun back, leaping, falling atop him as he dropped. He stared at his hand clenched on his stomach.
Blots of red stained his white button-up, blooming beyond his spread fingers. Her vision fogged. Blood roared in her ears. “Noooo. No, no, no. Oh God, Noah, look at me.”
He writhed beneath her and wheezed through shallow breaths. She patted her pockets. Her phone…where was it? Oh fuck, he didn’t have much time. His eyes rolled to the side, and she followed his gaze.
A shadow fell over her, and the silencer pointed at his lolled head. She repositioned her body, caging him, shielding him.
The music fell quiet, signaling the song’s end. Oh fuck, her fucking phone was plugged in behind the counter. Fuck, fuck, fuck.
“Kilroy Tattoo, Charlee? Roy doesn’t appreciate your humor.”
She loathed that rasp, the cruelty in his eyes, and the strength of his fist. She used to call him the Craig. She’d called them all Craig. This Craig was Roy’s right-hand.
“Fuck Roy.” Her shout was venomous, distorted with tears. “And fuck you.”
Hang in there, Noah. Please, please. She kept her back to the Craig, blocking Noah’s body, her hands moving frantically, searching pockets, front and back, his ankle holster, shoulder holster. Empty. Empty. Empty.
Her bag, which held her gun, sat behind the counter. Fuck, fuck, so fucking stupid.