I shrugged. “It’s the only possibility I can think of. He thinks I stole his dope. I didn’t. I truly don’t have any enemies.”
“Will he try again?” she asked, meeting my gaze. “To hurt you?”
“He has to,” I replied. “He’s accused me. If he backs down now, he’ll lose face and that means losing respect. I’m in the shitter because my letterman’s jacket showed up at the wrong place and the wrong time.”
“What a clusterfuck,” she murmured.
“I quite agree.”
The tension between us eased a fraction, and the smells of grilling hamburger made my mouth water. I hadn’t eaten since the chili the night before. Over the burgers with pickles, onions and mustard, chips, tea and wine, we speculated what Austin might try next. And how I might try talking to him again and make him realize I wasn’t his thief.
“He wants his dope more than he wants me dead,” I commented around a mouthful. “He may be reluctant to kill me, as he’ll hope I’ll give it back.”
“Meanwhile, he sets your feet on fire to make you tell him what you did with it.” Lindsey sipped her wine. “Not a good option. Don’t try to talk to him. Let the cops arrest him for arson.”
“Let’s hope his prints are on that bottle.”
Lindsey refused to let me help her clean up. I sat at her table, drinking her wine, and admired the way her ass moved under her tight jeans. I nearly whistled when her shirt rode upenough to expose her flat belly, then longed to have her in my arms. Why? I didn’t know. We barely knew each other.
Yet, I felt a powerful pull toward her that I resisted and blamed on the mix of wine and Vicodin. Should I wrap my arms around her firm waist and pull her hair back to kiss her throat, she’d slam her elbow into my diaphragm.
I hobbled my way toward her front door. “Thank you for every –”
“Where are you going?” Lindsey demanded, scowling.
“Er, home. You’ve done enough for me that I can’t repay.”
“Get your ass onto that couch in there and chill out,” she snapped. “Your house isn’t habitable.”
“But –”
Pointing, she snapped her finger imperiously. Nor was she kidding this time. Obeying her command, I slunk into the TV room and to her sofa, and gratefully got off my pain-wracked feet. Lindsey soon arrived with more penicillin, a glass of water, and ordered me to lie down.
“I thought I’d watch TV,” I protested.
“You can. From a horizontal position.”
Uncomfortable with her anger, fearing I’d brought it on, I lay on my side and watched some dumb movie while worrying. Lindsey said little, drank wine, her body language screaming her tension.Did I do this to her? Is she upset because of me? Was it something else?I didn’t know her well enough to try to guess what went on inside her head.
I shut my eyes, feeling the need for sleep. My healing body craved it. Lindsey rose occasionally to refresh her glass in the kitchen, her footsteps graduating to shuffles.The wine is kicking in.When she came back, she shut the TV off and dimmed the room’s lights. Yet, I didn’t hear her head for her bedroom.
I dozed for a time, then woke suddenly. The house had cooled enough that I needed the blanket, so I pulled it up tomy neck. Settling back down, I tried to find slumber again and almost managed it. Sensing Lindsey’s presence, I twisted my neck to look.
She sat at the picture window, staring out. Wide awake. On guard.
For what? Is she afraid Austin will come looking for me? Is she protecting me?
I almost asked her why she sat there, staring out at the dark and quiet neighborhood. I didn’t. Instead, I shut my eyes and tried to sleep. Her presence at the window worried me enough that I failed to drop into slumber. Only when Lindsey shuffled past me and down the hall to her bedroom did I relax.
Sleep came slowly. I heard the ticking of the clock on the wall, saw the headlights of a passing car through my closed eyelids. I shifted on the couch to get comfortable, longed for the creaks and cracking of my own house settling.Maybe I can sleep if I just go home. In my own bed despite the stink.
I drifted to sleep at last and dreamed of flames burning all around me. Helpless, I screamed in terror, fought to escape the heat, the burning. Maybe I yelled out loud, I don’t know. But Lindsey gripped my shoulders, staring down at me, with her eyes wide in fear. Like a part of my dream, I heard sirens approaching, dim with distance.
“Brody,” Lindsey gasped. “It’s happened again.”
“What?” I choked, snarled in the blanket, trying to get up, seeing the faint pink of dawn through the cracks in her window curtains.
And the flickering of flames.
