“No! ZANE!” she screams, trying to pull away from me.
“Les!” I say louder, shaking her shoulders.
She sits up with a gasp, her head snapping to me. When she sees me lying there, she dissolves into tears.
I sit up and gather her in my arms. “Shhhh. It’s okay. We’re okay.” She shakes her head frantically. “Pretty girl. We’re fine.”
“You don’t get it,” she sobs. “Every dream he kills him. He’s dead!”
“Who?” I ask, pulling back from her to look at her face. She shakes her head again. “Who?” I ask again. I heard her scream his name, so I knew who. I just need her to say it so I know how to help.
“Zane,” she cries. The noises coming from her are ripping me to shreds. Her sobs are coming from deep in her chest, and I know she’ll have a complete meltdown if I don’t get it under control.
“He’s fine, too. He got you out, remember?” She just starts sobbing harder. At a loss, I clutch her back to my chest. “What do you need?” I ask miserably. I would give anything at this moment to make her feel better.
“I can’t,” she cries.
“You can’t what, Pretty girl? Talk to me.”
“I can’t tell you what I need.”
She doesn’t know or doesn’t want to?
I pull her back again, clutching her wet cheeks in my hands. “If you don’t tell me, I can’t fix it.”
She shuts her eyes, her whole face falling. “Zane.”
“What about him?”
“I need Zane,” she whispers, trying to pull away from me.
I won’t let her; I pull her closer. “There isn’t anything wrong with that,” I tell her honestly. As much as I hated him before, he got her out. He was there for her when we weren’t.
“I shouldn’t.”
I pull her back to lie on the bed. “You went through something horrific with him. It’s only natural.” I don’t know how much of that is true, but I need to soothe her.
She doesn’t answer, just silently cries, and I let her. Before long, her cries turn to hiccups, then her breathing evens out again.
If Zane is what she needs, Zane is what she’ll get.
“Zane!”I yell, banging on his apartment door for the thirtieth time. I know this asshole is home; his truck is in a melted heap in one of our shipping containers.
The door jerks open, and I’m hit with the overwhelming stench of whiskey.
“Holy shit,” I say, looking at him. He looks like crap. His hair still hasn’t been cut from the six weeks of growth, so it’s falling over his eyes. He still has the full beard and he reeks of alcohol. “When’s the last time you showered?” I ask, shoving him back into his apartment and shutting the door behind me.
“Why the fuck do you care?” he slurs and almost loses his balance.
“Whoa,” I say, grabbing his arms to steady him.
He narrows his eyes. “What do you want?”
“Nice to see you too,” I say dryly.
He jerks his arm away and staggers to the couch, flopping down. He snatches a bottle of whiskey from the coffee table, and before he can tip it up, I take it from his hands, earning me another glare.
“You need a shower,” I tell him, trying not to grimace. “And a haircut.”
