Page 69 of No First Kisses

“Open the fucking door, you stupid bitch. If you don’t, I’m gonna put a bullet into this kid’s head. And then you’re gonna have all of their deaths on your head. You don’t want that, do you? To know that you caused the death of Logan’s little brother?”

I almost open the door just to get him to shut his freaking mouth. But I don’t. Instead, I pull out my phone and dial 9-1-1 because that is the smart thing to do.

“9-1-1, what is the address of your emergency?”

A gunshot echoes on the other side of the door, and I look down, making sure that I’m not hit, before turning back to the phone in my hand.

Giving her the address as soon as I can, I barely manage to get the street name out before the door in front of me is just gone. A massive crack, followed by the hinges swinging inward and a blue piece of wood knocking into my side sends the phone sprawling and I’m pushed up against the wall.

“I told you to open the fucking door.”

I stare into the business end of a Ruger-57. I know it is a Ruger because it is the gun I just gave Bax out of Logan’s gun safe not even an hour before. The gun that Logan asked me to give his little brother over a week ago so that he could take the handgun safety course required of him to conceal carry in the State of Maine.

Time to get away.

I run, moving a lot faster than I should be able to, considering I’m ready to have a baby any day, and get to the other side of the room and almost into the kitchen before he realizes what is happening.

The knives are out on the counter, and I grab the smallest one, along with the brass knuckles that I just pulled out of my purse while I was looking for the key to the front door. I have them both tightly wrapped in my hands, but I think better of it at the last second and slip the knuckles into my pocket.

I may need them later.

He follows me into the room, but I’ve already put the kitchen island between us. That doesn’t stop him from pointing the gun in my direction again.

“Where’s Bax?” Yes, I’m asking a ridiculous question, considering the current situation I find myself in, but I have to ask. “Where’s Porsche or Hammer? Who are you?” I pepper him with questions, trying to figure out what the hell is going on.

The man in front of me, when I finally force myself to look past the handgun to the hand holding it and then the body behind that, is all wrong.

From the yellow tint of his skin and the odor that wafts off him like he is a skunk, to the dirt and black whatever that coats his hair. All the way down to the lines I can see on his fingernails as he holds the gun like an idiot.

“Why are you doing this?” I ask again when he doesn’t answer me about Bax. “Why did you break down the door of my house? Why are you pointing a gun at me?”

Worst-case scenario, I am about to die. That means Logan is going to lose his shit, and I honestly almost feel bad for the creep standing in front of me. I blame it on the baby hormones. That’s the only reason I can think that I’m not currently crying and begging for my life.

That, and I don’t want to give him the satisfaction.

At least until he opens his mouth again.

“I want to make you hurt. And I’m going to use you to make that stupid fucker regret the day he scarred my face.”

That voice.

That fucking voice.

I lose my cookies, literally.

The cookies I was eating in the kitchen when I heard the first distinct pops that meant a gun was being fired. They come right back up, and I can’t help the violent spasm that forces me to empty my stomach. It just happens to be that he is too close to get out of firing range. I haven’t just had cookies, either. While I was raiding Logan’s kitchen, I also drank chocolate milk and stuffed the rest of the leftover pizza from the day before yesterday into my mouth. All of it comes up and splashes over his shoes.

I don’t let go of the knife, though. And when he steps too close, I bring that bitch right up, the way my daddy taught me, and I slice his chest, up to his neck.

It isn’t a deep cut, barely even breaks the skin, but it shows him that I’m not going to go down without a fight.

Grabbing the handle the way I know it is supposed to be held when it is being used as a weapon and not a cooking utensil, I back toward the living room where my phone is still connected to 9-1-1. Hopefully, at least.

“You stupid cunt.” He slams the gun into the side of my face right as I make it through the doorway, sending me to my knees while I cover my stomach and lose the knife in the process.

Shit.

“I want you to hurt. You were already going to feel it, just like Lettie did. But now? Now I’m gonna enjoy every second.”

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