The Way We Burn Page 8

  I doubt much of anything. She was too embarrassed by her sexual abandon. I was pretty surprised myself, to be honest. I figured we’d have to take it very, very slow. Not just for me, but for her, too. It seems she’s a little more of a livewire than I suspected, though.

  My abs tighten at the thought of what she looked like. I’m stiffening with anticipation at what might come next when the bell over the door jingles. Within a half a second, the sound is followed by a shout.

  “Everybody down!”

  I’m on instant high alert. My eyes snap to a man near the door. He’s already pulled a ski mask down over his face, but I carefully, meticulously catalogue a thousand other details about him.

  The tattoo of a hammer on the back of his right hand, just above his thumb. The scar on his neck, just visible under the edge of his mask. The dirty boots that look to be of the steel-toed variety. The accent with which he speaks—definitely from farther north, maybe Minnesota or South Dakota. The corner of the square on his breast pocket, the tail of an insignia I think I’ve seen on a garage sign a few blocks away. The way he holds his gun, like a movie thug might, not someone who’s actually proficient and comfortable with a firearm.

  All these things register in my mind within seconds. I’m already moving on, moving through the particulars of the situation, formulating a plan of action for diffusing it before someone gets hurt.

  I watch as he moves forward. My heart squeezes when I see his goal—the cash register.

  Poppy.

  Anger and adrenaline spew into my blood in equal measure, but I smother them. I need a clear head and those will only cloud it.

  I shift slowly, almost imperceptibly to the edge of my seat.

  A child begins to cry.

  A woman moves to comfort it.

  A man reaches for his phone.

  The gunman pistol whips him.

  He slumps to the floor.

  A girl screams.

  Then another.

  Rapid fire.

  All this happens in a few short seconds, but they’re longer in my mind. I’m calculating. I’m anticipating. I’m preparing.

  The masked man shuffles to Poppy, whose arms are bent at the elbow, her hands in the air by her shoulders. Fear is etched plainly on her face.

  My gut knots.

  The bell over the entrance rings.

  Another man comes is in, mask already pulled down.

  He snaps the lock on the door shut and draws the blinds.

  “Put all the money in this bag,” the first robber instructs Poppy harshly, drawing my eye as he thrusts a canvas backpack at her. She takes it. With shaking fingers, she hits buttons on the screen until the till pops open.

  The other guy makes his way across the floor. “You,” he barks, indicating the cook visible through the kitchen window. “Out here where I can see you.”

  He waves a Glock at him and the cook hurries out through the stainless doors. Gunman Two punches him, catching him with an uppercut that sends the cook sprawling to the floor. “Stay down if you know what’s good for you.”

  The cook doesn’t move.

  Gunman One nods to Two, who disappears through the swinging doors. My guess is there’s a safe back there. Most establishments like this have one on site, a place to keep money for change and a place where profits for the day will be secure until a bank deposit can be made. These two men have undoubtedly cased the diner enough times to know where it’s most likely located and what times would be best to hit this place.

  They’ve chosen wisely. It’s been a slow night.

  What they didn’t take into consideration, what they couldn’t have accounted for, was me.

  I’m ready to act.

  My window will be small. With one man back in the kitchen, I’ll have a short amount of time to neutralize Gunman One before the other comes out and starts shooting. I just have to wait for the perfect moment to strike.

  With a practiced eye, I scan the environment, taking in the placement of everything from people to furniture, from exits to weapons.

  Seconds pass.

  Slowly, I reach for the knife that still rests on the edge of my plate. I palm it and flatten the dull blade along the inside of my wrist, out of sight.

  “Hurry up!” the guy screams at Poppy.

  “I’m going as fast as I can,” she defends.

  “Don’t talk! Work!” he rails, raising his hand as if to slap her.

  For what amounts to the click of a camera’s shutter, the man’s attention is solely on Poppy and his peripheral vision is blocked by his raised arm.

