“Bitchy, for starters.”
“When you wake someone up in the middle of the night, it’s calledcrankynotbitchy. Not my fault you caught me during a bad REM cycle.”
“No. That’s not it.”
I lock my jaw tight, refusing to say another word.
The truth is, Iamangry with him. I’m so angry I could spit. So angry, my hands are itching to pick up that lamp and chuck it at his head — for real this time. And the strangest part is, I’m not even sure why I’m so mad. I don’t have a good reason to be so full of rage. I don’t even have abadreason for it.
I’m perfectly aware that I should be grateful for everything he’s done for me. After all, he’s been there every step of the way since this insanity started — a constant, annoying, reassuring, infuriating presence in my life, keeping me out of harm’s way and well stocked in Mexican take-out, shielding me from gunfire and saving me from scary bad guys. (On more than one occasion.)
Hell, he’s barely let me out of his damn sight for three straight days.
At least… until last night.
After the shootout at my house, not only did he allow me to drive off with two strange agents I’d never met before… he didn’t even bother to check in on me when I finished getting my ribs bandaged by the paramedics. In fact, he never spoke to me again after pulling me out from beneath that porch bench and telling me about Paul’s capture.
Not at the scene. Not all day yesterday, as I sat alone in this shitty room, wondering what the hell was happening out there… whether he’d caught up to the Evanoff brothers and engaged in another shootout… whether he’d had another close encounter with a bullet…
Whether he was alive or dead.
When he finally did decide I merited some intel, he sent Sykes to do his dirty work. I’m not sure why that stings so much; it’s not like he answers to me. He has no obligation to tell me anything. As he’s reiteratedmultiple timesover the past few days… this is just a job for him. I’m nothing more than an asset. Something to be managed. One more task on a checklist before he gets to clock out at night.
“That’s a new look,” he murmurs.
I flinch. “What?”
“The look on your face right now. Can’t decide if you’re preparing to kill me or…”
“Or what?”
He shrugs and pushes off from the wall. I go tense, watching as he closes some of the distance between us. Every muscle in my body is poised to either bolt or…
Or what, Shelby?
Throw yourself into his arms?
And what, exactly, would you do when you got there?
Hit him or hug him?
Kill him or kiss him?
I shake myself to clear the absurd thoughts. “What do you want, Gallagher? It’s late and I’m tired.”
“I’m not leaving until you tell me what’s got you so riled up.”
“I amnotriled up!”
He just stares at me.
A scoff flies from my mouth. “Fine. I’m riled up. But only because it’s three in the damn morning.”
“Not buying it, Hunt.”
I throw out my hands. “I don’t know what you want to hear.”
“How about the truth for once, instead of an evasion or a dodge or a cutesy comment designed to distract me from what you’re actually feeling,” he says lowly.