The lack of ego in his easy response tells me he probably was good.
“Why did you leave?” I find his hand over the blanket with mine underneath and work my fingers under his.
He lets me and gives mine a squeeze. “Story time, huh?” he mutters. “The kiss would have been easier.” A heavy breath leaves his chest. “We were in—” Drake coughs. “A shithole. I patched our team up more times than I should have, but they were still breathing. We were four hours from extraction. From sending us all home. Safe ground. Then two. One.” His hand tightens on mine.
“Drake,” I whisper, wishing I hadn’t asked.
His head tips down, his face obscured by shadows. I’m not sure if he’s looking at me or seeing the scene play out before him. “We had a young soldier. Redman. I don’t remember his first name. He took a shot to the thigh. I patched him up, too. The plane arrived. Never powered down. We ran, fucking pink dust everywhere, kicked up by bullets pinging the ground and the turbines. I can taste the dirt mixed with metal and blood when I close my eyes.” His hand closes on mine.
I don’t break into his story, don’t interrupt. I asked for this, and he’s telling me. Listening is the least I can do. I wonder how many times he’s told the story about the soldier Redman, or ever.
“Everyone got on the plane. It was a fucking miracle. We couldn’t believe it. Statistically, someone should have been shot, but…no one was. So we cheered as the plane took off. It was a small incursion. They had no ground to air missiles and we launched safely. Got into the air. I talked to Redman the entire time. Took me three fucking minutes to realize he wasn’t talking back.”
“He was gone.” I squeeze his hand through the blankets, unable to free myself from the knots.
Drake jerks, finding reality, maybe. “Yeah. He fucking bled out sometime after we got on board, or maybe as we wererunning. I don’t know. I’ve played it over and over in my head a million times. I carried him, because it was my job. I lifted him in and fucking cheered while he died andI didn’t know, princess.
“I watched a lot of men I loved die in circumstances that they couldn’t control, princess.” He squeezes my hand again, his voice smoothing out. A kick in it, like he’s granting me permission to sass him. Begging, almost. Anything to ease the tension.
I wish I didn’t ask for a story, but I’m glad that I know his. And now it’s my turn to bring him back. I search for words to lighten his mood, but everything seems pithy after that.
“And now you choose to offer security to divas who throw stuffie tantrums in dressing rooms. That’s a new sort of war zone,” I offer, cringing internally at my choice of distraction.
Drake barks a harsh laugh. “I’ll take the stuffie war and raise you a stalker, K-pop queen,” he murmurs, dispelling the mood in a second.
His talent, taking panic, fear and dissipating it. I can imagine what he would be like amidst the chaos and madness of what he’s described.
The hand gripping mine releases, flexing. “Working in independent security means I get to pick what jobs I want to do, who I’m working with. People I can trust. Clients I like.”
“How do you know you like me? We just met.” It seems a reasonable thing to ask, but I’m already fading. Maybe I should have asked for a kiss, not a story. Tonight, I think he might have capitulated after all.
“I watched you,” he says simply. “The moment that I knew you were mine, I learned everything I could about you. Who you were, what you wanted the world to see. What you didn’t. I learned everything, Cha Cha.” My breath stalls when he uses my name. “And the woman I saw on that stage, when I listened toevery song you’ve ever written? I think—” Drake cuts himself off, reaching up to swipe hair back from my face.
I lie frozen beneath my blankets, trapped there under their combined weight and his leaning over me. “I haven’t released all my songs,” I whisper. “You don’t know everything. I promise.”
Light from his phone illuminates his face. “I do, princess. I found those songs, too.” the fingers seep through my hair. I read every one of them. Listened to the recordings that you haven’t released yet. Everything about you is beautiful.”
My breath shatters in my throat. I’m not sure if I want to scream or cry. “Those songs and recordings are at my house. My home.”
Drake’s hand cups my cheek. “They are.”
Breath leaves me empty. Airless. “I wasn’t there?—”
“You were on tour. The first weeks.” He says it so evenly. So normal.
“Drake.” My heart pounds as I try to free my hands from the blanket, and only succeed in tangling myself into a knot. I struggle as he strokes my hair back from my face so gently.
“Breath, princess,” he murmurs. “With me.”
“But you– you—” I can’t get the words out.
“In with me. Out,” he encourages, until my chest loosens and the panic attack passes. “That’s it. Now, say it.”
He knows. Heknowswhat I'm going to ask and he’s asking me to say it.
I can’t.
I have to.