  The moment has come.

  Without another thought, mind constantly calculating, I launch myself silently from my booth, slinging out a leg to kick an empty chair from a nearby table and send it flying at Gunman One.

  Surprised by the sudden sound, he raises his arm again to shield himself from the object hurtling through the air at him, giving me a few precious moments to get to my feet and make it to him before he can mobilize his weapon.

  I roll forward, going with my momentum, and pull my feet under me. Barreling straight in, I drop my shoulder and ram up into the midsection of Gunman One, simultaneously bringing my hand up to catch his wrist and wrench his arm backward.

  Anger makes my movement harsher than necessary.

  A single sharp yank of his arm.

  I hear a muted snap followed by his scream. A metallic clatter as his gun falls to the floor. I reach for the weapon with one hand, coming back up at his chin with my other.

  Crunch.

  My second knuckle splinters with the contact.

  Gunman One wobbles to his knees, head lolling unconsciously to the side. He falls face first onto the tile.

  One down.

  One to go.

  I grab Poppy and hustle her down onto the floor on the customer side of the counter where she’ll be protected from the second hostile. I pivot, scanning the crowd, holding up my hand to silence them as I crouch low and head for the swinging doors.

  My ears are tuned in to every subtle noise around me. Every breath, every whisper, every soft sob. That’s why I hear the stomp of Gunman Two as he rushes forward to help his friend.

  As he bursts through the stainless door, I slam into it with all my weight. I hear a loud smack and a thump as it connects with his unsuspecting face. Quickly, I push through, taking full advantage of his disorientation before he can turn his weapon on me.

  I spin low and sweep my leg out, taking the gunman’s feet from under him. Arms flail as he falls backward, landing on his back with a thud. I’m on him before he can even make a sound, crushing my fist into his face. I feel bone give and blood squirt before I feel nothing at all.

  He’s no longer conscious.

  I stand, breath mildly labored, heart rate slightly elevated, and move to the still figure in front of me. I snatch his Glock and tuck it into my waistband before I take the gunman’s wrist and drag his limp body back through the kitchen doors.

  I dump him in a heap on top of his cohort and set about looking for something to restrain them with.

  “Call 911,” I tell a man who’s still trembling in his chair. He stares blankly at me, so I bark a sharp, “Now!” to get him moving. I don’t turn from him until his fingers are punching buttons.

  Next, I scan the diner. I spot a woman against the front wall, her laptop on the table, charging cord stretched to the outlet behind her. I walk over and jerk it out, disconnecting the battery pack and returning to tie up Gunman Two. Not the best makeshift restraint, but it’ll do.

  Now I need another.

  “My bike’s chained up outside,” a youngish guy explains, pushing himself to stand beside his booth.

  “Get it.”

  He hurries forward, weaving in and around tables and bodies, returning within seconds to bring me the chain and lock. I use it to restrain the other gunman.

  I hear the shaking man speaking to the 911 operator and, knowing the danger has passed and help is
on the way, I’m free to turn my full attention to Poppy.

  She’s sitting on the floor, watching me with wide, terrified eyes. I walk slowly, calmly toward her, squatting to reach for her. I curl my fingers around her upper arms and help her stand. When she’s on her feet, I pull her gently against my chest.

  I don’t let go until the police arrive.

  9

  Poppy

  A s soon as we are released, Noah walks me home. We’re both quiet on the way, but I feel a bit better already, not as shaky and unsteady as I did before. Both good signs that I’m not in shock, I’m sure.

  At my door, Noah doesn’t ask if he can come in and I don’t argue when he does. I need him and I think he knows it. I wouldn’t want to be with anybody else right now.

  Once inside, he asks which bedroom is mine and where the bathroom is. I tell him without hesitation, pointing in the direction of each. Without a word, he leads me to the bathroom, urging me onto the closed toilet seat as he reaches into the shower to turn on the water and get it warmed up.

