9. LUXURY LIVING
Maggie shaded us all the way to the parking area where Nash’s 1950s Woody Wagon sat. The old Ford was garage kept and in immaculate condition. Cream paint and well-oiled wood panels made it the strangest-looking vehicle I’d ever seen, but it was spacious with a side aisle down the back and bench seats where I could sprawl out. I laid across the rear bench, and Donovan took the one in front. Maggie claimed shotgun so she could give Nash turn-by-turn.
The drive progressed in mostly quiet. Donovan scrolled through his phone while Nash asked questions the zombie girl answered with chirps and squeals. Their banter had me chuckling by the time we arrived at our destination. Sitting brought a headrush, but I didn’t pause, instead pushing through and out the side door. I exited on Donovan’s heels, regaining myself with both feet on the smooth, black asphalt outside a towering building.
The Elite Inn his brow furrowed with concern. “You don’t exactly have space for houseguests…”
“She can have the couch,” I said, thinking that would be the end of it until Nash turned his frown on me.
“And you and Donnie will be cozying up in that single bed, then?”
“Hell, no,” Donovan retorted. “That’s my bed.”
Nash’s frown deepened. “He’s your brother, Donnie.”
I shook my head. “No, he’s right. It’s not safe. Might wake up with my dick in his back.” I threw my good arm around Donovan’s neck, pulling him into a squirming embrace.
He swatted and shoved away from me. “More like your magical punching bag. You’re a hazard to share a room with, much less a bed.”
“Eh, I can sleep on the floor.” Shrugging sent a spike of pain through my bandaged arm, and I hissed a breath.
Nash stared at me, stone-faced. “I think not.”
“It’s one night,” I replied. “No big deal.”
We came to no conclusion, letting the subject drop and falling into quiet while Maggie filled her suitcase. I assumed her visit would be brief, but she packed for an extended stay, compiling multiple outfits, a bulging makeup bag, and a few stuffed animals.
By the time she zipped the wheeled piece of luggage shut, the sun was going down. Donovan, Nash, and I had given up standing while waiting and had moved to the living area. Donovan took the chair while I laid across the loveseat with my legs kicked over the armrest and my head in Nash’s lap. Channels clicked by on the television, Nash brushed his fingers through my hair, and the painkillers finally caught up to me.
I dozed, waking only long enough to stumble to the parking lot and collapse in the backseat of the station wagon.
The next sounds I heard were the car doors closing and muffled voices outside.
“You’re in charge,” Nash said. “Call us if you hear from Ripley.”
Snuffling a breath, I pushed up on my right arm and peeked out the window. Donovan and Nash were engaged in conversation while Maggie stood idly by.
“Call us ?” Donovan echoed. “Where’s Fitch going?”
“With me,” Nash replied. “We both know he’s shit at taking care of himself, so I’m stepping in.”
“Yeah…” Donovan paused. “He doesn’t really like people helping, though.”
“He’ll get over it.” Nash pulled the driver’s door open and started to slide in, but Donovan called after him.
“You really like him, huh?”
“Fitch?” Nash asked.
Who else? I scoffed to myself. But my brother had asked the question I’d been afraid to, unsure as I was where Nash and I stood in the mess of friends/benefits/fuck buddies. I also didn’t know how I would respond if asked the same thing. Probably with a similarly cagey inquiry, which wasn’t an answer at all.
“He likes you, too,” Donovan continued. “Even if he won’t say so. ”
Nash huffed in response. Almost a laugh.
The quiet stretched until it wore thin, and I strained to see Donovan standing beside the car, looking off toward the water.
“He’s kinda soft, you know?” A pensive expression overtook my brother’s face, and I wished I could see Nash’s countenance as clearly. “He acts like a jackass, but he’s been through a lot.”
“You both have,” Nash murmured.
Donovan shrugged. “I guess.” His mouth twisted. “Just don’t hurt him, okay? He’s had enough of that.”
I wanted to shout at him to butt out, or at least to stop calling me soft and confessing feelings I didn’t want shared. But I felt his concern, and I appreciated it.
“I have no intentions of hurting your brother, Donnie.” Nash’s voice was as soft and reassuring as I knew it would be. I believed him. Donovan did, too, judging from his succinct reply.
“Good.”
The door closed, the car rocked into gear, and the bumps and turns of the drive across town lulled me back to sleep.