Rock Chick Reawakening (Rock Chick 0.5)(23)

“You’re safe now.”

“I’ve never been safe.”

He shifted, his arms folding me into myself so I was a little ball of Daisy held closely against him, “Okay, darling, but you’re safe now.”

“I wanna believe that. I wanna believe in castles.”

“You’ll believe,” he whispered.

“I wanna believe.”

“You’ll believe, Daisy.”

I said nothing. His warmth and scent and arms around me, rocking me gently with his body, started penetrating and I pushed in deeper.

The trembling was easing, my mind blanking, my eyelids heavy when I heard Marcus ask, “In your castle, did you have a prince charming?”

And as I gave up the fight, allowed my eyes to close, I muttered, “There ain’t no prince charming for a girl like me.”

With that, I drifted to sleep.





My eyes opened and I saw daisies.

But I smelled bacon.

I dropped to my back in bed and stared at the ceiling, the night before washing over me.

“Shit,” I mumbled.

I turned again, to my belly, snatching up my other pillow and shoving my face in it.

I smelled Marcus’s cologne.

“Shit,” I repeated but it was muffled to come out sounding like, “Shfft.”

I pushed the pillow away, rolled again, tossing back the covers and pulling myself out of bed.

I wandered to my bathroom, flipped on the light, and went to the mirror.

I looked into it.

Well, at least that was good.

As any good Southern woman should, I had a big head of hair. And like every girl who knew good hair knew, you didn’t wash it every day and with every day you didn’t wash it, the natural product God gave you made it look better and better.

I was on day three. My hair looked full, the curls I’d set in it with my hot rollers were still bouncy but now a bit flippy, and it was cute. Not to mention, one of the only good things my momma gave me, radiant skin, looked just that (even if I had a nuance of dark circles under my eyes).

I opened a drawer and grabbed some hair ties. Using them, I tamed my curls into pigtails. Then I went about my routine: brush teeth, floss, cleanser with exfoliation, brush out of lashes, and smoothing of brows.

And even though I only had on a pair of silk pajamas (shorts with a deep, deep edge of hollow-out lace and a camisole of the same but a shorter edge of lace at the top and cute little cream bows at each hip, the rest of it all in the shade of pistachio), I walked out of my bathroom and right to my kitchen.

Marcus was at my stove. He was wearing another V-necked sweater, this one light blue, and another pair of jeans that weren’t dark-wash but they weren’t faded either.

His feet were bare. His hair was slightly tousled. And I wanted to say after the mortification of my drama last night that the sight of him at a skillet in my kitchen looking like that I didn’t feel in my coochie.

But that was a lie.

I totally felt the sight of him looking like that in my kitchen in my coochie.

His eyes came to me.

Oh yeah.

Right in the coochie.

I’d opened my mouth to say something, but at the look on his face, any words got trapped in my throat and I quit breathing entirely.

“Come here,” he ordered gently.

My feet took me right there.

Still with a fork in his hand, his other arm wrapped around me and he pulled me close so my front was pressed to his side, his chin dipping into his neck to keep his gaze on me.

“Okay?” he whispered.

I nodded.

“Hungry?” he asked.

I nodded again.

“Good,” he murmured, giving me a squeeze and turning his attention to the bacon.

He was shifting it around in the skillet and I was watching him do this in a weird haze.

But the haze, as hazes are wont to do, even ones you had standing in your kitchen pressed close to a hot guy, cleared.

I tipped my head back and started, “Marcus—”

The instant his name passed my lips, he again dipped his chin into his neck and I clamped my mouth shut at the new look in his eyes.

“I have a man looking for him. I’ve hired a private investigator to look for him. And two of my colleagues are looking for him. When one of them finds him, they will not take him to the police. They’ll bring him to me. And I’ll be dealing with him personally.”

Oh.

My.

“How’re you gonna do that?” I asked softly.

“I’m going to put a bullet in his forehead.”

Oh my!

I stared up at him.

“In the meantime,” he went on like he didn’t just tell me he planned to assassinate my rapist, “although I figure you know this now, you are not unsafe. You’re watched twenty-four-seven. I have a man on you at all times. When you’re trying on shoes. When you’re grocery shopping. When you’re up in this apartment watching movies. No one you don’t want near you will get near you.”

After delivering that, he looked to the bacon and flipped it.

I watched him do this wordlessly.

When he was done, I felt his gaze come back to me and I gave him mine.

“Is that understood?” he asked.

“Uh…yeah.”

“Right. Excellent. Next topic. I want you to move into my condo with me.”