Chapter 10

Zoey

The tension I feel when I wake up to find Backdraft no longer next to me is so thick I can barely breathe. The empty space where he should be feels like a gaping void as if he has taken a piece of me with him when he slipped away. What is it about him that stirs such a primal need in me to have him close?

It's irrational, but I jolt from the couch anyway. My feet scramble underneath me as I frantically search for him. The familiar feeling in the pit of my stomach from last night gnaws at my gut.

Is he gone? Did he leave me here?

People leave. They always do. Like the only person I ever truly loved. Memories of my mother flood my mind but they're not the happy ones. Those are tucked back in the farthest corners darkened by the last one I have. The one that haunts me.

Through the tears in my eyes, I can still see her lifeless body swaying from the rafters of our loft. The rope that took her life was drawn so tight around her neck that her flesh was red and raw. Her eyes, once full of life, stared at me with a cold emptiness. That moment is etched into my mind forever. It's the one that makes me push everyone away to protect myself from ever feeling that pain again. Except for Backdraft. He's pushed through so easily, that I can't explain it. It's like he's become a part of me and it's terrifying.

I've been stuck on my father's compound ever since my mom's suicide. At first, I thought he was trying to protect me. ‘The world is a cruel place,' he'd tell me. Everything he did was for me. I believed him back then, because at eleven years old, who wouldn't look to their father, their last living relative, to ease the pain? He lost her that night too. Although I never saw him carry the same pain I did or heard his tears late at night. I wanted to believe he kept his emotions hidden to protect me. After a decade though, I realized that he wasn't hiding his emotions to protect me, he simply didn't have any. Not when it came to her and certainly not when it came to me. My home had become a prison. I felt trapped and couldn't breathe. We didn't live off the grid to protect me from men like Backdraft, we lived like that to protect him and his crimes.

I'm lost in my past, drowning in the memory when a jarring sound pulls me back to reality. A loud bang reverberates through the air, causing my heart to race. I fling open the door of the cabin and step out into the bright morning sunshine. My eyes immediately start scanning the area for the source of the noise when they land on Backdraft, bent over the open hood of the truck, his muscular arms flexing as he works on something inside. A torrent of obscenities pours from his lips as he repeatedly slams a hammer against the metal frame. The loud clanging of metal against metal echoes across the clearing, sending a small flock of birds erupting from the treetops.

I catch my breath, my heart thumping in my chest. "Damn it, Backdraft. You scared the life out of me."

Clutching the hammer in his hand, he throws a glare over the hood of the truck, his dark eyes smoldering beneath the shadow of his furrowed brow. My heart does another flop as I watch him work. If you can call it that. Despite his methods, I'm grateful he's with me. I don't know what I was thinking before, I would have never made it this far without him.

"I have that effect on people," he growls, dipping back below the hood of the truck and taking another swing with the hammer. His broad shoulders flex with each strike, veins popping on his biceps from exertion.

"Any luck or are you just playing whack-a-mole with the engine?" I tease, leaning against the truck's faded green bumper. My voice is laced with mock innocence, but my eyes hold a challenge. He challenges me. Makes me feel like the first time in forever I can be myself. I'm not exactly sure who that is but I don't have to guard my words in fear of pissing him off. Although I got a glimpse of him pissed last night and it only added to the heat that radiates off him. He's sexy as all hell and he doesn't even know it.

"Funny girl," he shoots back, sarcasm dripping like the oil from the leaky gasket. "I'm trying to get it started."

"Could've fooled me." I smirk, tilting my head to one side as I watch him tinker with the engine. "Have you considered sweet-talking her? The caveman routine doesn't work on everyone."

Backdraft straightens up, wiping his greasy hands on his jeans. A reluctant smile twitches at the corner of his mouth, betraying his annoyance. "Is that so?"

"Some girls need a gentle touch and a bit of finesse."

