Deeper Than The Ocean by Julie Ann Walker

 

 

Chapter 8

 

11:45 PM…

 

“What color was the truck?”

While Detective Dixon awaited Chrissy’s answer, Wolf watched him use a blunt-tipped finger on his cell phone’s screen to zoom in on her face.

Gone were the days of pocket notebooks, ink pens, and Sony voice recorders. Now all a cop had to do to take a witness statement was grab his cell phone and record a quick video. Wolf couldn’t help thinking this new protocol lacked a certain…je ne sais quoi.

Of course, what Detective Dixon gave up when it came to old-timey interrogation equipment, he more than made up for with his messy hair, mustard-stained tie, and rumpled sport coat. The man was a Columbo lookalike—sans the glass eye and plus one mustache.

And, yes. Wolf was too young to have watched Peter Falk take down the bad guys in primetime. But his grandmother loved tuning in to the reruns, and he loved his grandmother. Anytime he was back home in Oklahoma, they made a game of seeing who could guess when Columbo would mutter his “just one more thing” catchphrase.

Chrissy shook her head now. “I think it was, like, black or blue. But you know how colors change in the dark. For all I know, it could’ve been maroon.”

“Make?” Modern Columbo asked. “Model?”

“No clue. It wasn’t big like a Dodge Ram or Chevy Silverado. It was smaller than that.” She looked pained that she couldn’t give Dixon more.

Pained and exhausted.

Deep circles bruised the skin beneath her eyes, but she was chalky white everywhere else. Her five feet, nine inches of pure man-eater, built-like-a-brick-shithouse body seemed small and frail inside the hospital bed.

Seeing her so reduced was a total gut punch. Wolf wanted to run Dixon out of the room so he could take her in his arms and stroke her hair while telling her everything would be okay.

Not that she’d thank him if he tried. In fact, she’d probably kick his testicles clean off his body.

A secret grin curved his lips. He’d never met a more stubborn, more independent, more fierce woman than Chrissy. Well, except for maybe his grandmother. His elisi had never batted a lash at charging hell with nothing but a squirt gun.

Perhaps she was the reason he’d always been drawn to strong, bullheaded women.

“And the two men?” Dixon pressed. “You’re sure you didn’t recognize them?”

Chrissy closed her eyes like she was trying to picture the men in the warehouse. To the casual onlooker, she appeared completely poised beneath her pallor. But Wolf noticed the way her shoulder stiffened, saw the little beads of sweat that popped out on her upper lip.

He’d seen his share of bloodshed and butchering. Which meant he knew exactly what was playing out on the backs of her eyelids.

The doctors had said it was a piece of .45 caliber that exited Winston’s chest, and that kind of ammo could do some serious damage at close range. Despite what it was costing her peace of mind, Chrissy was forcing herself to relive that horror.

Brave, he thought. Add brave to the list of her attributes.

A list that was already longer than a south Texas summer.

“Everything’s hazy,” she finally muttered, a deep frown wrinkling her brow. “I don’t know if it’s the pain meds or what, but my brain feels like a smoking wreckage and I’m sitting here trying to sift through it for the black box and—”

When she stopped suddenly, Detective Dixon’s posture changed. He reminded Wolf of Wolf’s uncle’s old bird dog when it was on point.

“What?” Dixon’s voice rose an octave. “Are you remembering something?”

“The big guy…” Chrissy said. She always spoke with the laid-back cadence of the islands, but those three words came out even more slowly than usual. “Something about the way he moved sends an odd feeling sliding across the back of my brain. It’s not quite recognition, but…” She opened her eyes and shook her head. “No. I’m sorry. I have the mind of a goldfish tonight.”

“It’s fine.” Dixon stopped recording and pocketed his phone. “You’ve given me a place to start.” He reached into his breast pocket and pulled out a business card. “I’m going to leave this with you. If you remember anything else, please don’t hesitate to call.” After depositing his card on the small table next to Chrissy’s hospital bed, he turned to leave.

She stopped him with, “Detective Dixon? Why did those men try to kill us?” Her voice sounded small, nothing like the confident, strident tenor Wolf was used to hearing from her.

His feet instinctively inched closer to her hospital bed.

“The forensic unit hasn’t finished their job at the warehouse, so I can’t say for sure.” The detective had a bushy set of dark eyebrows that formed a near perfect V when he scowled. “But if I had to lay down odds, I’d bet ten to one this is about cocaine.”

