Something clattered, and there was a curse—not muffled or quiet in any sense. Rye’s chest tightened, and he grabbed for the doorframe as he stumbled back a step.
“Dammit. No, I just—I just dropped the bowl. I’m fine, everything’s fine. I’ll call you later, though. I gotta clean up this mess and—and start over. Shit, there’s eggs all over the floor now... Hah, yeah, well, if you come next weekend, you can certainly mop, but I’ll do my best now, and... No, I’ll be careful... Yes, I promise... Love you too, sis.”
Sucking in a sharp breath, Rye stepped backwards into the room, turning so his back was up against the wall. His head started to pound, and he splayed his hands on the wall behind him as he closed his eyes.
There were no more words from the kitchen, but he could hear sounds—Jake’s heavy footsteps, a grunt here or there, a drawer opening and then closing loudly. Everything seemed to pulse with anger and frustration, and Rye suddenly couldn’t support himself anymore. He lowered his head to his hands and slid down to sit, his back still against the wall right next to the door, rasping breaths barely filling his lungs with air.
“You’re fuckin’ dead.”
The footsteps seemed to come his direction, uneven and menacing, yet he couldn’t make himself move. He couldn’t push himself away from the wall and back to hide in the corner. He was frozen there, panicked.
And when the footsteps stopped and he heard a quiet “oh,” Rye thought for a moment that he might vomit again.
Please don’t hurt me. Please.
Instinctively, he covered his head with his arms, and some pathetic whimper escaped him.
“Hey, you’re okay,” the voice said. It was almost gentle. Not angry. But strained.
Rye felt himself shaking, and he wanted to run. He wanted to force himself onto his feet and run away. Far away. Far from wherever this was, which was much too close to where he had been. Why was he still here anyway?
The voice spoke again, and Rye immediately shrunk back more, even as he inwardly scolded himself for being such an idiot. This wasn’t the man. The manwas never gentle or soft. “You’re okay, you’re—ah, um... Sorry, if I startled you. I just dropped a bowl, and...”
And the man never, ever apologized.
“Anyway, uh, I just... need to sit for a few minutes before I can make your breakfast. I’m sorry about that, but I—I have to. So, uh, I wanted to tell you, you’re free to take a shower or something if you want. I probably need to sit for at least fifteen minutes. You know where the bathroom is, just down the hall, and anything you need is in the cabinet above the toilet. Towels and body wash and shampoo and such. Feel free to use anything. Sorry again. I’m not—”
Jake.
Rye opened his eyes and tilted his head just a smidge so he could see the man standing a couple of feet away. Jake’s eyes were on him, but they were soft, kind, worried. Not angry.
Jake pursed his lips and seemed to be trying his best to smile. “I won’t hurt you,” he said, his voice quiet and reassuring.
God, it was too much.
Rye sucked back a sob and nodded as he lowered his head to rest on his knees. He wanted to believe it. So much.
“I’m gonna go sit now. Just for a bit. Your breakfast should be ready in twenty minutes, maybe. Okay?”
Rye just nodded again, but didn’t lift his head. Then he held tighter to his knees and let himself cry as the footsteps retreated back down the hallway.
Themanhadforcedhim to bathe at least once a week, and as soon as he’d started growing facial hair, the man had also forced him to shave at least twice a week. But bathing had been a bucket of cold water in the corner, an icky bar of soap that was somehow always barely a sliver, and a rough sponge that smelled a little of mildew. And shaving had been a rusty old razor that cut his skin more than it did his stubble.
This was so different.
Rye stood outside the shower with the shower curtain drawn back and carefully reached forward to test the water temperature. Steam rose up around him, and he could feel the warmth before he even touched the water. He closed his eyes as his hand hit the stream coming from the showerhead. Itwaswarm. Warm and soothing, somehow.
He let his hand linger there under the water for a few seconds, then he glanced back over his shoulder toward the bathroom door. It was locked.He’dlocked it. Himself. Although he wasn’t sure it really made him feel any safer.
Quick. He’d be quick about it. Just in case.
Even though he knew he wasn’t being watched, even though heknewJake was in the other room, sitting down because his leg was hurting—definitely not here, banging the door down so he could watch Rye strip naked and wash himself—Rye hurried. And his stomach began aching, a painful twist that was all too familiar.
He pushed down his pants, tugged his socks off, and then pulled his sweatshirt over his head, hissing at the pressure of the fabric against his injured cheek. Leaving everything in a heap on the floor—because folding it up would take too long—Rye climbed into the shower, under the stream of warm water.
It flowed over him, melting the chill away as it hit his back and slid down his shoulders and chest. Healmoststarted sobbing again, and healmostsank down to the floor, overwhelmed with emotion. But he didn’t. Not quite. Instead, he covered his mouth with one hand to hold the sob in and reached out with the other hand to steady himself against the wall.
It felt so good. So good. Like a... like a warm blanket wrapped around him.