"What about you, Little Lamb?" He moves quickly, pinning me against the hood of the truck. His deep voice rumbles through me, causing a surge of desire to wash over me. I swallow hard at the lump forming in my throat when he leans in closer. Every inch of his body is pressed against mine. He's so close I can feel the bulge in his pants. The sheer heat emanating from him shoots a tingling sensation throughout my body. "Do you need finessing or do you like it rough?"

The scent of sweat clings to him, mixing with his natural musky essence. His overwhelming presence stirs a primal urge within me, one that I've never felt before but can't deny. My eyes trace the intricate designs of tattoos that trail up his bulging muscles and onto his chest.

"Maybe you're onto something with the brute force approach," I say, holding onto his gaze. He studies me for a moment. His eyes linger on mine and I feel the air between us shift with an undeniable charge.

"Maybe I am." The tension cracks as he grins at me.

Our banter is a dangerous game, each quip drawing us closer. I rise to my tiptoes trying to bring myself to his level, unable to resist the heat simmering between us. Our breaths mingle, surging with electricity. I wonder what he tastes like.

"You're playing with fire, Little Lamb." My tongue darts out, gently grazing over my parched lips as anticipation builds in my chest. His warm breath fanning against my face, and for a moment, I think he's leaning in for a kiss. I can feel the tension building between us, but instead, frustration creases his features. His brow furrows and those inviting lips tighten into a thin line. A knot forms in my stomach, and I wonder what's holding him back. Is it fear? Uncertainty? Or something else entirely? "I'd hate to see you burn."

He lets out a heavy breath as he pulls away from me. His calloused hands are slick with grease as he runs them through his thick, dark hair. He tugs at the ends in frustration before picking up the hammer and delivering a jolting whack to the engine. My heart jumps out of my chest, my ass ricocheting off the bumper as the metallic clang resonates through me, filling the air between us with tension.

Swirling gray clouds darken the sky suddenly as if the sun has been extinguished along with the moment we shared. Distant thunder growls in warning. The first raindrops hit the ground like scattered bullets, soon followed by a barrage that turns the earth to mud beneath our feet. My heart races, less from the storm and more from the sinking realization that we're stuck.

"Backdraft!" I shout over the wind that rushes in. "We need to get inside!"

He's already on the move, reaching out and grabbing me by the wrist. He pulls me with him, my breath stolen by the fury of the gale that seems hellbent on keeping us right where we don't want to be.

Once inside, Backdraft slams the door against the onslaught of wind and rain barricading it closed with a chair tucked under the handle. The sound of the storm transforms from a roar to a relentless drumming against the roof. It's pitch black until he strikes a match, illuminating his face for a fleeting second before he lights the fire. His eyes meet mine, reflecting a storm of another kind, one that's been brewing between us since we met.

"Cozy," I say, trying to infuse some levity into the situation as I wring out my hair.

"Looks like we're not going anywhere for a while," he grunts. "Should see if there's anything to eat around here before we starve to death."

"I'll do it. You keep the fire going." In the dim light, I rummage through the kitchen, finding cans of Spam and baked beans. Not exactly a feast, but it'll keep the hunger already clawing in my stomach at bay. "Chef Zoey at your service."

Backdraft takes the cans from me and sets them near the growing flames while I return to the kitchen. A brief minute later, I return with two open beers and hand him one.

"I could get used to this," Backdraft says. That smirk that sends my heart hammering in my chest tugs at the corner of his mouth.

I shoot back with a wink and settle onto the floor next to him. Suddenly aware of how the heat from the flames wrap around me even while a chill runs over my arms . The fire crackles and pops, casting a warm glow over the rundown cabin.

"Thanks for the fire," I say softly, handing him a plate.

"Thanks for the grub," he replies, his voice low and laced with a humor that softens the somber feeling in the room.

We eat in silence while the storm outside rages on. It feels almost normal. Like two people sharing a meal rather than two strangers running from danger. As I take small, delicate bites of my meal, I can't help but steal glances at Backdraft. He devours his food with a wild, primal hunger, like a caveman savoring the kill. Each bite is punctuated with a satisfied grunt. His strong jawline and full lips glisten with the remnants of his meal. Although his mannerisms may be uncivilized, it adds to his crude charms and makes me wonder who this man really is. Where did he grow up? Does he have anybody waiting for him at home? I know he mentioned his brothers from his motorcycle club but besides them, whoever they are, is there somebody else?

