I look at the lube in the palm of my hand again. I look at it, then I open the drawer and toss it next to the open box of condoms. I look at that too, and then I close the drawer quickly, trying to shut out the loud thought that’s barrelling towards me.
Too late. Here it comes; you know what’s not on that list? You know what’s not on my tried and tested, infallible little list?
Lube.
Lube’s not on the list and neither are condoms.
In all the time I’ve been doing this, I’ve never once felt the need to buy lube or condoms for a kidnapping job. Never once.
You know what else I’ve never done? I’ve never been the only one to do the physical surveillance for a mark. Never once have I done that alone. Usually, er, Fred and I take turns. We each take shifts to make sure the mark’s every move is covered round the clock. I’m not sure what happened this time. I have no goddamn idea why I told Fred to stay out of the way. I only know that I did. I watched Damon for weeks. I watched him day and night, sleeping in my car when I could and heading home to shower when he was at work. I told myself he was a job. The biggest, most profitable job I’ve ever had. I don’t trust Fred and I told myself it had to be perfect, that’s why I had to do it all myself. That’s what I told myself.
I swear, I can’t remember what I told myself when I did the drugstore shopping. I honestly have no recollection of what the fuck I could possibly have told myself to make it seem okay when I dropped lube and condoms into my basket. Whatever it was, it must have been the exact same thought I had when I unpacked them at the safehouse. The same thought I blocked out so hard, it hardly feels like I was the one who bought these things.
Damon comes billowing out of the bathroom in a cloud of steam. His hair is wet and slicked back off his face, it looks darker than usual, with only the odd strand highlighted by the bulb overhead. His lips and cheeks are pink from the heat and humidity. I bet his ass cheeks are pink, too. I bet they’re all warm and pink and…
Jesus.
Get a grip, man.
“Lasagne’s in the oven. Should be ready in 20 minutes,” I say.
“Cool.”
Cool?
Is he being polite? Is Damon Alexander Beckett being polite?
What the fuck?
He sits down, leaning against the arm of the sofa, as far as possible away from me. That’s good. That’s a good thing. We need to let the air clear and get things back on track. Neither of us talk. We don’t utter a word. We eat in silence in front of the TV and Damon doesn’t make a single complaint. Not even when I forget to offer him a drink.
At first the silence is welcome. It provides respite. But not for long. The silence quickly grows heavy. It becomes this clunky, weighted thing that’s draped all over the room. It drags everything it touches into its grasp, and it starts to squeeze. Eventually, it becomes so intense that I feel like it’s grabbed hold of my eyeballs and is systematically crushing them.
When he catches me looking at him, he gives me this little grin that only shows his bottom teeth. Far from easing the mood, that weird little smile ratchets the awkwardness in the room up by a hundred percent. He opens and shuts his mouth a couple of times, like he’s about to start saying something but keeps changing his mind.
“You know,” I say when I can’t take another second of this hell, “sometimes you just gotta bang that kind of thing out of your system. It’s no big deal.”
“Yeah, I got loads out of my system.”
I try not to smile. He gives me the same grin from before, but even weirder this time.
“Probably best if we don’t talk about it, huh?”
He doesn’t respond. He looks straight ahead at the TV. His Adam’s apple rises and falls and for the briefest moment, his top lip stiffens.
He goes to bed before I do. He’s asleep by the time I go to bed. I deliberate for a while about what to do with the cuffs. In a way, I think the best thing for everyone would be if I slept on the sofa. Obviously, that would be best. That’s what I should do.
Yeah, I’m going to sleep on the sofa.
I mull it over for a while. A long while. I end up getting into bed with him and cuffing my wrist to his. I do it because I’m tired. I’m fucking exhausted. The last thing I need is for him to wake up having a panic attack in the night.
That’s why I do it.
*
By the time I switch on the lights, it’s mid-morning. I feel light-headed and dehydrated as I stumble to the kitchen.
“Coffeeeeee,” croaks Demon. His eyes are glassy from lack of sleep and his lips are puffy and pink from the things we did to each other in the night.
