There’s just something essentially Trent about the entire space. The neat stacks of books on his desk, next to an untidy bundle of stationery that looks like he was using the individual items to represent players, working out tactics for a match.
A stack of clean laundry on a chair that he’s taking stuff from rather than bothering to put it away. The food pyramid on his desk. The gigantic screen hanging from his wall. The computer alternating between naked women and All Black greats.
His bed, made with the precision of a hospital matron.
“The bathroom’s through here,” he says, walking inside and turning on a light. “Take a shower and I’ll sort out something clean for you to wear.”
He’d insisted I stay in the car while he collected Finley, having a quick check-in with the private investigator before walking into the flat. He’d exited a minute later, her scurrying across the road to clamber into the back seat, a million questions flying from her mouth before Trent got into the driver’s seat.
No time to collect clothing. No time to collect my books or my computer or the few personal items I cherish because it’s hard for me to spend money on anything but necessities, so when I do, they instantly hold a special place.
I open my mouth to tell him nothing will fit then shake my head, following his instructions. Thoughts are too hard at the moment. To oppose the only person in my life helping me right now would be dumb.
Once upon a time, I thought I was in control of everything, but I’ve been screwing up left, right, and centre. Time to let someone else take the reins for a moment.
The relief of letting go is as comforting as the caressing warmth of the shower.
Even though I only stay inside it long enough for a quick scrub, shampooing my hair because I can’t stand to think of there being blood caught in it for a moment longer, I appreciate the fanciness of the shower. There are sprays and jets and dozens of controls that I don’t dare to touch. It’s entirely different from the basic cubicle at the flat.
I bet Finley’s in ecstasy right now.
That thought makes me smile as I exit, quickly drying myself with the enormous fluffy white bath towels stacked on an aluminium shelf. Trent knocks on the door after a few minutes, and I answer with one wrapped around my head, the other wrapped around me.
“Hopefully, these fit,” he says, handing across a brand-new pair of black jeans with a matching black shirt.
They’re definitely women’s clothing and I glance at him with curiosity.
He shrugs. “Dad’s new wife is about your size. I’ll buy her replacements.”
“No, I’ll buy them,” I say, the automatic response not even needing to check-in with my brain before exiting my mouth. “I can afford my own clothing.”
His face scrunches. “But you don’t need to. I know you can take care of yourself, but you don’t have to tackle everything alone, not any longer.” He pauses, a cheeky light glinting in his eye. “And you can’t.”
“I can’t?” I frown at the last sentence, not understanding.
He cups me around the back of my neck and draws me closer. “You can’t afford to replace them. You have absolutely no idea of the ridiculous prices of the stores my new mummy frequents.”
About to rebut him, I see the price slip sticking out of the bag and grab it.
Goddamn but I hate that he’s right.
That and what the hell are people doing that they spend this much on clothes?
“Okay,” I say and my voice squeaks. “You can get this round.”
“I have money, Rosa. Just… let me use it, yeah? This is small change.”
I nod, parking the battle for another day. “Don’t suppose your new stepmum has some underwear going begging?”
“No.” His eyes twinkle as his hand leaves my neck and slowly moves along my shoulder, my upper arm, my forearm, sliding across my fingers with sensual slowness before reluctantly letting go. “Don’t suppose she does.”
He leaves the room so I can change without an audience, and I busy myself with pulling the clothes on to hide my reddening face. The top is a little tighter and the jeans a little looser than I’d pick, but they’re a million times better than anything he might have stored in his wardrobe.
When I emerge, he looks happy, pulling me against him. “I’ve just had word back from Caylon. He’s at Andy’s flat, combing through everything he can find. They’ll probably know more by tonight or tomorrow.”
I nod, swallowing hard to get past the lump. “You don’t think… he had family?”
“He was going to kill both of us,” Trent reminds me, stroking my hair. “If he has loved ones, I hope they meet again in hell.”
