Pull You In (Rivers Brothers Book 3), стр. 9
Katie was as normal as normal came. She went to work, she did her best, she never got into trouble. The woman probably never lied or did anything shady in her entire life.
It was admirable.
But it also meant she couldn't truly understand my still-intact adrenaline-junkie tendencies.
"They're like a late-night, premium-channel show," she said, pulling me out of my thoughts that, inexplicably, had turned to thinking it was sweet how her giant glasses slid down her small nose.
"What?"
"Romantic suspense books," she supplied, gaze skittering away. "You know... like we were talking about," she added. "They're like a TV show with all the suspense and violence and the, well, you know."
"I do," I agreed, shooting her a smirk. "I do know."
The "you know."
What a kind of prudish way to put it. Especially given where we both worked. I knew for a fact that she heard a million things nastier every day than the average person would likely ever hear in their lifetime.
That was one of the main differences between the women I worked with and myself. The ladies who called phone sex lines were typically just sad or lonely or stressed. It wasn't so much about getting off, about saying nasty shit, as it was feeling desired and hearing a man's voice. The orgasm, when they happened, were really just the cherry on the pie as far as I could tell. They wanted the intimacy. I gave them that.
But the men who called the lines to talk to the women? Shit. Quite frankly, I didn't even know so many kinks existed before. And I had known my fair share of screwing around in my time.
The men, typically, even if they were sad or lonely, they wanted the filthy shit. They wanted to hear these women say things they would never have their wives say, would never have the balls to ask for if they were face-to-face with an actual flesh-and-blood woman.
Granted, being willing to hear raunchy shit, and being able to say it were two completely different things. I knew several women who were around foul-mouthed assholes—many of whom I called family—that barely ever cursed themselves.
"I, ah, yeah," she agreed, shaking her head, gaze going to the doorway as if she was expecting someone to walk in and save her. Hell, I was pretty sure she would be thankful for the cannibal mountain people at this point.
Interesting.
"I am going to lock down the house," I said, moving to stand. "Double check the windows and shit since they don't seem like the most careful of caretakers, leaving the door unlocked like they did. That way, we can haul off to bed anytime."
"Oh, yeah. Good. I, ah, I am going to go turn in now. Thanks for, you know, dinner. And, um, company." With that, she rushed toward the doorway, half turning back, giving me her profile, but her gaze wasn't on me. "I'm really glad I don't have to be here alone," she added before rushing off.
I could hear her feet running up the stairs almost as if she was trying to get as far away from me as fast as she could.
She might have been thankful for the presence of a familiar face around, so she didn't make herself sick with horror movie scenarios in her head, but I was getting the feeling she wasn't exactly relieved it was me she was stuck alone with.
That, yeah, that was a gut punch to my ego, I had to admit. I didn't typically have that response from women. I mean, we all struck out from time to time, even if we are good-looking and charming, but unless you were a complete creep, women didn't tend to fucking run away from you as fast as they could.
As I did the rounds checking the windows and locks, I racked my brain, trying to figure out if there was a time when I had said something to Katie that might have thrown her off, that might have upset her.
I knew a thing or two about badass women thanks to my family, but I also knew some shit about softer, sensitive women too. And they often didn't let it show that you said something that upset or pissed them off. They buried that shit. But they never forget. And they never quite feel the same way about you again. Unless you somehow get the truth out of them, explain, apologize.
I guess I could make that tomorrow's mission, I decided as I made my way up the stairs, checking the windows in the other rooms just for the hell of it.
Apparently, Katie was making me paranoid about being alone in the middle of nowhere too.
When I made it back to my bedroom door, I could hear sounds from inside Katie's room.
Running water, a soft, lilting voice, all sugar-sweet, the kind of voice meant for slow indie songs like the one she was singing. I didn't know it, but I could make out some of the lyrics as she moved around her room, likely gathering items for the bath she was running, and it seemed to be about unrequited love, about wanting someone who didn't know you existed.
Sad songs.
Christ, I remember my sister, Scotti's, bout with those in her teens. Every single song was a track to cry in your pillow to.
Katie didn't sound upset, though, as the water cut off, making her voice more clear. She almost sounded hopeful.
Then there was a splashing sound I knew a little too well.
Her body slipping under the water.
That should have been the end of that.
I should have turned back into my room, gotten ready for bed, caught up on the sleep I'd missed on the plane because I'd sat next to a middle-aged lady on her first flight ever, going to visit her first grandbaby, nervous and babbling the entire