Pistol

Chapter Eighteen

Darkness enveloped Pete as he stood over Cass—and watched. She snored like a damn train that chugged through a siding. Attractive. Aside from that, she was still a beautiful sleeper. Her arm lay lax over the side of the couch, a blanket draped over her from the waist down. He followed the lines of her top with his eyes, especially the way the neckline of her shirt sat so close to her nipple that he could make out the slight bumps of the areola. Disgraceful.

Once upon a time he would have gone there. But now he had better things to play with.

His eyes drifted up, and across to Steph's bedroom door. Nobody realised he was inside—that he knew of. The front door had been locked, but he picked it. He wanted to surprise his girl. Pete walked slowly and purposefully to her door, where he peered through the darkness. A notification on her phone lit the room in intervals of green light. She lay on top of the covers, fast asleep.

He had taken longer than intended to get to her place. It was forty minutes from where he worked, plus he had an errand to run on the way over. Richard had been ... wary of his visit, shall he say. And rightly so. As long as he had anything to do with it, nobody would side-step him to use his mother—least of all for their own criminal benefit. He might hate the woman, but he also didn't want people to think he was happy to hand out free rides at the expense of his reputation.

Pete moved to Steph's side, and knelt on the floor. Her breaths were slow and even; her plump lips moved ever so slightly—nothing like her friend who still chopped down a forest out there. Steph slept like what he had imagined sleeping beauty to look like as a child; beautiful, and pure. He carefully placed his elbows on the edge of the bed, and leant over her so that his face hung directly above hers. The soft scent of vanilla and frangipani wrapped around his nostrils, and filled his senses with her heavenly smell.

She stirred.

Pete held his breath, and waited. Within seconds her breaths resumed their even pace, and she slipped back into her dreams. He should wake her, let her know he had arrived, but she looked so fucking fantastic. He wanted to burn the image of her into his memory, like a ghosted image on a plasma TV. Everywhere he went, he wanted her to be right there in the background.

He drew back on his heels, and dropped his shoulders. With her before him like this; so pure, so innocent—it ate at him. It served as a painful reminder of what a perfect woman he ruined. He could leave, right now, never look back. She wouldn't know he came. He could walk out the door, and spare her this misery.

But he couldn't. You're a selfish bastard, O'Malley. Yeah, yeah, so what? He wasn't going to leave.

Instead, he drew to full height, and padded around her bed to the far side. The intermittent light from the phone gave her room an eerie feel as he stripped his boots off, followed by his jeans. His shirt made a dull thud as it crumpled onto the pile of clothes. He edged himself down on the bed, careful not to disturb her as the mattress slowly dipped with his weight. He sighed, and ran his hands over his face before he took another look at her.

Waves of brown hair fanned around her face as she slept. The soft lengths gave the illusion of an angel's aura. He stretched across the bed, and ran his fingers through her locks. So damn soft. Pete pulled back, and closed his eyes. He desperately reminded himself of the reason he came—he wanted to tell her everything, share his world with her. The burdens of the last few weeks had hit a precipice, and either he lightened the load, or he would snap. And people around him didn't do well when he snapped.

Steph stirred, and rolled in her sleep to face him. He waited until he was certain she wasn't conscious, and then slipped into the bed beside her. Time stood still as he lay, and stared at her perfectly proportioned features. Her slight nose had the tiniest jump at the end which made him twitch with the need to tap it. Her eyes were framed by the softest, yet longest lashes he'd seen. When she blinked at him earlier, he'd been struck with the need to know if they were indeed as soft as a butterfly's wing. But those lips—they were by far his favourite part of her oval face. So full, so soft, and the perfect shade of pink. They simply begged to be kissed.