Wolf frowned. “You think Chrissy and Winston stumbled in on a drug deal?”

Heaven knew men had killed for lesser perceived offenses, but he thought it highly unlikely the two guys in the warehouse would’ve resorted to homicide over a dime sack of blow.

“No.” Dixon shook his head. “I think Miss Szarek and Mr. Turner happened upon a couple of bastards retrieving a shipment. The Coast Guard did searches of all the boats entering the marina this afternoon, so the perps probably dropped their haul near the old dockside warehouse, figuring they could pick it up in the dark without anyone the wiser. Used to be, the traffickers flew their wares northward on non-commercial aircraft. But nowadays most of the powder makes its way to the mainland in pleasure boats and fishing boats.”

Chrissy grimaced. “They figured they could pick it up without anyone being the wiser and then Winston and I barged in like a couple of bumbling idiots.”

Dixon made a face. “Can’t tell you how many times I’ve taken a statement from someone who happened to be in the wrong place at the wrong time.”

“That’s cold comfort,” she muttered.

Dixon shrugged and nodded before once again heading for the door.

A thought occurred to Wolf, and it was icy enough to chill him to the bone. “Hold up, Detective. Whatever those guys were up to made them feel like they needed to off any witnesses. What’s to stop ’em from tryin’ again once they find out they didn’t succeed the first time?”

“Way ahead of you.” Dixon hitched a chin toward the closed door. “I have one officer stationed outside here and another right next to Mr. Turner’s room. I’ll keep both witnesses covered until we catch the sonsofbitches who did this.” He winced and glanced at the two women in the room. “Excuse my language, ladies. My wife tells me I’m not fit for mixed company.”

Once Dixon had arrived, Mia and Romeo had taken up positions on the uncomfortable love seat pushed against the far wall, doing their best to stay out of the way while Chrissy answered the detective’s questions. To Wolf’s surprise, it was Mia who spoke up now.

“Don’t worry, Detective. These two—” she pointed to Romeo and Wolf “—were both in the Navy and have the mouths to match. You sound like a preacher by comparison.”

“Hey!” Romeo faked affront. “Neither of us are as bad as Mason.”

“True.” Mia grimaced. “Mason is from Boston and uses the F-word like it’s a comma.”

Wolf lifted an eyebrow. Did Mia make a joke?

“Thanks for your help,” Dixon told Chrissy. “Try to get some sleep. You’ve had one helluva night.”

When he opened the door, the room was immediately filled with a chorus of voices from outside.

“Whoa,” Dixon said as a crowd of people pushed into Chrissy’s room despite a uniformed police officer trying to block their path and a shift nurse hissing stridently, “It’s nearly midnight! I told y’all visiting hours are over!”

A middle-aged lady with spiky gray hair shook her finger at the officer’s nose. She was tanned like leather, and reminded Wolf of the kind of woman who should be holding a martini glass in one hand and a lit cigarette in the other.

“Denny Parsons,” she scolded, “you know damned good and well you don’t have to protect the patient from us.” Then she turned to the shift nurse. “And don’t you sass me, Megan Foster. I’ll bend your ear like I did when you were seven and I caught you stealing Snickers bars in Judy’s store.”

The nurse, er Megan apparently, had the grace to look chagrined. “I didn’t understand how money worked, Miss Jill! I thought we could take whatever we wanted!”

Jill harrumphed and Dixon took that as the cue to make his escape. He muttered something to the uniformed officer and then disappeared into the hall.

With a put-upon sigh, Nurse Foster told the gathered group, “Fifteen minutes. That’s all you get,” before she stepped out of the room and closed the door behind her.

Jill rolled her eyes, muttering something about young people getting too big for their britches as she made her way over to Chrissy’s bed. The mishmash of islanders who’d barged in with her trailed along in her wake like a gaggle of goslings following a mother goose.

Wolf had the distinct urge to toss each and every one of them back into the hall. Chrissy looked more peaked by the minute. And if not for the soft smile that curled her lips when Jill grabbed her hand, he probably would have pulled the big, bad Wolf card and growled and bared his teeth until the newcomers ran like scared jackrabbits.

“Chrissy.” Jill patted Chrissy’s hand. “The phone tree was activated and we all stumbled out of bed and came running as soon as we heard.”

