Destiny Calls Samantha Wayland (the first e reader .txt) 📖

fought his way clear of the fog still holding him under from that second pill. He succeeded only long enough to see the sun was setting, to feel his shoulder was indeed much better and to wonder if he"d imagined being woken by a loud crash from downstairs.

Destiny had no idea how she"d managed to get through the day at work, since she"d been in a stupor for most of it. The only time her body could shake off her absolute physical contentment was when she thought about getting home and seeing Patrick and Brandon again.

Slack muscles trembled. Destiny knew her smile would remind anyone of the cat that ate the canary, which was why she had worked with her office door shut. Even the eighty-year-old department administrator could see “completely satisfied” stamped all over her face. Not that she cared if they knew, but for today, she"d wanted to lock herself away and wallow in it all by herself.

Most of the office, including her boss, was aware she had a friend who had been hurt and that she was helping to care for him, so they weren"t going to knock her for ducking out early. What they didn"t know was that Brandon was very definitely on the mend and feeling pretty darn good.

Scratch that. He felt great.

Several times on the way home, Destiny scolded herself to stop daydreaming and to pay attention to the road. She tried to think about work, her next project—anything—

but her ever-creative imagination was too busy cooking up all kinds of scenarios. And her libido loved every single one of them.

She wasn"t surprised when she pulled in the driveway and saw she"d arrived before Patrick, although she had hoped he"d be home. And naked.

Shaking her head, she climbed from the car, her sex-muddled brain slow to register the scene before her.

Why was Farley cowering under the porch?

Then she saw the kitchen door wide open, pale splinters of wood spiking from the shattered door frame. Her heart stopped, her feet frozen to the cobblestones beneath them.

Hands shaking, Destiny fumbled for her cell phone and dialed 9-1-1. She barely had the presence of mind to tell them it was Patrick"s house and that Brandon should be inside. Not that they would respond any faster, but it couldn"t hurt that they were cops.

The operator instructed her to get away from the house and stay on the line.

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To hell with that.

Hanging up, she called to Farley quietly, coaxing him to her as she dialed Patrick"s cell.

“Hey, Kitten.”

“Patrick, I just got home. Farley is out. The back door is kicked in. Patrick, I don"t know where Brandon is. I don"t know if he"s okay.” Her voice cracked and she cursed when Farley crawled back under the porch.

“I"m on my way,” he said, the change in his breathing telling her he was already running. “Stay out of the house, Destiny. Do you hear me? You wait for me.” She agreed before hanging up and shoving the phone in her back pocket.

She called to Farley again, scanning what parts of the yard she could see, one eye always on the open door. Creeping forward, she snagged his collar and pulled him gently to the driveway. She"d just shut him into the back seat of her car when she heard a shout from deep inside the house.

Her accursed imagination ran countless possible situations through her head. None of them good.

Fuck it. She wasn"t waiting for the cops.

Kicking off her heels, she ran stocking-footed up the back porch stairs, jumped the creaky fourth step and tried to plant her feet on the landing where the nails shone through. All the stupid tricks Patrick had taught her to sneak out of her house in high school once again proved helpful, though for all the wrong reasons.

Moving carefully, she eased through the back door and saw there was no one in the kitchen. She padded to the hallway door and beyond, her heart galloping in her chest, then lurching after a loud crash from above. She looked up at the ceiling, wishing like hell she could see through it. It sounded as though someone had fallen to the floor in Patrick"s room.

Another shout and the bellow of rage that followed propelled her forward. She prayed Bran was winning whatever the hell was happening upstairs. She felt the pinprick of tears and ruthlessly squashed them.

Moving as quickly as she dared, she peeked around corners and carefully made her way to the den. She hoped like hell the cops would get there soon, but she couldn"t risk it. Behind the sofa, she fell to her knees and shoved aside the console table and the rug beneath it.

There, built into the floor, was Patrick"s gun safe.

The boys had been taking her to the gun club since they"d been old enough to be members. She didn"t own a gun, didn"t really want one, but at this precise moment she was glad she"d tagged along.

Now she just had to figure out the fucking combination.

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Scrambling, she started with the obvious, knowing Patrick hated memorizing passwords and PINs, but that he wouldn"t be careless with something as important as this, no matter how well hidden the safe. Six numbers between one and nine.

Patrick"s birthday? No.

Ethel"s birthday? No.

Shit, what if it was his mother"s birthday? She shook her head. He didn"t like his mother. He wouldn"t choose that.

She tried Farley"s birthday. No. Her birthday. No. Fuck!

There was another loud clatter from upstairs. She was pretty sure Patrick"s bedside lamp had just bit the big one.

Christ. Her hands were shaking so hard she couldn"t hit the buttons and screwed up Brandon"s birthday. Her second try, though, brought victory.

Click.

Cranking the handle, she yanked the door up and peered into the lockbox, unsure what she would find. To her relief, the 9mm Glock she favored was right in the middle.

Pulling it and a box of bullets from the safe, she closed the door and reset the lock. God help her, if