He catches me staring and wipes his mouth with the back of his hand. He narrows his eyes on me, his gaze hot and slightly intimidating, rendering me completely at his mercy. "What?"

"Nothing." I shrug my shoulders, squirming in my spot while his gaze lingers on me longer than necessary.

"If you have something to say, spit it out."

"When your club finds us or we get out of here, whichever comes first," I wave my hand in the air feigning indifference, "are you going to leave?"

"Hell yeah." He blurts out his unfiltered response with raw honesty and my heart drops to my stomach. I don't know why his answer affects me this much. What did I think, that whatever this is between us means something? Maybe he's right. My innocence is showing through and I hate that. "But I'm taking you with me."

"You are?" My voice cracks. I catch a glimpse of something softer in his eyes, but he quickly masks it with a scowl as he adjusts a log in the fire.

"I'm not leaving you here. I was paid to do a job and that job isn't done until I get you back to Atlantic City."

Reality rams into me head-on like a charging bull. I've been blind, thinking I mean anything more to him than a paycheck. I'm so damn naive.

"Right." I nod acknowledging the full gravity of the situation and stand with a huff, snatching the plastic plate from the floor in front of him.

I toss the dishes into the sink as his heavy steps thunder behind me matching the turbulent storm pelting against the windowpane. I can feel his eyes on me, the heat from his stare boring into my back. I try to ignore him, filling the sink with soap and cold water but his strong hand grabs my shoulder and whirls me around to face him. His dark eyes bleed with anger, trapping me between his hard body and the counter.

His fingers grip my chin, forcing me to look at him, "I didn't mean it like that."

"It's fine," I whisper. "I'm nothing but a job."

I swat at his hand, breaking the contact, and shove him back. I can't deny the sadness that sweeps over me when he steps back, letting me pass.

I leave him standing there and move back toward the fire, suddenly feeling an icy chill so deep in my bones it hurts. As I do, I trip over a duffel bag I didn't notice before.

How long has that been there?

"What's with the bag, Backdraft?"

"Umm," he grunts, "I got you some things."

"What do you mean ‘got me some things'?" I ask, parroting his words.

"You have no fucking shoes," he roars. With the side of his boot, he pushes the bag toward me. "You needed some things, so I got you your things."

"My things? You went back there?" I snap, anger flaring as I imagine the risks he took. "Are you insane?"

"It's no big deal."

I'm stunned speechless by his response. Of course, it's a big deal. It's a damn big deal. He could have been killed. I reach for the bag, unzipping it. The first thing I grab is the soft fabric of my favorite shirt, followed by the worn-in sneakers I thought I'd never wear again. As I dig deeper, my fingers brush against the spine of a book. Tears sting my eyes at the thoughtfulness that he went into getting these for me while I am being a complete ass thinking I don't mean a thing to him. Then, like a punch to the gut, I find the small, framed picture of me and my mother. My breath hitches in my throat.

"Backdraft..." I draw the frame out and clutch it to my chest. "You did this for me? Why?"

"Thought you might want your things." I catch a flicker of tenderness in his eyes before he masks it.

"Thank you," I whisper. "But if they caught you..."

"Wouldn't be the first tight spot I've gotten out of." He shrugs, trying to downplay his actions.

I stand up, letting my feet carry me closer to him. As I approach, he opens his arms and pulls me into his chest. His arms wrap tightly around my shoulders, drawing me closer. That familiar heat surges between us. I tilt my face up, locking my teary eyes on his. Every fiber of my being wants him to bridge the gap, to claim my lips with his own. His rough, scarred hand gently traces the curve of my cheek and I lean into his touch, savoring the warmth and tenderness in his calloused fingertips. I can see the torment in his eyes and I want nothing more than to ease the pain he's carrying. He braces himself for me to pull away, but I can't resist the magnetic pull of his touch.

"Dax."