33. Thirty-Three
The bed beneath me is so comfortable, and I can still hardly believe it’s mine. This space, and everything in it, is mine… for now at least. I glance around the room, again reminded that all of these items were left here by someone I’ll never know. I’ve been so busy with training and spending time with my men, I haven’t been able to study this room the way I want to.
Whoever inhabited this room before me only left behind a few clues about their life, and I can’t help but picture my long-gone roommate as if she were still here.
I picture a woman, content in the safety carved out around her, but longing for the life she once had. Maybe she was desperate to go to the grocery store, to see the ocean, to swim and feel the sand between her toes. Maybe she was the one who encouraged the community to live in this shelter in order to keep her loved ones safe. Perhaps the woman in the sketch was her lover, someone for whom she’d given up life in the outside world to be near. To protect.
Maybe this is ridiculous.
My projections and judgements are all based on nothing more than a scattering of sketches and a few books stacked against a wall.
Despite the thick layer of dust coating the stacks, it’s clear one of these books was loved more than the rest. Even from my bed I can see the lines broken into the spine, the edges of it peeling up and cracking away.
Curiosity is pulling me towards the little pile of books, and I can’t stop myself from crouching down and running my finger over the spines. I carefully remove the few books sitting on top of the clear favorite, and I smile at the way the cover curls up slightly. It looks like it’s begging me to look inside and experience the world printed onto its pages.
The Contessa and the Pirateis scrawled in a looping, elegant font above a couple pictured in an overdramatic embrace. They both have long flowing hair, billowing around them as if the wind itself was trying to keep them apart.
I chuckle at the cheesy title and matching cover, biting my lip as I hold the book reverently in my hands. I’m intrigued. I want to know more about the woman who lived here. I want to honor what might be one of her prized possessions, something she probably left behind reluctantly in her next move.
I shuffle back to my bed, flipping through the yellowed pages. The smell of the book tugs at the edges of a pleasant memory that refuses to take form, but it warms my chest all the same as I settle beneath the covers.
Within the first few pages I’m fully engulfed in this wild romance. My heart races through the dangerous battles, and I swoon at the pirate’s advances, giggling as I see bits and pieces of my boys in him. When the couple arrives at the inn, that all too familiar aching in my core nearly convinces me to leave my room and find one of my own men, but I’m too invested, and impatient, to wait.
Damien, the pirate, scandalizes her with a string of filthy promises while tracking his fingers up her thighs, and the dull ache becomes an insistent throb. I do my best to mimic the movements outlined on the dog-eared pages, trailing my fingers along my legs and ghosting them over the apex of my thighs.
My movements are clumsy, almost timid with this new experience, but my body lights up at the light brush along my center. It doesn’t care that my fingers don’t belong to someone else, when I slide my underwear to the side my pleasure begins to climb all the same. I begin to tighten and writhe under the sheets, surprised that I can reach these heights even without the men who have learned my body more intimately than I know it myself.
My fingers tentatively explore the creases and folds, the slickness, the heat, the tight sensitive bud that seems to control every one of my nerves. I press slightly and swirl around the delicate nub, trying to recreate the motions of Silas’ fingers, or Tucker’s tongue. It’s not quite the same, but I’m still building towards that perfect peak, my men’s bodies, tongues, cocks flashing through my mind with every stroke.
The door to my room swings open quickly, rattling on the hinges. Out of sheer instinct I sit up, trying to quickly disguise any evidence of what I’d been doing, what I’ve been feeling. I don’t feel shame in finding my own pleasure, but I’m not happy about being caught in the middle of a private moment.
“What are you doing?” Dane’s eyes are bloodshot, that rigid posture of his nowhere to be found as he supports himself with a hand braced on the doorframe.
“I’m reading. Is that an issue?” I quip, holding up the book, careful not to show him the cover. My breathing is still shallow and a bit rushed, my body is reeling and aching for release, but my mind has abandoned that entirely. All of my attention focused entirely on the man blocking my doorway.
