It’s that fucking easy.
“Sylvester is downstairs still. We’re going to have to wait until he leaves,” Enzo continues as if he wasn’t two seconds away from staring down the center of my spread legs.
”It's about to storm, and we're supposed to get another tomorrow. How are we going to get him out?” I question, making sure to keep my voice quiet.
He shakes his head. “I haven’t figured that out yet. But we’re getting to that damn light.”
Pinching my lips, I nod and glance at the steps leading downstairs.
“Until then, I need to make nice with him.”
He gives me a sour look, as if I just shoved a lemon down his throat. Not very far off from its natural state. Enzo has a bad case of resting bitch face.
“That would only encourage him.”
“Yeah, encourage him to trust at least one of us,” I argue. “If he believes I might stay with him, he’s more likely to give me space. But if he thinks I’m not, he will cling harder.”
“I'm not leaving you alo—”
“You are because I asked you to,” I cut in. “Believe it or not, I haven't made it this far because I'm incapable, and he isn't the first creepy man I've dealt with.”
He studies me closely, an indecipherable emotion in his eye.
“I’ll trust you can handle yourself, Sawyer. But the second he takes it too far, or I feel you are in danger in any way, no more. I’m stepping in, and I’ll fucking kill the man. There won’t be any sneaking around then.”
My mouth parts in shock, and my eyes round.
He’s serious. Absolutely serious.
With one last heated glance, he warns, “I’ll be in the room.”
Did it get hot in here?I’ve begun to sweat, little beads forming along my hairline.
Attempting to shrug it off, I say, “You got it, dude.”
And then I take off toward the steps, needing air as much as I need fucking Jesus in my life.
God, this is so fucking uncomfortable.
When I came downstairs and asked Sylvester if he wanted to watch some TV, I was hoping I’d be able to distract myself with a soap opera, considering that's all Sylvester seems to watch.
But the storm outside has already begun to brew, and we don’t have any signal. So now we’re just sitting on the couch, watching a crackling fire while we both try to carry on a conversation.
He’s out of practice, I get it. But I think I’d rather stick my finger down my throat and blow chunks for funsies at this point.
“Did you hear the ghosts again last night?” I ask when another topic fizzles out.
“Meh,” he harrumphs, waving a hand. “I’ve grown used to the noises by now. I sleep like a baby.”
“It sounded like something was scratching at the floor above us,” I go on. “Like they were trying to claw their way out or something.”
His gaze darkens for a moment. Despite how tolerant Sylvester is of the ghosts, he doesn’t like speaking of them. Maybe because the spirits that live here are by his own hand.
“Sorry ’bout that,” he mutters. “I don’t think it’ll be too much of a problem for you after ’while.”
“You think I’ll get used to them?” I wonder.
“Something like that. I think they’re just restless. I’ll take care of ’em, don’t you worry,” he assures, patting my knee. I try not to tense under the weight of his calloused palm, but it’s nearly impossible. It feels as if slimy bugs are crawling up my spine.