As if to prove her point, she gestured to an elderly gentleman who wore a robe over a set of striped pajamas. Wolf glanced at the man’s feet, expecting to find slippers, but instead discovered a pair of hot pink Crocs.

Gotta love the islands.

And the islanders, he supposed. Although he would love them more if they were somewhere, anywhere besides here in Chrissy’s hospital room.

Chrissy introduced the locals. Striped Pajamas turned out to be Fred Moore, the editor of the Key West Citizen. Then there was Janice of the purple shorts, and Judy with the impossible red hair and the oversized Buddy Holly glasses. A T-shirt shop proprietor, and the head honcho of convenience mart respectively. Along with Jill, who ran a parasailing outfit, they had storefronts on the same block as Chrissy and Winston’s dive shop.

Once the pleasantries were finished, Jill demanded, “What the hell happened tonight?”

Chrissy shook her head dolefully and relayed what little she remembered. When she got to the part about Winston, she choked up.

Jill pulled a flowered handkerchief from the depths of her impressive cleavage and dabbed at Chrissy’s cheeks. “And you didn’t recognize them?” she asked. “I mean, if they were using the warehouse, they were locals, don’t you think? Who else would dare go in there?”

“It was so dark,” Chrissy whispered. “The big guy looked familiar somehow, but I can’t put my finger on where I’ve seen him.”

“Gotta be something to do with drugs,” Janice posited.

“Not necessarily.” Jill frowned. “Maybe it was mob related. Maybe the diver had fitted a rat with some cement galoshes, and Chrissy and Winston caught him after he came up from stuffing the body under the pier.”

“Jesus, that’s dark.” Judy grimaced.

Newspaper Man Fred shook his head. “No way. The mob moved out of Florida years ago. And any organized crime that’s left is in Miami, not Key West.”

Jill hitched a shoulder. “I’m just saying it doesn’t have to be about drugs. Why do we always jump straight to drugs?”

“Because the simplest answer is usually the right one,” Fred insisted.

“Is that what you’re going to print in tomorrow’s paper?”

Fred scoffed. “You know me better than that. I won’t print anything I don’t get from the horse’s mouth.” He turned to Chrissy. “You’re lucky it’s Detective Dixon working the case.”

Chrissy’s brow furrowed. “Why?”

“Most of the local yokels wouldn’t know their butts from a pan of buttered biscuits much less how to work an attempted murder investigation.”

When Jill opened her mouth to argue, Fred lifted a staying hand. “Now, I’m not saying that to besmirch my fellow Conchs, Jilly Bean. Don’t get your back up. My point is, the local boys don’t have experience with this kind of thing.”

“And this Dixon fellow does?” Judy lifted an eyebrow that was fire-engine red and plucked into a death-defying arch.

“He worked narcotics in Miami for twenty years before moving here to get away from it all.” Fred made a face. “Looks like trouble followed him, though.”

Funny how that happens,Wolf mused, remembering how many scrapes and skirmishes he and the rest of the Deep Six crew had fought since bugging out of the Navy.

He’d thought the Navy SEAL motto, the only easy day was yesterday,would stop being true once they became bona fide civilians. But like Detective Dixon, their past kept catching up with them whether they wanted it to or not.

And they most definitely did not want it to.

Of their own accord, his fingers moved to the scar he’d received courtesy of one pissed off Iranian admiral bent on revenge. The Navy didn’t tell guys before signing them up for BUD/S training, but being a SEAL meant getting up close and real personal with some of the world’s ugliest operators. Sometimes those operators didn’t forget about you simply because you quit the biz.

“What can we do for you, Chrissy, my dear?” Judy pulled Wolf from his dark musings.

“I’m fine. It’s Winston we need to worry about.” Chrissy forgot about her wounded shoulder and shrugged. The resulting pain completely blanched her already pale face of whatever color had remained.

Wolf suddenly felt as if a whole herd of buffalo stampeded across his chest. “Okay.” He clapped his hands. “Out.”

Jill scowled at him. “Are you asking us or telling us?”

“How about we agree you can tell folks I asked?”

Jill puffed up like a disgruntled game hen, eyeing Wolf as if she meant to give him a piece of her mind. Something in his face must’ve made her reconsider. She deflated and turned to Chrissy. There was a small grin playing around her mouth when she said, “Your man has an economical way with words.”

