Raid (Unfinished Hero #3)(34)

Mostly to avoid the pile of condoms and what they said, my eyes wandered.

On the wall across from the foot of the bed was a wardrobe, one door open and dangling drunkenly. Some clothes could be seen hanging haphazardly inside, a variety of athletic shoes and boots spilling out the bottom. More clothes in a tangle on the floor that led to wardrobe.

To one side, a dresser, all the drawers open; tees, thermals and boxer briefs dangling out the drawers.

On the opposite wall, a battered countertop covered in boxes of cereal, crackers, jars of protein powder and piled dishes. A sink that was piled with dirty dishes. There was a fridge to one side of the counter that long ago should have been put out of its misery, and a crusty, old range at the other end that might actually be a health hazard.

In front of the scary kitchen, there was an old, chrome sided Formica-topped table with two chairs, their black vinyl seats torn, padding coming out. The top of the table had a laptop and papers, with more papers scattered on the floor.

There was a big, locked trunk against the back wall with a stenciling on the side that read “Cpl. Miller, R”. In the corner by it, a weight bench and a rack of weights surrounded by a mess of dumbbells on the floor that looked the size only Hercules would work out with.

And last, there was an old, faded plaid easy chair with a rickety standing lamp beside it and an even ricketier spindly table that also was covered to overflowing with paperbacks.

The whole thing screamed Beverly Hillbillies before they struck oil.

The only hints at décor were an alarming number of shotgun racks on the walls, three of them. Two were empty, one had two guns in the slots and boxes of ammo on the shelf under them. I was no gun expert, but they didn’t look like shotguns. More like fancy rifles.

And the other piece of decoration was a framed eight by ten photo on the dresser. The space was huge and the picture was far away, but I could see it was a mess of men, some holding guns, all wearing smiles and desert fatigues, probably because a bleak desert landscape could be seen behind them.

Raiden’s unit.

The unit that was mostly lost.

Nearly all of the men in that picture were gone.

Holy Moses.

I narrowed my eyes on the picture, like doing this would engage superpower vision I did not have and would make it come into better focus just as I heard the shower turn off.

I twisted to look at a rough plank paneled room that jutted out in the far corner. A room that looked like it had been added in a hurry, the work done by five year olds.

The bathroom.

I couldn’t believe Raiden lived here, but he obviously did. I recognized some of the cargo pants on the floor from the days I was crazy, creepy stalking him.

Actually, I couldn’t believe anyone could live here.

He didn’t need a housecleaner.

He needed a house.

On this thought, hinges screamed in agony. A section of the wood paneling swung open and Raiden strolled out, wet hair slicked back, droplets of water on his broad shoulders, a towel around his h*ps and the rest of his lusciousness on display.

The second and third time last night, I got to see (and explore) Raiden’s body.

It was amazing in clothes.

It was way, way better without them.

His eyes came to me. They grew warm and he appeared to be heading to the kitchen-ish area, but switched directions, walking to the bed.

He didn’t enter it or put a knee in it. He didn’t say hi.

He bent and hooked me around the back of the neck with his hand in a way that I had no choice but to go up, which I did. Once partially up, his other arm closed around me, and when I was crushed to him his head came down and he took my mouth in a good morning kiss that made my toes and my fingers curl, the latter of which did it in the hard muscle of his shoulders.

When my hands slid up into his wet hair, he lifted his head, caught my fluttering eyes and said, “Mornin’, honey.”

“Good morning,” I breathed.

He grinned then pulled me out of bed, incidentally pulling the afghan with me as it was squashed between our bodies, and he put me on my feet.

“Get dressed, babe, runnin’ late. We gotta get you to your house. You gotta do whatever you do to get cute then we gotta get your grandmother and get to church,” he gave his order and after issuing it, he let me go and sauntered toward the end of the bed.

I hurriedly wrapped the afghan around me and watched him go.

Then I froze because now I had his back and I could see marks on his skin. Three of them; red, and in sections the skin was broken.

Scratch marks.

From my nails.

Oh my God.

“Did I do that to your back?” I whispered.

Raiden stopped, turned to me and smiled a smile I felt right at the heat of me.

“Oh yeah,” he answered in a voice that ratcheted up the heat so significantly it was a wonder I didn’t burst into flames.

He liked that.

A lot.

Wow.

Then it hit me he said we had to get Grams and get to church.

“Uh…” I mumbled then got lost in watching his lateral muscles shift and undulate as he bent and gathered my jeans, top and underwear from the floor and tossed them on the mattress.

I came out of my stupor when he moved to the wardrobe and the entire thing swayed dangerously as he opened the closed door. I fought the urge to rush across the room and put both hands on the side to brace it before it settled. Then Raiden reached in and yanked some clothes off hangers. Repeat the swaying and me fighting the urge to rescue his wardrobe before he turned, tossed the clothes on the back of a chair and moved to the dresser.