22. Chapter 22
Things I remember last night. Me, sleeping outside. Worried about Reaper. Cold and exhausted. Reaper picking me up in his very strong arms. Me, showering. Then nothing. Well, almost nothing. A kind of blurry passing of stuff which made me cranky inside because it was jostling me in and out of sleep, but I was too tired to protest. Then a soft bed, warm blankets, and someone spooning me in his, or maybe her, strong arms. Kidding, I knew who it was.
Then Reaper making love to me in a way that rocked my world.
When I wake up, he’s no longer spooning me and when I shift to face him, he’s on his back, sleeping heavily. He’s shirtless, his broad, muscular chest rising and falling with each deep intake of breath. There’s a little snore that I could live with for the rest of my life.
I think about earlier, waking up to feel his hand on my hip. Then his eyes meeting mine. I saw everything. His sadness, his fear, his conflict. Despite being the queen of bad timing, I knew better than to say anything. Instead of words, I used my lips. A risk because the man is so skittish, but it was worth taking, because it led to the sweetest lovemaking I’ve ever experienced.
I’m a fool, I already know that. I leave myself open and ultimately get hurt. But in the past, being with a guy was a thing I did. Like most girls my age, my friends and I would hang out and rehash the details of guys we met, what he said, what we said. All the possibilities for the future.
But with Reaper, it’s not like that. I might get all giddy with my friends, talk about the wedding I plan to have, but the sharing of intimacies between Reaper and me wouldn’t happen. Not the words, not the hurts, not the pleasure. Not the love.
When he touched me, kissed me, made love to me, so much emotion poured out of him. It humbled me and now, in the bright light of day, it makes me hopeful.
I finally pull my attention off Reaper to look at my surroundings. I’m not sure exactly where I am or what time it is, although the sun streaming through the window suggests it’s late morning, or maybe early afternoon.
I sit up, then swing my feet to the floor and stand. Almost. Holy Mother of God! No apologies anymore, God. Because there’s gonna be too many, so I’ll save them all up for confession if I ever get there. My legs cramp, and I almost fall to my knees, but manage to stay upright by grabbing the edge of the mattress.
I check Reaper. He’s still dead asleep, no signs that he’s going to wake up soon. Since he rescued me from freezing to death, I decide he deserves to sleep in. Or all day. Or whatever. I take a tentative step and then another until I’m inching my way around the room, giving my legs time to stretch out. I don’t think I’ve ever walked a mile in my life, let alone however many miles it took to walk to Reaper’s house. Oh yes, and also the underground tunnel. Longest one ever except maybe the Chunnel. Is that the right word?
Who cares, Ximina, who cares?
After I’ve done my morning ablutions (that means peeing mostly), I wash my hands, run my fingers through my hair, cup a hand around my mouth to check how bad my breath is, look for an unused toothbrush, but end up settling for mouth rinse.
First thing, I need to know where I am, though I have a strong suspicion. Second, I need to know what time it is because that’s the way I’m wired. Third, I need a phone to call my pops. I need to hear his voice. Know he’s okay. Let him know I’m okay. Fourth, I need to know where Spot is. Well, need to know is an exaggeration, but since I inherited him from Miguel, the least I can do to honor the jerk’s memory is look after his dog.
I shuffle around the room, trying to stay as quiet as I can. I don’t have a purse; I’m assuming that’s still in the tunnel, thus, no cell phone, lipstick, wallet and tampons, which I don’t need anyway. Not for another three weeks.
I think about going through Reaper’s clothes. Surely he has a phone, but I almost knock over a grenade sitting on top of a dresser while I’m tottering on my unsteady legs. I carefully wrap my hands around it to stop the wobbling as I ponder on my lack of reaction to the little device that if mishandled could blow me and Reaper to kingdom come. Thanks to the chamber, I am no longer the girl I was yesterday. I glance at Reaper and decide I’ll leave and find a phone before things go boom.
I look down at myself, at the T-shirt I know belongs to Reaper. It’s long on me, which makes me feel small and feminine, neither of which I am. I mean, I’m short and not round, but I’ve got curves. I do have a healthy appetite that I’m not ashamed of so my stomach and thighs have a bit more definition than perhaps Gigi Hadid.
Miguel was only a few inches taller than me, but he was fit and muscular enough. His tees fit me as well as they fit him, except that they seriously strained in the chest when I wore them. In fact, he endlessly complained that I was ruining them by stretching them. Which made me passive-aggressive. The more he wanted me to stop, the more I didn’t. He started hiding his T-shirts, which made me even more determined. It became a challenge.
Jeez, Ximina.
I shake my head at myself as I unlock the door and slide it open. There’s a long hall, several doors right and left, but split by a wide staircase. I’ve seen the hall, yesterday, when Reaper first brought me to the clubhouse. Excellent. I now know where I am and my way out.
