Chapter 5 #3
Booker rested a hand on my shoulder. His eyes had softened, as if he were attempting to hide the accusation. I remembered the look of horror. Not so different from the expression on the daughter’s face, still haunting me. Another wave of guilt came.
He applied pressure, pushing me inside my apartment.
I thought he’d pull the door shut and run away.
He’d go to Ricardo, hand him the cooler, and tell him what happened.
How much detail would he give? Would it shatter any hope of returning to work without disappointed glares?
Without knowing it, Booker held my fate in—
He stepped inside, kicking the door with his foot.
It shut with force. In the confines of my tiny kitchen, I felt like we were sitting in the interview room.
At any moment, he’d hit me with a deluge of questions.
How much of the fight had he seen? I didn’t just show the violence; I hid behind the mask.
He might have seen me use my abilities. All at once, my life could come crashing down.
Booker didn’t speak as he popped open the fridge, putting the cooler inside.
I should have been confused, angry even, not at him, but at myself.
Every night Hellion went on patrol, he toed the line.
He wasn’t a hero. He was a vigilante who operated in the gray.
Tonight, I had gone one step too far. Despite the cacophony of emotions, all I could focus on was the guilt.
Booker studied me like I was one of his interviewees. His gaze had a weight to it, and the longer he stared, the more I could feel it crushing me. The tears were already welling in the corners of my eyes. Try as I might, I couldn’t pull myself together.
“You shouldn’t be alone.”
He could have said anything in that moment. Accusations. Concern. Worry. Instead, he said the four words I was too scared to ask. I didn’t respond. I’m not even sure if what I thought was a nod of the head registered. My eyes dropped, staring at the drop of dried blood on the toe of my shoe.
I would have remained a statue if he hadn’t gently pulled at my shoulder.
Sliding his hand between my shoulder blades, he nudged me forward until my feet took over.
He provided the momentum, and I steered the ship.
We walked into my bedroom, the soft glow of neon radiating from my alarm clock.
With a flip of the light switch, my bed awaited, the soft gray comforter ready to protect me from the world.
Sleep. I needed sleep, a chance to reset and rebound.
My only goal: climb into bed and cry myself to sleep.
I turned to say thanks. I don’t know why, but it felt appropriate.
He had driven me home while I wallowed. It was the least I could do for having him watch me as I lost control of my emotions.
Before I could form the words, he pulled at my shirt, untucking it.
“Blood.” No judgement. No inquiry, a simple statement.
He had seen me nearly kill a man. A government agent had witnessed an attempted murder.
I didn’t know where it would leave us in the morning.
He didn’t step back as I unbuttoned my shirt.
It dropped to the floor, and my white undershirt had several smatterings of blood. Without thinking, I pulled it off.
His eyes widened. I had forgotten the bandage along my collarbone and the numerous bruises across my torso.
It was too late to use my powers and hide them.
Booker might not know how I had gotten them, but he’d be suspicious.
His fingers hovered over a scar at the top of my stomach, a burn mark from Flint, a pyromaniac who tormented Southland.
His fingers never quite touched the skin, but focusing on them felt like relief from the guilt trying to consume me.
When he lowered his hand, it was as if the bad thoughts came rushing in.
My ability to regulate my emotions had all but vanished.
I kicked off my shoes, turned around, and crawled into bed.
Clenching my body pillow, I hid my face in it.
If he lingered, he’d see me cry again. I heard the familiar click of the light switch, but no shoes scuffing along the floor.
I didn’t know if I wanted him to stay as I spiraled into another breakdown or have him go, leaving me alone to deal with this.
Shoes scuffed. There were a couple of thunks.
I didn’t expect to feel weight pressing down on the mattress springs.
Booker lay close enough that I could feel the warmth from his body, but not close enough to touch.
He could have called Wyatt or Orion to babysit, but instead, he stayed.
It was almost too much to process. There were so many conflicting emotions trying to force their way to the surface.
His hand rested between my shoulder blades. Unmoving, his palm served as a life raft. I focused on the heat, the pressure, the intimacy of it. My heartbeat slowed. For a moment, I could breathe. All that mattered was the man behind me, and the hand he rested against my back.
“Sleep,” he whispered.
I didn’t want to, not yet. Booker had answered a need I could never verbalize, and I wanted to revel in it. I didn’t want to fall asleep until I memorized the sensation of his thumb running over the edge of my shoulder blade. I’d stay… awake… as long as I…