Chapter 5
Dexter
Lexy has been asleep and feverish all night and most of the day.
It’s eight p.m. when I ask Stephen to cover the bar for an hour so I can help her eat something and take more Tylenol. I’ve barely stepped into the apartment when I hear her scream again.
She’s been trapped in nightmares since last night. Every time, it’s the same words.
“Get off me… please.”
My grip tightens on the doorframe before I even realize it, and I’m already moving, rushing down the hall toward her room, the sound of her voice still echoing in my head.
When I push the door open, the soup I left on her bedside table sits untouched.
Lexy’s twisting in the sheets, eyes scrunched shut, breath coming out harsh and uneven, her lips moving around broken words.
Then, “Noooo…”
I sit on the edge of the bed and gently place a hand on her shoulder.
She jerks away and screams.
“Lexy,” I say, trying again, softer. She shoves at me blindly.
“Don’t touch me!” Her voice cracks. “Mama! Mama, help!”
My jaw locks.
Her hands are pushing at nothing, fighting something that isn’t here, and I feel it low in my chest, sharp and sudden.
I sit back, giving her space, then try once more. “Tinker. It’s me. It’s Dex. Wake up.”
Her blue eyes finally fly open. Wild. Unfocused. S he scans the room like she’s bracing for another attack, until she sees me beside her.
“You were having another bad dream,” I say quietly.
Her brows draw together. “Another?”
“Yeah,” I admit. “You’ve had a lot of them. All night… and today.”
Her eyes widen slightly. “How long…” She swallows, her voice hoarse, and winces like it hurts. Her throat must still be raw from the fever. “How long have I been here?”
“About a day.”
She looks around the room, confusion flickering over her face. “Where am I?”
“You’re in my apartment,” I remind her gently. “This is the guest room. You’re safe.”
She shakes her head like the information won’t settle and pushes at the mattress, trying to sit up. “I can’t…”
“Lexy.” I catch her hand before she can throw the blanket off. Not restraining. Just steadying. “You need rest. And you need a roof over your head.”
Her body goes still, breath shallow, eyes locked on mine.
I reach for the soup already sitting on the bedside table and help her sit up, sliding an extra pillow behind her back. She takes a few careful sips, hands shaking slightly, then pushes the bowl away.
“That’s all I can manage.”
“You need food to heal, Tinker.” I nudge the bowl back toward her.
Her brows knit together. “Why do you call me that?”
I shrug. “Small. Blue eyes, light blonde hair.” I tilt my head. “You’ve got Tinkerbell written all over you.”
She sighs, clearly unimpressed. “I do not look like Tinkerbell. And I hate that nickname.”
She takes one last sip of soup, then pushes the bowl back again. This time, I let it go and hand her the Tylenol with a glass of water.
“Tinker.”
She shoots me her best hate-filled glare. Fever or not, it’s impressive. I grin.
There it is.
That spark.
Even half-dead, she’s got fight in her.
She swallows the pills and wipes her mouth. I watch her for a second, not sure if I want to know about her nightmares or her current situation more, then ask, “Why were you sleeping in your car?”
Her expression changes immediately. The edge disappears, replaced by something wary.
“I…” She shakes her head and looks down at her hands, fingers twisting together. “I just need to find a job. Then I can find a place of my own.” She shrugs, like it’s simple. Like it doesn’t terrify her.
“You already have a job,” I say.
She looks up slowly. “You fired me. Remember?”
One brow lifts, and for a second she really does look like Tinkerbell, defiant and unimpressed.
“I thought it over,” I say. “I want to give you another chance.”
Her gaze drops again. “I don’t need your pity.” Her voice firms, even though her hands still shake. “I can take my things and be out of your hair in an hour. As soon as the Tylenol works and my fever goes down, I…”
“You’re not going anywhere.” The growl slips out before I can soften it.
She stiffens. “Are you forcing me to stay with you?” She crosses her arms over her chest, glaring up at me. “That’s kidnapping, you know.”
“You’re free to go,” I say evenly. “But your car’s broken down. Your tank’s empty. You’ve got no money. And you’re running a fever.”
She exhales sharply. “I can sleep in my car and…”
“No.” I shake my head. “I’ve got a perfectly good guest room. I need a waitress. And you need a job.” I lift a shoulder. “Work for me for three months. Save up. Then find an apartment you can actually afford. And if you hate working for me, I’ll help you find something else.”
Even as I say it, something in me tightens.
Three months means she stays.
Means she’s here.
I push that thought down fast.
She stares straight ahead, jaw tight, clearly weighing every word. Pride battles survival in her eyes.
Finally, she looks at me. “Why are you doing this?”
Her blue eyes search my face like she’s expecting a trap.
“’Cause my mama taught me to help out strays,” I say lightly. “Even when they look like cartoon fairies.”
“And Tinker?” She gives me her best side-eye.
“Who hurt you?”
She looks away. “No one.”
She doesn’t trust me, and I respect that.
I stand and head for the door.
“Three months,” she whispers.
I pause, hand on the frame. “Three months,” I confirm. “And you’ll have enough to land somewhere good.”
She nods, then adds quietly, “But I’m paying rent. Or you can take it out of my paycheck.”
She squares her shoulders, lips pursed, trying to reclaim control.
I just laugh and close the door behind me before she can argue.
Yeah.
Not gonna happen.