7. Phoenix
Phoenix
I barely get my bike parked before I’m sprinting into the garage, then into the clubhouse, then up the three stories worth of stairs to our apartment. My body is wound tight. Is he okay? Does he want to see me? Did he miss me?
I don’t know what to expect. He didn’t call in the entire eighty-nine days we’ve been separated. He did eighty-seven days in prison and two nights in jail, and it’s eighty-nine days too many to be separated from him.
Zephyr isn’t in the open living space of the apartment. The living room couch, where he normally sits, is empty. I all but run to the kitchen to check and make sure he’s not lying on the floor behind the island eating.
Wrapping back around the island, I check the first of the two rooms we use. He’s not in the sleeping area, closet, or bathroom. But through the wall, I hear the shower in the second bedroom we use. I round the corners quickly, ramming my arm against a dresser on the way past.
The bathroom door is open, and the shower door is held partway open with a washcloth.
He’s slumped against the shower wall, and steam is just starting to fill the bathroom like he hasn’t been in there long. I close the door behind me before pulling off my clothes. I toss them into the pile with his lying in the middle of the floor.
We’re close. We always have been. Mom jokes that we came out of the womb holding hands.
Some people assume that we’re too close.
But the bond he and I share isn’t sexual.
Sure, we’ve been with the same partner at the same time in the past, but we’re a good team in bed.
When we work together, it’s a whole other level of pleasure.
We do everything together. Everything. The last almost three months have been torture. I’m not leaving his side anytime soon. Maybe never if I can help it.
Zephyr doesn’t open his eyes as I step into the shower. Our shadows instantly pool together and cloak the space around us in darkness.
I turn on the second showerhead and mimic his position, standing under the spray. The steaming hot water, burning its way over my skin, attacks the two days’ worth of road grime and sweat on my body.
We don’t have to talk. I know his feelings, and he knows mine. Our shadows trade anxiousness, nervousness, frustration, and loneliness back and forth, the emotions tugging on my heartstrings and mixing hot tears with the shower spray.
Ten minutes pass before either of us moves. Zephyr steps to the ledge, grabbing soap and a clean washcloth. Seeing him moving eases a lot of my tension. He’s real. This is real.
We scrub in silence and then change the water to cooler temperatures to rinse. The cold water shocks my skin, and I shiver under it.
While drying off, I take in Zephyr’s appearance. His dark brown hair is longer. He’s lost weight, but his muscle definition is sharper all over, and his eyes are a little sunken in with the look of exhaustion. But all that is true about me too.
What is new about his appearance is the scars. There are dozens, like claw marks raked across his body. A couple punctures of what looks like large animal bites.
Prison is dangerous. The all-spectrum light bulbs prisons use to control alphas have their limits. The spectrum rating wears off even though the bulb continues to emit light. Shadows know exactly where the light is at its weakest, and they’ll exploit it.
He was supposed to have protection. This is what protection gets? Heat builds in my chest and clouds my vision. I want justice. I want revenge. I want to have answers for everyone who injured him.
But Zephyr looks up at me from where he was drying his legs. He just shakes his head, and it breaks the rage like shattering glass.
The silence continues as we finish drying. We dress in sweats and worn-out Westergaard’s Garage sweatshirts, and I pull the covers back on the bed.
Zephyr shakes his head again and moves out to the living room. With our shadows still stuck together, he heads over to the massive sofa. It’s big enough to be considered a bed, and he curls up in the corner of it. I grab a blanket and drape it over the top of us as I lie down next to him.
We’re cuddled close, my head nestled next to his. His hand wraps around mine, and he squeezes three times. He’s okay. I’m okay.
For the first time in eighty-nine days, I fall asleep knowing that we’re both safe.