“He’s not my man.”

Damned if Wolf didn’t feel a knife slice of disappointment that Chrissy was so quick with her correction.

Jill gave him the once-over and leaned in to stage whisper to Chrissy, “Well, why not? Have you seen him?”

Afraid Chrissy might actually mention The Night That Shall Not Be Named—she was still a little stoned on drugs, after all—he rounded the hospital bed, herding the locals along as he went. “I’m sure Chrissy would love to see y’all again tomorrow. During visitin’ hours,” he stressed this last part.

“Get some rest, sweetie,” Jill called over her shoulder before Wolf could shove her out the door. “We’ll check in on you tomorrow.”

“Oh, wait!” Chrissy called, and every head turned back to her. “Judy, there is something you can do for me. I don’t know where my phone is, so would you mind calling your nephew and asking him if he’ll take out the diving group I have scheduled to go to Sambos Reef tomorrow morning at eight?”

Wolf remembered a one-time meeting with a blond-headed kid by the name of Tommy who’d filled in for Winston on a dive. He’d bet dollars to donuts that’s who Chrissy was talking about.

“He should have keys to the shop and the boat,” Chrissy continued, ever the kick-ass businesswoman even when she was lying in a hospital bed, recovering from a bullet wound. “And all the equipment is ready to go.”

“He’ll be there.” Judy winked. “I’ll make sure of it.”

“Thank you. I’d hate to have seen what would’ve happened to my Yelp rating had no one showed up for tomorrow’s dive. Keyboard warriors are absolutely brutal.” Chrissy blew out a breath as if she’d discharged the last of her responsibilities and a giant weight had lifted from her shoulders.

“Okie, dokie.” Wolf clapped his hands again. “Now that that’s taken care of, good night, everyone.”

Jill eyed him askance, like she wanted to say something. But then she thought better of it and shooed the group out of the room.

The second they were in the hall, Wolf shut the door behind them, barely refraining from dusting off his hands and letting loose with a “Good riddance.”

Turning back to Chrissy, he found her tentatively trying to find a more comfortable position for her wounded shoulder. Her hair was a mess. Mascara smudged her lower lids. And there was scrape on her cheek from who knew what.

She’d never looked more beautiful.

She was beaten but not broken, had been brave without a hint of bravado.

In short, she was everything he’d never known he wanted. Everything he should have been a whole hell of a lot more careful with. And everything he’d give his left arm and two inches of his dick to get another shot at.

“We should let you get some rest.” Romeo stood from the love seat, offering Mia a hand up. The strawberry blonde seemed to hesitate, but eventually let him pull her to her feet.

Was it Wolf’s imagination or did Romeo hold on to Mia’s fingers a second or two longer than was strictly necessary? If the blush staining Mia’s cheeks was anything to go by, the answer to that question was a resounding yes.

He loved Romeo like a brother, but the man had never made any bones about his goal of Hugh Hefnering his way through life, romancing as many members of the XX persuasion as humanly possible before dying in a smoking jacket at the ripe old age of ninety-one.

Not that Romeo was a hound dog or anything. The guy was one-hundred-percent honest with every woman he met. He told them straight up what he was and wasn’t after, and when they walked away? Well, they always did it with a smile.

But Mia was different.

She was softer. Gentler. She struck Wolf as the kind of woman Romeo could hurt even if he tried his best not to.

Then again, maybe Romeo was exactly the kind of man Mia needed. Maybe some time spent with the High King of Having a Good Time would help her poke her head out of her introverted shell.

“Y’all go on,” he told them. “I’m stayin’ here tonight.”

“Wolf.” Chrissy frowned. “You don’t have to do that. The police officer outside will—”

“I’m stayin’.” They were only two words. Two small words at that. But they held a whole lot of meaning.

“Suit yourself.” She waved a hand, but he thought he saw a flicker of relief in her eyes.

He’d spent his fair share of time in hospital rooms. He knew exactly how isolating they could be. How cold and lonely.

Following Mia and Romeo to the door, he waved goodbye and then flicked off the light switch as soon as the door closed behind them. Not to be too autocratic and domineering, but Chrissy needed sleep. Then, stepping to the love seat, he girded himself to spend a sleepless night on the piss poor excuse for furniture.