  “I’ll get you some clothes while you shower. How do you feel? Are you cold?” he asks as he slips off first one sneaker and then the other.

  “A little.”

  He tugs off my socks and then rubs his palms briskly up and down my calves. It feels heavenly, and sadly, despite the calamitous events of the night, it warms more than just my legs.

  “That better?”

  I grin. “For who?”

  He smiles in return. “Hey, I’m just here to help. Nothing saying I can’t enjoy it, right?”

  I shake my head. “I suppose not. But I think I can take it from here.” As much as I would love to shower with him, to feel his hands, his fierce warrior body, holding me close, I’m not sure I have the energy.

  Yet.

  “You sure you don’t need help getting out of your clothes? I majored in waitress uniforms in college. I know all the ins and outs of them.”

  He’s teasing me.

  And, despite the night I’ve had, I love it.

  “I just bet you do.”

  “You’d win that bet.”

  “Aren’t you just handy then?”

  He shrugs. “I’m a handy guy.”

  “So I’m seeing.” I feel my smile fade somewhat as I think back to what I witnessed tonight. “Where did you learn to do all that?”

  I assumed when he said he worked for the FBI, it was a desk job. It’s looking like I assumed wrong.

  “Misspent youth?” he offers teasingly.

  “Mmmm,” I reply noncommittally, content to let him have his privacy for a little while longer. “Well, whatever the real explanation, I’m grateful.” My voice drops, filling with as much sincerity as I can pump into it. “Thank you, Noah. You saved my life tonight.”

  “I don’t think they’d have killed anyone. At least not intentionally. It’s the unintentional acts, the desperate acts of criminals that I was concerned about. They can be like animals when they’re cornered—dangerous and unpredictable.”

  “That’s why I’m glad you were there. I’ll never be able to repay you. My hero.”

  He glances up at me, so kind, so strong. Something about the look on his face assures me that he’s nobody’s hero, but that doesn’t mean he can’t be my hero. “I’d never ask you to.”

  He gives my calves another rub, then he rises to his feet. I do as well. He turns to go, but I stop him with a hand to his arm. “Will you stay?”

  He studies me, searching my face. For what, I don’t know. “Do you want me to stay?”

  “More than anything.” I couldn’t mean that one bit more. He’s all I want right now.

  “Then I’ll stay.”

  “See? Hero.”

  “You might not say that when I try to seduce you later.” He gives me a wink to let me know he’s joking. He’s trying to distract me, ease my mind. Calm me. Strangely, I think it’s working. At least a little.

  “Can’t seduce the willing. Or can you?”

  I hold his gaze and he raises a brow in challenge. He says nothing as he exits the bathroom.

  He says he’s not a hero, but he’s not even trying to take advantage of a woman in this weakened position. He’s just flirting. Clearly, he has no real intention of doing anything about it. Most men wouldn’t be so gallant, and that just makes him even more the hero in my book.

  I undress and step into the warm spray, wishing for a moment that I hadn’t told him no.

  Many, many minutes later, I shut off the water and slide back the shower curtain. There, sitting on the sink, is a night shirt of pale pink and a pair of panties in black. I grin. What does this selection say about Noah? Does he like his women part angel, part devil? Prim and proper on the outside, down and dirty underneath?

  I can’t help wondering which he’d find me. A few days ago, I would’ve said angel. Definitely angel. But after the night in the stairwell, it’s hard to say what kind of devilish behavior he might inspire in me.

  A shiver works its way from my crown to my knees, heating everything in between. But even as my passion kindles, exhaustion pulls at my eyelids, making them feel scratchy and heavy.

  I dress and then make my way out to the living room. Noah isn’t sitting on the couch, as I expected him to be. He’s standing at the window. When he hears me, he turns. His smile melts my insides.

  “Feeling better?”

  “Much.” I very ineffectively stifle a yawn.

  “Why don’t you go on to bed? I’ll lock up and take the sofa.”

