Page 27 of The Wrong Drive-
I want to shred her fucking clothes as I grip the back of her head, holding her against me, nipping at her bottom lip. It’s a primal desire, bubbling up and taking control of my entire body. As she rolls her hips against me, I growl in desperation and drop my hand to my jeans.
But then Gunner barks.
And I freeze. Heneverbarks.
Not unless someone is out there.
Chapter 10
Emersyn
Turner’sentire body stiffens against mine as Gunner’s bark resounds through the cabin for a second time.
“It’s stopped snowing,” he mutters into me, his voice husky from the charged moment between us. Disappointment pangs in my chest and my shoulders slump as he untangles from me.
I graze my lips with my fingers, the flesh swollen, as Turner heads for Gunner, perched at the front door. He peers through one of the windows, and the dog barks again.
I stand there, watching, hot and bothered. I didn’t mean for anything to happen between us, but…his kiss. I lost control the moment his mouth collided with mine—and I’m trying not to focus on the way that’s never happened before.
I’ve never slept around. I’m the kind of girl who gets emotionally attached, and thenfalls in love too fast. After that, I either get heartbroken or fall out as fast as I fell in. But still, I’ve never been kissed like that… Like I was oxygen, and he was suffocating.
“Stay here,” Turner’s voice breaks my thoughts, and I realize he’s fully dressed in his white camo to go out. “Don’t come out. No matter what.”
I furrow my brow, my anxiety growing as I note the gun in his hands. “Why? Are you going to?—”
His eyes hold mine. “Just don’t come outside, Em.”
“Okay,” I choke out as he rips the front door open, and he and the dog disappear into the night. It slams behind him, and I jump at the sound.What could possibly be out there? Adam? A search team? Is he going to murder them?He’s clearly the type to shoot first and ask questions later.
I run to the window, and peer out into the darkness. I can’t see anything at all. I squint, unable to even find Turner or Gunner. I think about upstairs and remember the windows I saw from outside. It’s a better vantage point. Out of caution, I slide on my hiking boots and grab my parka, and then head for the stairs.
My footsteps echo as race to the second floor. I stop at the first door, and push it open, met with darkness. I squint as I make my way to the window, ripping open the curtains and gazing out. There’s nothing to see other than the shadow of trees. There’s no moon or stars in the sky, no beams of flashlights or headlights. I give it up, choosing to back away from the window with a defeated sigh.
I’ll just have to wait.
I turn around, my eyes having adjusted. They land on bookshelves, picture frames adorning the exterior portion. My curiosity gets the best of me, and I slip toward the door, finding the light switch. I flip it on, illuminating the entirety of the room, layered in dust.
My lips purse as I’m met with a completely different version of Turner. With my back against the door, I inch it shut until it clicks. Then, I start making my way around the room. Books line the shelves, but it’s the pictures that catch my attention. He’s young, smiling, and has his arms wrapped around his friends—or maybe brothers? It’s hard to know in the first picture.
The next frame is a shadow box with Marine Raider patches. Next to it is a medal of honor and a photo of Turner receiving it. My brows furrow as I note the date.Thirteen years ago.I brush my fingers over the glass, glancing down at dark gray dust that coat them.
As I continue, I begin to shape his life in my mind. Most of the pictures on the shelves are of him and another few guys—one of them lookingsomuch like Turner, himself. I keep making my way, seeing a lot of photos of him in his uniform in desert terrain.
When I reach the end of the first wall, I come to another shadow box—but it’s not Turner’s. It’s someone named Taylor Martin, and it doesn’t take me long to understand the purple heart.
Taylor Hart Martin, killed in the line of duty.
“Thirteen years ago,” I say aloud, glancing back to the other. I don’t have to know the details to put some of it together. I get it. He lost his brother, and as I keep going through the otherin memory ofdécor, I realize he lost a lot more than just his blood brother.
My heart sinks deep in my chest as I make it down the second wall, seeing the pictures shift to family photos of Turner as a kid. I stop at the first one, seeing his presumed parents and three boys. I pick him out as the middle, and the one who passed as the youngest.
And then I find his father’s obituary.
And mother’s.
Date of Death: October 27, 2011.
I shake my head at the notion, and then go back to his brother’s shadow box.Killed in the line of duty, October 12, 2011.My hand flies to my mouth.