Back when he’d been a SEAL, he could pass out on anything. The hard, rocky ground of a cave in the Hindu Kush? No problem. The cold, steel floor in the back of a thundering transport plane? Hello, Sandman. But he’d gotten soft since becoming a civilian. He was used to his comfy featherbed back at the beach house and—

“Wolf?” Chrissy’s voice was husky as it searched him out in the darkness. He would swear it came equipped with gentle fingers that brushed against his ears.

“Yeah, darlin?”

“You don’t have to fold yourself onto that love seat. You can sleep up here with me. You know…” Her voice sounded hesitant. “If you don’t think it’d be too weird.”

The little head housed behind his zipper sent up a rousing chorus of hoorahs as if it truly believed it might get lucky. Fortunately for Wolf, he’d stopped listening to that idiot and started paying attention to the big head on his shoulders around age thirty.

Okay, maybe he’d been closer to thirty-one.

Fine. Thirty-two at the latest.

“I’d hate to bump your shoulder,” he told her.

“I’m not worried about that. I’m more worried you won’t get any rest on that thing.”

“I’ll be fine.”

“You’re going to make me say it, aren’t you?” There was exasperation in her voice. “I don’t usually need much from anyone. But I could really use some comfort and connection tonight. Some human warmth to remind me I’m alive. So would you please sleep up here with me?”

He remembered a night not too long ago when she’d asked him that same question. It’d been after the terrible firefight with the Iranians. There’d been blood and carnage then too, and she’d needed someone to lie beside her to keep the demons away. To keep the darkness at bay.

“Should I grab the cushions off the love seat to make a pillow fort like I did last time?”

“There’s not enough room for that.” Her jaw cracked when she yawned. The adrenaline and drugs were taking their toll.

He was glad it was dark so she couldn’t see the smile that curved his mouth. “Okay, then.”

He hurried to her uninjured side. After kicking off his shoes, he carefully lifted the thin, blue hospital blanket and crawled onto the narrow mattress beside her, doing his level best not to jostle her around too much.

She’d scooted to the other side of the bed, but he still had to lay on his side. If not for the guardrail plastered along his back, he’d have spent the night with his ass hanging over the edge of the mattress.

“This okay?” He gingerly placed his head on the pillow next to hers, loving the feel of her body heat reaching out to him. Loving the sound of each soft breath as it exited her lungs.

“It’s good,” she assured him, scooting to give him more room he didn’t want. “Thank you, Wolf.”

How many times had he dreamed of her calling him into bed? How many times had he imagined having her laid out next to him exactly like this?

Of course, none of those fantasies had included a hospital room. And they’d certainly never included her suffering from a bullet wound.

She’d come so close to—

He couldn’t finish the thought. Anytime he touched on it, he felt an ache so deep inside his stomach he wondered if he might be developing an ulcer.

He hadn’t been lying when he told her he couldn’t imagine a world without her in it. A world without her sunny smile or her blue eyes or that laugh that burst out of her like fireworks on the Fourth of July.

So many people simply existed, neither adding to nor subtracting from the world. But not Christina Szarek. She brought sass and fun and banter wherever she went. And although she’d never admit it, she also brought generosity and grace.

Put simply, people likedChrissy because she was likeable. He certainly liked her. Had from the moment he met her and—

He stilled, feeling himself edging toward an epiphany he wasn’t ready to have.

“Sorry I smell so bad,” she whispered into the darkness.

It took everything he had to hold himself away from her, to lie beside her without touching her, but he contented himself with leaning forward to take a covert sniff of her hair. Sure, it smelled of marina water tinged with antiseptic, but it also smelled of her. Of salt spray and sunshine and coconut oil.

An island girl from top to tail.

“I’ve smelled worse,” he assured her and grinned when she snorted.

“Damned by faint praise.” She relaxed beside him, her uninjured shoulder nestling against his chest.

He wished he was shirtless. Wished he could feel her skin touching his.

Slowly, so as to give her plenty of time to stop him, he slid his arm across her waist. Her stomach radiated heat through the thin hospital gown, and he loved the feel of her hip bone and how it perfectly fit the curve of his hand. “This okay?” he asked.

She gave his forearm a squeeze, and relief rushed through him. “Thank you for staying.” Her voice was barely above a whisper. “You’re a good friend, Wolf.”

Friend.

There it was again. That wretched word.