  My fingers fiddle nervously with the hem of my night shirt. “Would it be cruel of me to ask you to sleep with me, but just sleep with me?”

  I already feel like a prude for asking.

  His face turns gentle as he approaches me. He presses one sweet kiss to my temple and pulls me into his arms. “Maybe a little, but I’m really good with revenge.”

  I laugh, wrapping my arms as far as I can get around his broad shoulders.

  He leans back to look at me, his brow furrowing dramatically. “Damn, you look exhausted! Let me help you.”

  Before I can comment, he sweeps me into his arms, a satisfied glint flashing in his eyes, and he carries me into the bedroom.

  With a tenderness that liquefies my heart, Noah turns back the covers and tucks me beneath them, then crawls into bed beside me, only on top of the comforter.

  “How’s that for safe?”

  I roll onto my side and snuggle back into him, more content than I’ve been in as long as I can remember. “It’s perfect.”

  And that’s the last thing I remember before sleep takes me.

  10

  Noah

  M y body is heavy with sleep. Carly climbs into bed with me, her voice a purr as she whispers my name.

  “Noah.”

  I groan. That breathy voice…it’s always been able to turn me inside out.

  Her hand skates across my abdomen, her finger dancing just beneath the waistband of my shorts. She places an open-mouthed kiss over my navel, her tongue darting in for just a second.

  Blood rushes south and my erection strains toward her.

  “Keep going,” I mutter, smiling into the fog.

  Skilled fingers drag my shorts down then close around me. Air hisses through my teeth at the first touch of her lips.

  I fist my hands at my sides and grit my teeth, anything to keep from palming the back of her head and pushing myself deeper into the wet recess of her mouth.

  It’s been so long.

  “You taste delicious,” she murmurs, her tongue swirling over me.

  I half chuckle, half moan, ready to rip the sheets in two.

  She moves over me in an exquisitely artful way—hands, lips, teeth, tongue. My wife…she always did give amazing head.

  Up and down, licking and sucking, she works me into a frenzy. I can’t help it when I reach for her head. I can’t stand it one more second.

  My fingers slide into cool, slick hair, but something feels different.
My synapses are slow to react, slow to fire, dulled by the pleasure spell her mouth is weaving over my body. Faster, harder, softer, slicker, up and down she bobs as my sluggish brain works out the texture and length of her hair.

  “C-Carly,” I manage to grunt. “Carly, stop. Wait.”

  It’s almost painful to ask her to stop when it feels so, so good, but I need to see her. I need to look at her, my beautiful wife.

  “Who’s Carly?” she mutters around her full mouth.

  One millisecond.

  Two.

  Three.

  I jerk awake, skin damp with sweat even in the cool room, but nothing else changes. A pair of lips still slide over and down and around me, and the hair still feels wrong.

  It takes my brain about as long to figure it out as it takes my eyes to adjust. That’s when I realize where I am, when I am, and who I’m with.

  I don’t need to see any more clearly to know this isn’t Carly. And it isn’t Poppy.

  It’s Simone.

  I fling her off me and roll out of bed. I need to get away from her, away from the dream.

  I drag my fingers through my hair and then scrub my hands over my face. Vigorously.

  Wake up, wake up, wake up, dammit!

  The fog clears bit by bit.

  Anger rushes in.

  “What the hell are you doing?” I snap furiously.

  “I thought that was fairly obvious,” she hums lazily.

  My eyes further adjust to the dim light and I can see Simone, with her short, purple hair, lounging on the bed in nothing but a skimpy bra and barely-there panties. She’s wearing a smug smile that serves only to make me angrier.

  What in God’s name is she up to?

  “Where’s Poppy?”

  “Early shift. She was afraid to wake you. I wasn’t.”

  Now I remember. She works a double today.

  I quickly scan the room. I can’t find the clock, so I have no idea what time it is, but I can tell it’s still very early.