Ray turns on the ignition and puts the Jeep in gear. “I’m gonna show you that you’re wrong about normal. And that you can enjoy your kink and be who you want to be without worrying about anything else. You went through a nightmare I wouldn’t wish on anyone, and now I understand your panic attacks, and we can work through them. But I know you’ve got needs and you’re afraid to embrace them. That’s ’cause that bastard took something from you. And I’m going to give it back.” He puts the Jeep in reverse and glances in the rearview mirror. “Christ.”

“What’s wrong?”

Ray’s demeanor changes in a heartbeat. His body stiffens and his face smooths into an expressionless mask. Cool and calm, he reaches down and unholsters the gun strapped to his leg.

My eyes widen in alarm. “What’s going on?”

“Stay in the Jeep. Lock the doors. I’m leaving the keys. If I don’t come back or something happens to me, you get out of here as fast as you can.” Even his voice sounds different. His tone clipped, professional, and so cold I shiver.

My skin prickles as he steps out of the Jeep. “Tell me what’s going on.”

“I said I’d keep you safe. And I will.”

Chapter 19

Don’t want to let you go

Famous last words.

Turning in my seat, I watch Ray through the back window of the Jeep as he stalks over to a black sedan parked two cars behind us. The driver must see Ray too, because the vehicle’s lights go on and I can hear the faint grind of an engine starting. Ray’s steps become longer and then he runs at the car, launching himself at the vehicle before the driver has time to pull away. He yanks open the door and drags the driver out, then pummels him to the ground. From this distance, I can’t see the driver’s face, but I catch a flash of blond hair and blue jeans and white streaks on a black T-shirt that remind me of the Viva la Vida shirt I got when Coldplay played San Francisco’s Warfield Theatre.

Nausea roils in my belly. Who is the man in the car, and why was he following us? Should I get out and stop the fight? But this is no street brawl. Ray is fighting with one purpose in mind, and that seems to be to kill. Every strike is vicious and precisely directed to where it could do the most damage.

Anger doesn’t even begin to describe what I see in his face.

However, the man from the car is holding his own. He manages to roll away and push himself to his feet. Ray charges and slams him against the vehicle, his hand around the man’s throat. His shout echoes in the quiet street. I catch a few words: “nothing to do with this,” “stay the fuck away,” and “I’m done with this shit.” He raises his fist and the man puts up his hands in a warding-off gesture and begs for his life. My heart squeezes in my chest, and I silently beg Ray not to make that final strike. He doesn’t. Instead, he smashes his fist on the hood beside the man, so hard I’m sure he’ll leave a dent.

After slamming the man one last time against the vehicle and watching him slide to his knees on the ground, Ray returns to the Jeep and bangs the door so hard the vehicle shakes. For a moment, he doesn’t move, save for the violent quivering of his body. Lips pursed in suppressed fury, hands gripping the steering wheel so hard his knuckles whiten, he glares at the rearview mirror until the black sedan pulls away from the curb and speeds past us and into the night.

I’ve been to enough fights, talked to Tag enough times, that I know better than to speak to or even touch Ray until he’s calmed down. But I can’t slow the pounding of my heart or deny my instinctive desire to run from an angry Predator. A familiar prickle crawls across my skin, and I grit my teeth and fight it away. The last thing Ray needs right now is me having a panic attack, so I dig my nails into my thigh and take a deep breath and tell myself it will be okay.

Without a word, Ray turns on the ignition and pulls into the road. He doesn’t look at me, and I wonder if he’s so far into the zone that he has forgotten I’m sitting beside him.

We drive and drive. I break and ask if he’s okay, but he doesn’t answer. Finally, he pulls over at a historic hotel at the edge of the Claremont Canyon Regional Preserve and reaches over me to grab a flashlight from the glove box.

“Take this.”

When he slides out the door, I sling my purse over my shoulder and tuck my phone into my jacket pocket.

Not that I think he’ll hurt me, but I like to be prepared.

Ray fishes around in the back of the Jeep and produces another flashlight, bigger than the one he gave me. Then he takes my hand and tugs me toward the back of the hotel.

“If we’re going up the Stonewall Fire Trail, I’ll need to change my shoes.” I point to my black sling-back pumps. “I’ve got a pair of running shoes in my gym bag in the backseat.”

After a quick shoe change, I follow Ray to the back of the hotel. I haven’t been up the Stonewall Fire Trail in years, and never at night. I hiked into the hills a few times as a teenager and occasionally with Jess for the incredible, expansive views of the East Bay and San Francisco. But the steep one-mile ascent is a killer.

Ray holds my hand as we make the climb. Creatures scurry in the underbrush, and birds swoosh overhead. I startle at an unfamiliar noise in the darkness and squeeze Ray’s fingers. But I am more worried about not sounding like a freight train than being attacked by a wild animal—especially since I’ve got one holding my hand.

When we reach the top, Ray sits on the grass and pulls me down between his legs, my back against his chest, his warm arms wrapped around my waist. The city spreads out below us, soft lights fading to the inky black bay.