“No, what are you doing here?” His voice is firm, like he fully expects me to understand what he means. He cocks his head at me, like somehow, I’m missing a clear question. I don’t know what he’s trying to get at. It’s too difficult to understand his intentions when his body language is so different from what I’m used to. His facial expression is equally unreliable; anger and sorrow, grief and maybe even hope are all warring for dominance on his features.
“What do you mean?”
He takes the few steps to the end of my bed, his feet a little unsteady beneath him, and braces both hands on the mattress. I readjust, scooting until my back meets the wall. I keep the sheets wrapped tightly around my waist, not wanting him to guess what was happening moments ago.
“You’re going to ruin it.”
There’s a distinct vulnerability clouding the air around us, and it dampens my irritation. He’s staring directly at me, blinking hard every few seconds, but there’s a sadness in his eyes I’ve never seen before.
“Ruin the job?”
He scoffs, as if my suggestion was ridiculous. “Ruin everything,” he murmurs, his voice wavering on the last word.
I shake my head, not sure what he wants to hear in his clearly altered state. Glancing towards the open door, I set the book aside and focus fully on the broken man in front of me. A small nagging voice in the back of my mind urges me to let him stay, to learn whatever he’s willing to give up.
He crawls clumsily onto the bed and sits facing me with one of his legs tucked underneath him. I can smell the alcohol on his breath, on his skin.
“Everything gets taken away.” There’s a firmness to his voice, but it doesn’t sound like a warning. Something in it sounds like it’s a mantra, like he’s said it so many times that it’s become the only truth he knows.
”I’m not going to take anything from you, Dane.”
“You don’t want to,” he mumbles, an angry smile twisting his face. He’s holding back, hesitant to continue. “But you’ll take them.”
My brain searches for understanding, grasping for an explanation, but finding nothing.
He rolls his eyes, and I have to work to keep my expression neutral. “After this, you’ll leave. They’ll follow you.”
“No one is going to follow me when I go,” I argue, and my stomach tightens.
I don’t know if I believe it myself, and suddenly I don’t want it to be true. My breath catches in my throat.
I don’t want to be away from them.
Almost as much as I need to have my own freedom, to have control over my life, I want them to be a part of it.
“Even Silas will go.” A flash of agony sours his face before he drags a hand over it, physically wiping away the expression.
“You’re wrong. You’re a family, and no one is breaking that up, not even me.”
He lets out a harsh chuckle. “Family leaves, or family dies. You know that as well as anyone, huh?”
His eyes land firmly on me, he’s going for emotional scabs he knows are ripe for the picking.
Is he trying to get me to fight him? Trying to get me to react in a way that would justify an outburst?
“Why did you come here?”
Dane opens his mouth only to close it again after a deep breath. For some reason this is what he won’t say.
“Why are you here?” I ask again, softer this time. I’m more curious than ever about him, about his intentions.
“I… I’m not sure.” He goes silent for a minute, his eyebrows drawing together with thought. He’s so beautiful, even in this moment, even in his drunken state. His haunted quality seeps from his pores, and I feel a pull deep inside myself. I want to help him. I want to take care of his sharp edges and protect him from the sword he’s left dangling over his head.
“I just had to come here,” he slurs at me after pulling himself back together, forcing a modicum of focus back into his eyes.
He leans forward, and the heady scent of alcohol hits me like a punch. He’s close enough I can pick out every faint freckle dusted across his nose, every fine line decorating his tanned face.
He’s trying to kiss me.
I plant my hand firmly against his chest, holding him back. He looks down at my hand and I worry for a second he’s going to leave, that I’m going to lose sight of this side of him. That I may never see this vulnerability again.
The skin of my palm buzzes against his hard chest. I’m still so wound up from taking myself right to the brink of ecstasy that my traitorous body considers letting him kiss me. Considers giving in to my desire that’s been building ever since he caught me in the woods. Since the moment he brushed his thumb over my pulse.