He didn’t want to be her friend. He wanted—

Suddenly, he wasn’t edging toward that epiphany; he was tumbling over it. Head over heels. Ass over tits. One long somersault that left him dizzy and yet somehow completely clear-eyed.

What he wanted was…her.

And not only for some naked, sweaty times—although he certainly wanted that. But no. He wanted all of her. All the time. For all the things from sunrise to sunset. For lazy Sunday mornings and sensual Saturday nights. For dancing in the dark and laughing in the sun. From now until eternity because…

I’m in love with her.

The words went off inside his head like a mortar round, leaving him stunned. Leaving him breathless. Leaving him more than a little dismayed.

Letting go of his forearm, she entwined her fingers with his. Her palm was cool and her fingertips were callused from hours spent servicing diving equipment. It was her turn to ask, “This okay?”

“Mmm,” was all he could manage given his mind was spinning in ever-tightening circles.

I love her, but I won’t have anything to offer her if we can’t find the Santa Cristina.

I love her, but I fucked up and now she only wants to be friends.

I love her, but she doesn’t love me.

I love her, but…

But nothing, he decided.

He loved her. Full stop. End of sentence.

“Sing me a song, Wolf.” Her voice was garbled with sleepiness. “Sing me a song so I can’t hear the heart monitor beeping in the next room.”

She could hear the heart monitor in the next room over the thunder of his heart inside his chest? How could that be? The damned organ was drumming to beat the band.

“Any particular song you have in mind?” Could she hear the hoarseness in his voice?

“Didn’t you tell me your grandmother loved to hear you sing?”

He remembered that morning on Wayfarer Island. She’d been standing in the sunlight, fishing pole in hand, the lithe muscles in her tanned arms moving rhythmically as she reeled her lure through the surf.

Christina of the Sea he’d called her. She’d looked so at home with the ocean breeze in her hair and her bare toes buried in the sand.

It was the day she informed him she only wanted to be friends. This was right after he’d informed her he very much wanted to shake the sheets with her. They’d met in the middle by agreeing to be pals if Chrissy conceded to granting him one favor at some point in the future. No questions asked.

At the time, he hadn’t known what the favor would be. Hell, he still didn’t know. But he was now certain it would need to be good. Something tender and romantic and guaranteed to make her reconsider their current relationship status because…he was determined to make her love him too.

“Yes. My elisi loves it when I sing,” he admitted quietly.

“What’s one of her favorite songs?”

He grimaced. “She’s an indigenous woman who was born and raised in Oklahoma. In her mind there are only two forms of music worth a damn. The first is traditional, and I wouldn’t shame my ancestors by attemptin’ one of those songs. And the second is country and western.”

“So sing me a country and western song then.”

He thought of the one his grandmother hummed whenever fall rolled around and she gathered up the hickory nuts that fell from trees. She let them dry in the sun for two weeks before using them to make kanuchi.

Unable to deny Chrissy anything, he cleared his throat and softly began singing Garth Brooks’s “I’ve Got Friends in Low Places.”He expected her to chuckle at his song choice, but instead she snuggled closer, her breaths growing slower and deeper as he made it through the first verse and partway through the chorus.

“Wait,” she cut in, sounding suddenly wide awake. “Did you just sing, ‘I’m not big on sausage gravy’?”

He’d been known to get song lyrics wrong before. She herself had given him hell for thinking Bob Marley’s “Stir It Up”was about breakfast cereal.

“Y-yeah.” He frowned as her laughter filled the hospital room.

“Ow.” She gasped. “Don’t make me laugh. It hurts when I laugh.”

“What did I get wrong this time?”

“It’s, ‘I’m not big on social graces.’” She continued to chuckle. “There you go again thinking all these musicians are singing about food.”

He felt his lips quirk. “I guess not bein’ big on social graces makes more sense. I mean, who doesn’t love sausage gravy?”

“Heathens,” she declared vehemently. “Otherwise known as health nuts.”

“Exactly.” He tightened his fingers around hers. She was now fully pressed against his length. His nose touched her cheek and he very much wanted to replace it with his lips.

Up until that moment, the biggest threats he’d ever come up against had been measured in calibers. But now he had Chrissy. More than anything or anyone, she had the power to end him. To shatter his heart into a million pieces.

Some guys would turn tail and run at the thought.

Not him.

When the devil offers you something you can’t live without,he thought, gently rubbing his nose across her temple and loving the way she let loose with sigh, you dance with the devil.