Page 27 of Rent an Enforcer

I, Stella Brown, who is afraid of straws and turtles and wind, just picked up a gun and shot a man in the leg in an alley behind an art supply store. After dropping two poorly chosen Godfather quotes, no less.

Tristan opens the car door. I get in, then he does too. We pull away from the curb without my art supplies, which I would be upset about if I could currently process anything other than the fact that I discharged a firearm and lodged a bullet in another human being’s leg.

He drives three blocks in silence. Four. Then he pulls into a parking lot behind a pharmacy and kills the engine before turning to me. His face seems to loom much too close as he asks, “Are you okay?”

My hands are still shaking. My ears are still ringing. My heart is doing something that should probably be evaluated by a medical professional. I would answer him, I would, if I didn’t feel roughly three seconds away from falling apart.

“Stella.” His voice is sharp, louder than it needs to be, but it cuts through some of my shock. His eyes crawl over my face, searching for the answers my mouth is incapable of forming just yet. “Are you all right?”

Here’s the thing I can’t explain. The fear is draining out of me. I feel it going, like water flowing out of a bathtub. What’s rushing in to replace it is something I’ve never felt before. Something electric, something completely unhinged. “I shot him,” I whisper.

“I know. I was there.”

“In the leg. With a gun and everything.”

“That is typically how it works.”

“Tristan.” I turn to face him fully, and I can feel what’s happening on my face. He sees it, too. His expression is starting to shift from concern to confusion to something I can’t name. “I shot an actual bad guy with an actual gun I picked up off the ground. I didn’t freeze or panic. I didn’t have to hold a rabbit to calm down. I just did it.”

“Yes. You did.”

“I’m kind of amazing right now.”

His mouth falls open before it snaps shut.

“I’m serious,” I insist. “I picked up an actual freaking gun and pointed it at a man twice my size, and I pulled the trigger and hit him. On purpose. Okay, mostly on purpose. My eyes were a little bit closed, but the intent was there.” I’m talking fast now, the words almost overlapping as they tumble out of my mouth. That’s how I get when the energy has nowhere else to go. “Do you understand what this means? I’m afraid of straws, and I just shot a guy.”

It’s not enough. All of this energy has to go somewhere.

So I climb across the center console.

It’s not graceful. The gearshift is in the way, and my knee hits the dashboard. I’m pretty sure I honk the horn with my elbow, but I make it into his space, and my hands are running over his shoulders, and my mouth is on his mouth before he can finish whatever reasonable, measured thing he might come up with.

He doesn’t fight it either. His hands find my waist, and he pulls me the rest of the way over until I’m in his lap in the driver’s seat of a black SUV, kissing him like my life depends on it. The adrenaline has to go somewhere, and this is where it’s going.

“You—” he tries between kisses. “You just shot a man⁠—”

“I know,” I whisper, grinding against him where he’s getting hard. “It’s doing things for me. Stop talking.”

He stops talking.

His hands slide up my back, and mine go to his belt. I’m not tentative about it this time. There’s no fumbling or nervous fingers. Apparently, shooting a man in the leg cures performance anxiety. That’s not something any therapist has ever suggested, but maybe they should.

“Wait a second.” He pulls back just enough to look at me. I see him trying to be the responsible one, trying to pump the brakes. At the same time, his hands are gripping my hips, and he’s hard against me, and his pupils are blown, and the responsible thing is losing.

“Don’t you dare talk me out of this,” I warn as I get his belt open, finally. Button, zipper. He helps, lifting his hips. And then he’s in my hand and the almost-pained sound he makes goes right through me. Thank god the windows are tinted, because this is not suitable for public viewing.

“Here?” he manages through gritted teeth. “In the parking lot?”

I stroke him once, twice, until his head drops back against the headrest. “Nobody can see.” I rise on my knees, and his hands catch the waist of my leggings, dragging them down my thighs as far as the tight space will allow. It’s not very far, but it’s enough. He pulls my panties to the side because there’s no room for finesse and neither of us cares.

“You’re soaked,” he mutters when his fingers find me. His voice has that growl in it that makes my whole body clench. “Is this what gets you wet? Shooting a guy?”

“You get me wet. The shooting was just… oh god…” I lose the rest of the sentence when his thumb presses against my clit. “Foreplay. Very unconventional foreplay.”

“I’m pretty sure you’re out of your mind.” That doesn’t stop him from guiding me down onto him as he says it, with one hand on my hip and the other braced against the seat. When I sink onto him, the moan that comes out of me fogs the tinted windows.

The steering wheel is behind my back. My knee is wedged against the door. The center console is digging into my shin. None of it matters because he’s inside me, thick and deep. I’m moving on top of him with my hands braced on his shoulders, and the adrenaline that was screaming through my veins ten minutes ago has found exactly where it wants to go.