Debra Anastasia
USA Today Bestselling Author

​

Curling Iron

 

The sexy singer’s forearms were tense, the veins straining his skin as he faced the exploding door. Everything seemed to happen in both slow motion and at super speed.

 

Milla’s heartbeat was so ridiculous that she could almost see her chest jumping. I don’t want to die now. That thought clarified in her scattered mind. The gunman had taken to shooting their door when he encountered the resistance the couch supplied. Gage Daxson stepped to the side and pressed himself flat against the wall. A few blistering seconds later, their door and the protection it provided was gone. The gunman’s mania somehow allowed him the strength to shove the furniture out of the way. And he had his gun pointed at Gage before there was any time for epic ass kicking. They were at his mercy.

 

Or at least Gage was. Milla realized she was still unknown, for now.

“All of the things belong to me!” The gunman’s smell, along with his voice, filled the room. “All the things!”

 

Gage nodded in agreement. “Yes, absolutely. Dude, I hear you.”

 

He was a slight man, for all the ruckus he was creating. Milla would expect him to be a banker, not a wild man. Maybe he was an out of control banker? Or at least finance. A tax guy? He aimed his gun at the ceiling and fired two more rounds. Milla stopped wondering what the man did for a living.

 

“Don’t call me dude,” he announced. “No one calls me dude. You know what that tells me? That tells me you don’t know me. And you want to take all the things. I own all the things.” He rolled his head on his neck. He looked like the Devil’s fart.

Milla gripped the curling iron and tried to find her courage.

 

“Get on your knees, asshole. Now.”

 

Gage slowly complied. Milla could see how much he hated being put at this disadvantage.

But the Devil’s Fart was still angry. “Don’t look at me like that. Wait—I know you. And I hate you.” The word hate seemed welcome in the Fart’s mouth. “My last girlfriend’s computer, phone, everything was full of you. Bastard. Before you die you’ll lick my shoes. I own all the things. Even you.” He screamed a bit, as if his rage was taking hold of his body.

Milla took a deep breath and swung the iron at Fart’s neck. It bounced off, and she swung again as he whirled in her direction. Turns out a hollow, cold curling iron is a shitty weapon. Milla slapped Fart in the face with it like the French do with a glove before a duel. Fart backhanded Milla so quickly, she almost forgot to stagger in pain. By the time she could look back at the gunman, he’d backed up and was waving the gun between Gage Daxson and herself.

 

Dear God, that’s scary. Guns are scary.

 

“Off your knees, pretty boy. Stand next to your whore.” The Devil’s Fart began twitching.

“I’m not a whore!” Milla stood prouder. If she was going to die, she wanted to at least defend her honor. And mostly her honor was her vagina. Gage Daxson elbowed her again, hard.

 

“Look, we just want to help you,” he said. “I don’t even know this girl. I came in here when you started firing.”

 

Milla looked from the gun to the singer. He was trying to charm the gunman. Be his best friend. Or at least be the person in the room with the least holes. Well, gun created holes. Other holes, they were pretty much all even. The Devil’s Fart showed his teeth like a rabid dog. He had a huge hunk of green between two of them.

 

Milla tried to ignore it, but apparently adrenaline made her wordy. “You’ve got something there.” She scraped at her own teeth to show him.

 

Gage turned to her in disbelief. “Seriously? Can you just shut up for like a minute? I’m trying not to get killed here.”

 

“What? He’s got something. I tell people if they’ve got weirdness going on. I’m trying to be helpful.” Milla shuffled from one foot to another. Gage Daxson’s jade eyes were pretty even when he was angry. He held one finger against his lips. She shrugged.

 

“I’m scared.” Her cheek still throbbed. She hated being slapped.

 

Gage turned back to the gunman, who, Milla noticed, was now watching them with a flared interest. There was an intensely awkward pause as she and apparently Gage realized The Devil’s Fart had his hand down his pants, massaging.

 

“So you two don’t know each other?” Fart had a look of anticipation Milla didn’t like at all.

They said nothing. Where were the cops? The sirens? Things that make a lot of comforting noises should be happening.

 

Fart started grinding his hips and biting his bottom lip. “Kiss her, asshole.”

Milla’s eyes widened. “You want him to kiss my asshole?” She covered her bottom.

The gunman rolled his eyes. “No, I said Kiss her. And then I called him an asshole. As in Kiss her comma asshole.”

 

Milla swallowed. “Um. I can’t do that. I have a boyfriend. ”

 

Fart moaned. “I have the gun, and you’ll do what I tell you.” He sounded almost drunk and his hand motions had grown more pronounced and vile inside his tented pants.

The singer stepped closer to her. “We better do this.”

 

Milla shook her head. “I…my breath…oh.” Her eyes filled with tears.

 

In all honesty, kissing this guy wouldn’t be the worst thing in the world. And her boyfriend was actually her cat, named Boyfriend by the Humane Society where she’d adopted him. But reality was all the situation implied. Unless this guy had a kissing fetish, there would be more required of her.

 

Gage Daxson tilted her chin with his finger. “Don’t worry, I’ve had a lot of practice.” He leaned down close to her ear and whispered, “I’m sorry. I think this might distract him.” Then he planted a slow, agonizing kiss on Milla’s slightly parted lips.