My stomach grumbled on command.
“Go take a bath.” He nodded towards the hallway. “I’ll order you some food, but you probably want to relax for a bit.”
“Are you going to be barging in and waving your gun?” I asked. “Or beating any more hotel employees up?”
“If you stay dressed like that?” He eyed me slowly up and down. “Yes. Now, go.”
CHAPTER EIGHT
Axton
THE SLAM OF THE bathroom door gave immediate relief. Muscles I wasn’t even aware I’d been flexing, relaxed as I slumped against the countertop. I was less than half a day in and I was already strung so tight that even alcohol wouldn’t bring me down.
It was the outfit.
And the braid.
Maybe even the legs.
Hell, who was I kidding, it was everything.
I gripped my cell in my hand and punched in a quick text to Nixon.
Me: Safe, at hotel, her room was destroyed.
Nixon: Did you find it?
Me: What is it?
Nixon: You’ll know when you see it.
Me: Vague, thanks.
Nixon: Just get her to Chicago, that’s all you need to worry about.
With a grimace I set the phone away from me and leaned against the counter, half tempted to bang my head against the granite just to see if it would knock any sense into my brain. Then again, it wasn’t my brain having issues but every other cell in my body. It was like I had lost complete control over my hands, my damn heartbeat, my breathing — everything was fixed on her and her alone. Which made doing my job without getting emotionally attached, damn near impossible.
Clothes. I needed to get her some clothes, preferably a turtleneck and a pair of sweats, maybe a floppy hat, some sunglasses.
Not that it would help, but one could always hope.
“Aaaaagh!” A scream erupted from the bathroom. Gripping my gun I ran down the hallway and burst through the door, hand raised, ready to shoot anyone who dared touch her.
Amy was lying in the giant bath tub, bubbles surrounding her body making it impossible for me to see her completely naked but giving me the suggestion that it was my loss I couldn’t.
“What’s wrong?” I lowered the gun, my heart rate finally returning to normal. “I thought someone was attacking you.”
Amy blushed, the pink color traveled down her neck to her chest, where my eyes stayed for longer than they should have.
“A bad dream.” She shook her head, pieces of wet hair stuck to her chin and cheeks. I had to bite my lip to keep from telling her how beautiful she looked and how badly I wanted to kiss her. “I’m sorry, I didn’t realize how tired I was, I laid down and closed my eyes and then—”
With a sigh I glanced away — not because I was trying to be polite but because I was tilted on my own axis, a stranger in my own body, unable to actually look at her and speak at the same time. “Do you want me to stay in here?”
“No!” She lurched forward as if to stop me from staying. Water lapped over the edges of the bathtub.
Bubbles moved around her.
And I stared like a man who’d never seen water before.
One bubble remained near her chest.
I stared it down. Willed it to move to the right, the left, or to disappear altogether, and when that didn’t work I argued with it in my head, alternating between telling it why it shouldn’t exist and why it should.
Yes, my speech was quite extensive, well researched, well thought out. I would have probably won an award. And that award would have been for stupidity, but… there I was, still staring, still arguing, still telling myself it was okay to want what I’d given up so long ago — what I didn’t deserve.
“Ax?” Amy squeaked. “Is something wrong?”
My body responded in the most inappropriate way, coming alive at the sound of her voice as if she’d just offered to let me lick her while pushing the damn bubble away.
“Uh, yeah,” I snapped. “Sorry, just, next time don’t scream unless something’s really wrong, I could have shot you.”
Romance was clearly lost on me. Of all the things to say, I could have shot you probably killed the moment more than anything. Hell, I wouldn’t be surprised if the bubble suddenly spontaneously split into two just to shame me for being such an ass.
“Sorry,” she said quickly. “I’m sorry. It won’t happen again.”
“‘K.” I backed away, forgetting that I’d closed the door behind me, and collided with the doorknob. Wincing, I turned, gave her a salute, because that’s what mafia hit men do when they’re in a bathroom with a naked girl, they salute her like a freaking boy scout, and then leave.
Once the door shut behind me I almost turned the gun on myself.