I hold the handrail and take each step one at a time as I ease myself downstairs. When I get to the bottom, the big room I was in yesterday unveils itself. It’s not exactly full of people, but there’s a couple of men at a table talking in low voices. One of them, long red hair and beard, is so big he dwarfs the other, who isn’t all that small himself.
Another man is playing pool by himself. In the corner are a couple of boys. Maybe ten, eleven, twelve, twenty-eight. I don’t know. Why would I? Over by the bar is the woman I saw yesterday. She’s taller than me, but just, with light brown shoulder-length hair that curls over her shoulder. I’m not sure what makes her cute, but she definitely is. Not elegant, or voluptuous. Just the girl-next-door. The one everyone likes, the go-to woman.
Another woman is sitting on a bar stool, holding a cup of what I assume is coffee, talking to the cute woman. This one’s maybe forty, fifty, sixty. Again, I don’t know. Younger than Pops, but definitely older than Spot. She’s tall and thin with the color of hair that comes from a bottle. But she’s brittle, hard. Battle worn. It’s like the cute concept. I don’t know how I know, but I know. I look around. No clocks. Like in a casino.
No one notices as I hobble to the center of the room. “What time is it?” I say loudly.
All heads snap towards me. No one says a word.
I tap my wrist. “Time anyone. I don’t know whether to say good morning or good afternoon.” I raise my eyebrows. “I like to get it right.”
“It’s 1:30,” one of the boys answers, then adds, “PM.”
“Thank you. Good afternoon all.” I smile widely like I always do except when I’m scowling.
The woman behind the bar returns my smile and motions me over. There’s a chair next to the other woman.
When I get there, I realize it’s also kind of a bad idea, because I’m short and it’s hard to hop up on the barstool especially feeling like I do.
The woman on the stool next to my intended seat watches me as I struggle but doesn’t lift a hand. Oh well, not everyone is as polite as I am.
“I’m Haley,” the bartender says. “I’m betting you’re Reaper’s girlfriend.”
Girlfriend. What a lovely thought, but while I believe that’s the case, or will be, it hasn’t fully been established. So instead of agreeing with her, I say, “Don’t tell him that. He’s still unaware of it.”
Haley giggles while the woman next to me snorts.
I turn to her. “I’m Ximina.”
She peruses me. “Ximina,” she says, repeating my name exactly right. She wins two points right there which cancels out the negative two points she got for not helping me up on the bar stool. She’s back at zero.
“And you are?”
“Verity.”
“Verity,” I say, repeating her name exactly right. “I like the name.”
She stares at me like I’m full of caca. I get vibes off people. Call it a gift, call it a curse, but the woman beside me doesn’t like me. I’m not the kind of girl who wastes my time on people who don’t like me. Why should I care?
Haley, on the other hand, is giving off warm, welcoming vibes. “Can I get you something to drink?”
“Yeah, orange juice would be great,” I say with relief. “I don’t think I’ve had anything to drink for maybe…” I try to do the math, then give it up. “Many, many hours. I could eat too if you have food. A doughnut or a cannoli?”
Verity snorts. “We’re not a restaurant and Haley isn’t your slave.”
Haley sets a tall, cold glass of orange juice in front of me. “I don’t mind.”
“Thank you, slave,” I say to her. “Now about those doughnuts.”
The woman giggles. “We’re all out of doughnuts, Cleopatra. How about I make you breakfast? Scrambled eggs and toast.”
“Sounds healthy,” I reply, trying to keep the disappointment off my face. Did Cleopatra have slaves? Is that what Haley meant? My talents, broad as they are, don’t extend to the finer details of history. Or politics. Geography either. I frown, thinking maybe I don’t know as much as I think I know.
Haley disappears and leaves me and Mrs. Cranky alone to talk.
“Soooo,” I say. “Have you seen a dog around here? A spotted one. Answers to the name Spot.”
The same kid who told me the time pipes up. “He’s outside.”
“That’s good news,” I reply to Earkid, the superhero who can hear anything from anywhere. “I was worried he did a runner.”
“I thought he was Reaper’s dog.”
I think about this. Maybe he is Reaper’s dog. It’s unlikely. Miguel wouldn’t have left the dog to him. On the other hand, Spot follows Reaper pretty much everywhere, unless Reaper isn’t around. Like yesterday, in the chamber. “You might be right,” I murmur, trying to test out how extensive Earkid’s powers are.
“Pretty sure I am,” he replies with a smug smile.
Extraordinary.
Haley returns at that moment with the breakfast as promised, and I dig in. “Oh my God,” I moan after I swallow a mouthful. “Best eggs ever.”
“Of course they are,” Verity says. “If the only thing you eat for breakfast is doughnuts.”
I clench my jaw. “Actually, I don’t eat doughnuts for breakfast, but I figured you were more likely to have doughnuts than calzones, which is generally what I eat for breakfast.”
I take a chomp of my toast as I lock eyes with her, then swivel the bar stool so I’m facing Haley. “Best toast ever,” I say to her.
She grins. “It’s a secret family recipe.”
Verity huffs.