I swallow hard at the memory, all the fantasies born in that quiet minute in the woods bursting to life once more.
He may be the one making the move, but I’m not about to take advantage of his current physical and emotional state. He probably won’t remember any of this in the morning, and I’m not interested in trying to explain how he drunkenly made out with me, or more.
I don’t want to end this interaction entirely. While I won’t take advantage of his state for my physical desires, I can’t hold my curiosity to the same standard. I want to know more. I want to know everything.
“Tell me what I’m stealing, Dane.”
“You don’t really care.” He sits back, relaxing into his weight onto his hands behind him, slowly scanning the room as if he’s looking at everything for the first time.
“I want to know.” Actually, I need to know, to use his own wording.
“A hard drive.” He seems to sober slightly when his eyes meet mine. His eyes are still bloodshot, and his throat is still flushed, but he’s a little more present. We’re talking about the job now, and even in this state his mind won’t let him misspeak here. He’s devoted too much of himself to this job, he won’t get the information wrong.
“What’s on it? Why is it so important to you?”
“Financials, communication records, evidence of…” He pauses, taking a deep breath. “Everything is on it. Everything I need to take them down.” His eyes are downcast, and he’s fidgeting with a crease on his jeans.
“Who are we stealing this from, Dane?”
He mumbles a name that sounds a lot like Baptist, but I can’t really be sure. I don’t think he’s going to continue, that he’s going to make me excise every answer piece by piece, until his voice creaks out of him again. “He ruined everything too.”
My stomach drops. “How did he ruin everything?”
“He stole from us. Killed my mom. Left me and my dad to pick up the pieces.”
I shudder, realizing he might be speaking literally. From the way the color drains from his face and tears start to build in his eyes, I think he might be. I do the only thing I can think to do and wrap my arms around his large frame, savoring the feel of his taut muscles beneath his shirt. He flinches at the contact, not expecting me to touch him like this.
That brief, tense moment passes and a shuddering sob wracks through his body, the force of it shaking me. I squeeze my arms tighter around him, then shift to patting his back gently.
What do I do here?
How am I supposed to comfort this man? I’ve never had to soothe anyone’s distress, and I’m struggling to come up with the right combination of touches to take his pain away.
All I’ve known about this man is that he’s a tyrant, not necessarily malevolent, but a tyrant, nonetheless. Yet here he is, drunkenly spilling his secrets and crying into my shoulder.
“It’s okay,” I whisper between wordless coos and assurances, all the while running my hand over his surprisingly soft hair.
It’s not lost on me that this is the first time I’ve been able to touch him like this, to hold him. All of our interactions have been either intensely controlled or explosive, and I didn’t realize until now how badly I wanted this. How much I was craving this closeness. My chest warms while this man falls apart in my arms, exposing the damaged, jagged bits of himself and giving me a peek into who he is.
I just hold him against me until his breathing calms and evens out, no longer the heaving and hiccupping gasps that were so prominent only moments ago. I start to unwrap myself from around him and when he doesn’t react I shift as much as I can, angling to see his face. He’s asleep. His features are set into a relaxed state I don’t think I ever could have pictured. I assume it’s the deep level of sleep you can only reach when you’ve half-drowned yourself in booze and just finished crying in the arms of a near stranger.
I don’t disentangle myself immediately, I just watch him, trying to tease out the mystery that is Dane and his past. His eyebrows twitch, like something is upsetting him even in his unconscious state. I don’t want to risk him waking up and starting to cry again, or worse, feel the shame of breaking down in front of me. So I carefully pull away from him, letting him settle into the comfort of my bed.
I slip out of the room as quietly as I can manage. I don’t know where I’m going to go when I close the door behind me, but I absolutely can’t stay here.
I can’t let Dane wake up next to me. There would be no coming back from it.