by P.M. Terrell
GUEST BLOG POST:
Brenda was taller than her sister. His chest touched her back as he leaned on the door, her hair brushing against his face and flowing downward nearly to the top of his jeans. She smelled of Vicki’s shampoo and Vicki’s perfume.
“Where the bloody hell do you think you’re goin’?” Dylan said.
She didn’t answer but continued facing the door.
“Put the gun down, Red,” he said calmly.
“Since you remember me,” she said, still with her back against him, “you know I didn’t have a gun.”
“I know that you’ve got me gun in your right hand. And I know as soon as you turn around, that gun is goin’ to be pointed at me chest.”
“Let me go, Irish. Don’t make me shoot you.”
“There are two things I won’t be allowin’ to happen. First, you’re not gonna shoot me with me own gun. And second, they won’t be catchin’ you with me gun on you. They won’t be tracin’ you back to me.”
She remained motionless and he could almost hear her mind racing. “I’m bad news, Irish. You and I both know it. It’s better this way.”
“It’s better that you stay here. You’re safe here.”
“What are you saying?”
“I think I just said it.”
“I’m turning around,” she said after a moment’s hesitation. “And I’m handing you the gun.”
He moved slightly away from the door, dropping his arms from around her head as she turned around. He took the gun from her hand and set it on the kitchen table beside them.
“I wish I’d met you before Vicki did. We would have been good together.”
His eyes followed her jawline, her full lips, a slightly wide, upturned nose, her high cheekbones, and a mountain of copper hair a man could get lost in. Then his eyes moved to her perfect brows, one raised slightly, coquettishly, before stopping to peer into her mesmerizing amber eyes. “We would have been dangerous together.”