I dig in my eyebrows.
Why didn’t she tell me? I’d forgotten that she was hurt elsewhere.
She didn’t look in pain when she sat here.
I watch her stumble to the bed, lower her knees to the floor, and bury her face in the blanket, her heavy breathing visible from here as she finally lets herself give in to it.
I start to get up and go to her, but she would’ve asked if she’d wanted more help. She’ll just fight me.
I reach up, turning off the monitor and give her some privacy.
I was wrong. A bomb is loud—only good for mass destruction and only good once.
She’s not a bomb.
She’s patient, quiet, unyielding, and permanent.
She withstands. Like steel.
Like an ax.
Aro
A figure looms over me, blurry, and I blink, but my eyelids are so heavy. It moves, growing closer, but it never comes into focus. What is that?
But then I snap my eyes open, realizing I’m not dreaming, and bolt up into a sitting position, jerking my head left and right.
I scan the room, something crawling my skin.
But there’s no one. The closed door sits ahead, and the only things in the room other than me are furniture.
Hijo de puta.
I push my hair out of my face and throw off the blanket, wincing as pain burns through my arm. I look down at the bandaged wound and last night comes flooding back.
Shit.
I climb off the bed and walk to the wooden door, twisting the handle.
It’s still locked. I exhale, turning around and checking the room again.
The bronze cage holding four, small candle-shaped bulbs hanging by a matching chain overhead, the lights still bright from when I entered the room. I must’ve fallen asleep with them on. I gaze around, noticing the faded, antique rug partially hidden underneath the bed, and the desk sitting kitty-corner and facing the door. A large mural of chipped paint decorates the wall to the right of it, a pastoral scene of a jungle and animals I can barely make out. I sift through the drawers in the desk and then lower myself to the ground to look under the bed, flinching at the pain in my body.
But the room appears to be empty. And unoccupied by a permanent resident too. No clothes. No receipts. Nothing of value.
I unwrap the bandage on my arm and inspect it, seeing a little blood dried around the wound. It’s not discolored, seeping, or as swollen anymore. It’s sealed better than any time I’ve ever had stitches.
He’s probably certified in advanced CPR. Boy Scout.
I pull on my hat, my sweatshirt, and yank the hood over my head, but the world tilts in front of me, and I have to lean into the wall. I bow my head, inhaling and exhaling, and I’m not sure if I’m dizzy or sick, in pain or hungry. I haven’t eaten since yesterday morning.
I stumble over, grabbing the bottle of Advil he gave me and tap out a few pills, popping them into my mouth. Swallowing them dry, I toss the bottle onto the bed and twist the lock on the doorknob, opening the door.
Music greets me with a draft of cool air just as I step into the tunnel.
It’s metal music. Not Spanish but not English, either. I can’t understand what they’re saying, but I hear the guitars screech and the drum beat to my left. Why did he bring me back here?
A thousand more questions race through my mind, things I thought last night in passing but didn’t give a shit enough to ask.
He followed me. Why did he follow me home?
He doesn’t trust me. That must be it.
Will he force me to stay?
He can try.
A sound catches my ear, like a step shuffling behind me, but when I turn my head, I don’t see anything down the dark tunnel. Moving forward, I walk back toward the surveillance room, passing it, and veer right, into the kitchen.
Trent stands at the stove, music blasting as he scrapes eggs across a pan. The scent of the butter hits my nose, and the nerves in my jaw twitch, making my mouth water like it does when you know something is going to taste really good.
My jacket lays on the cement-top island, and I take it, pulling it on. I slip my hands into my pockets, still not finding my phone.
I level a look on him. I’m going to need my phone.
The volume on the music lowers, and he sets down a cup of coffee in front of the empty stool, locking eyes with me. “Are you vegan?” he asks.
I arch an eyebrow. Does he know the price difference between a black bean-pumpkin seed burger and a McDonald’s Value Meal? Jesus…
I take a seat as he bites back a smile. “Sorry,” he mumbles. And then he sets a plate down with a piece of bread, fried in butter and topped with scrambled eggs and chopped bacon.