Page 89 of Forced Proximity

‘And it broke me.’ Lines crease his forehead. ‘It was this truckload of rejection. I didn’t know how to respond. It was such a dick move, but I wanted to say something back to hurt you. I’m so sorry.’

What’s he saying? ‘Those words, Justin.’ I swallow, my voice smaller than intended. ‘They hurt me. You hurt me.’

‘I’m sick over this. You have no idea how bad I feel.’ His face switches between red and ashen, and his chest lifts in a deep inhale. ‘I need you to know I respect you, your position, everything. When you’re ready, when this is over, maybe we can talk.’

Talk. My insides settle. After months of battling this inner demon, getting everything into the open is what I need. I hate lying – to him, to myself – about how I feel. A heavy breath leaves me, and I nod. When this mess is over, we’ll talk. Whatever that looks like.

A flicker of movement outside the window seizes my attention. I whip my body toward the room and dart my eyes. ‘Shh!’

‘What’s—’

‘Quiet!’ I hiss and bolt to the corner of the room. My body springs alive, alert. My eyes narrow, my ears perk like a cheetah, my hand darts to the gun holster.

Justin looks between me and the patio door. ‘Do you—’

‘Stop.’ I put up my free hand to block him. My feet are silent as I pivot and scan the windows. ‘Go to your bedroom, lock the door, keep your lights off and call security. Do not open for anyone but me. Understood?’

He hesitates, looking between me and the windows.

‘Now, Justin!’

He shoots up the stairs.

My hair stands upright on my neck. I tiptoe around the room with my hand still pressed firmly on my holster. At the sliding glass door I ease it open and silently step onto the patio.

A twig snaps. I whip my flashlight from my pocket with my left hand and my firearm with my right. Moonlight and the low landscaping lights are the only other illumination. My heartbeat is steady, controlled, my breath even. I step off the patio onto the grass, my ears straining, waiting for sounds of irregular air, breathing and body movements.

Where are they? My pupils dilate, adjusting to the dark. I scan the trees and bushes, the corner of the basketball court, the edge of the pool, the perimeter of the east wing. Where the hell – my breath halts. Tucked against a shrub, at least fifty yards away, is someone clad in all black. They stand and our eyes lock. A split-second decision is needed – keep the gun and run slower or holster my weapon to run at max speed.

I choose speed.

Fueled by training and adrenaline, I run through the yard as the heat in the night air engulfs my lungs. The man spins and hops over bushes and flowerpots.

‘Stop!’ No fucking way is he getting away. Through the shrubs, the lawn, past the trees, I run. My feet skim the ground, my legs propel me as if I’m flying. My arms pump, my hands slice at the night air, my body carries me.

Whip. Hizz. Branches rip at my face, my arms, as I weave through the yard. The space closes between us. I’m in my zone, acutely aware of every step, movement and breath the man takes. Narrowing the gap, my breathing is level, my pumping arms force me to accelerate. He’s in range, now. I’m close. The blood rushes through my veins.

So close … closer … almost there … NOW! I jump on top of his back, forcing him to the ground. He’s strong, but I’m stronger. Grunts and moans cut through the air. He escapes my grip, fighting up to his feet. He will not get away. I launch forward and throw him back on the ground with a thud.

‘Ummphh … shit …’ He spits and scrambles to his feet. Wild elbows and fists swing my way. Shouts and cuss words fly. A tangle of arms and hands grab me. I hold firm against a hard shove and he twists to run again.

No chance. I grip his jacket lapel, wrap my other arm around the outside of his arm and use his own body weight as leverage. Fire fills my lungs. My knee grinds his chest, using it as a springboard, and I swing my leg over him. I seize him between my thighs, knock him off balance, force his body to slam into the ground.

‘Stop moving!’ I yell. Firmly on the turf, my quad muscles drill into him. Sputtered breaths, twists, arms, forced pressure … I flip him on to his stomach, shove his hands behind his shoulder blades and dig my knee into his lower back.

‘Fuck! Get off!’ The six-foot-tall frame pounds and thrashes against the ground.

I hold tighter and drill into pressure points until he screams. ‘Who the hell are you?’ My chest heaves as I grind into his ligaments.

He kicks and thrusts his hips, trying to buck me off. ‘You’re gonna break my goddamn arm!’

‘Stop moving.’ I dig harder. ‘Struggling makes it worse.’

The thrashing slows and I slowly reduce the pressure from my death grip. My heart is pounding, in my chest, in my head, as I remove a zip tie from my back pocket with one hand and bind his wrists together.

‘I was never going to hurt him.’ The masked man gasps for air. ‘I just … I just wanted to talk to him.’

‘Who are you?’ My hands rush his body, frisking him. I take his switchblade and bear spray from his pocket and toss it.