What the hell happened last night?
The details start as a slow trickle—an argument on the street, passing out in the back seat of a car, a woman bandaging my side…
My side. I rip away the covers and check, nausea building when I see it’s real. A white bandage covers several inches of my side. Beneath it, I feel the skin pulled tight, a burning sensation where the gunshot must be.
I was shot.
Holy fuck.
The man in my apartment. The shooter outside. The fire. Aunt Mable.
Rem.
The trickle of details becomes a deluge. I jump out of bed, the covers too hot and heavy.
My feet hit soft carpet and I catch a glimpse of myself in a nearby mirror. My hair is a mess, a dark nest knotted on the top and sides of my head. Mascara is streaked black under my eyes and I’m wearing an oversized pink sweatshirt I don’t recognize. Lifting it quickly, I check underneath. I’m wearing underwear—mine, thank God—but that’s it on my lower half. No pants, no socks, no shoes. Nothing to wear when running away.
My stomach protests at the thought of leaving. Despite everything going on, I’m hungry. I can’t remember the last time I ate. It has to be at least twenty-four hours ago. That math alone makes my stomach growl louder, the tail end of which is drowned out by a knock at the door.
“Lena?” The door opens a crack and a woman’s head pops through. I vaguely remember Rem calling her Bianca. “You’re awake.”
“Yup.” I’m not clear on the etiquette for greeting a stranger in their own home after they bandage your gunshotwound, lend you their clothes, and let you sleep in their spare bed. I guess I need to say: “Thank you. For, um, last night.”
Bianca smiles and, standing on the opposite side of the bed from me, sets a tray of food on the mattress. The smell of coffee hits and I start salivating. “Oh, don’t worry about it. It comes with the territory, and I’ve definitely seen worse. How are you feeling?”
The first part of her comment is a minefield I don’t have the energy to navigate, so I stick to answering the question. “Sore. Tired. Confused. And, um, hungry.”
“I’m not sure how much I can help with the first three, but I have you covered on the last one.” She pushes the tray in my direction. “I’m not sure what you like and it’s more lunchtime than breakfast, so I thought brunch would be a safe bet. There’s a little something of everything. You need to replenish after the night you’ve had.”
She’s brought me a feast. Fruit, toast, jam, pastries, bacon, what looks like quiche, juice, and a steaming cup of coffee. It’s so beautiful I want to cry, but I hesitate just as I’m reaching for the much-needed caffeine.
As nice as Bianca’s been to me, she’s obviously loyal to Rem. She’s helping me because he told her to. But I have no idea what kind of “help” I’m getting. Nothing about Rem, last night, or waking up in this house makes sense. How can I trust that the food isn’t drugged? I could end up knocked out and right back in that bed, or worse…
As if she knows what I’m thinking, Bianca spoons out a bit of coffee, drinking it with a tiny slurp. “It’s on the hot side, but very good. If I do say so myself.” Her smile is warm, not at all judgey, like I haven’t just silently insinuated that she’s trying to poison me. “This is just a classic quiche Lorraine,” she continues, taking a forkful of the dish in question. “The perfect combination of egg, onion, cheese, bacon. And the rest isexactly what it looks like, gifts from the brunch gods. None tampered with, I promise.”
She demonstrates with tiny bites of each dish on the plate, then lifts a clean fork from the tray and holds it up for me.
“Sorry, sorry. I’m really sorry.” The coffee is hot, but the embarrassment on my cheeks burns hotter. “I don’t mean to insult you, after everything you’ve done. It’s just…”
I don’t know how to finish that sentence. I shove a forkful of quiche into my mouth so I don’t have to. My hum of delight is involuntary. Bianca’s right, it is perfect.
“Don’t apologize. None of this can be easy for you.” Bianca’s smile drops a fraction, her tone becoming more serious. “I can’t say what’s going to happen when you leave here. Johnny hasn’t said much, and Rem’s never explained himself to me once in the three years I’ve known him. He doesn’t have to. But what I can say is that he brought you here and asked me to give you a comfortable place to rest and get you well fed, two things I’m always happy to do. So please know that there’s nothing in your meal except the ingredients that should be there, including proper French butter, thank you very much, and my own brand of baking magic. Eat as much as you’re able and know that, in this house, seconds are always allowed. Okay?”
“Okay,” I mumble around another bite of quiche. Its flavor is still there, but the texture has gone to sand in my mouth. With another smile, the woman leaves, and I’m left alone with several unsettling realizations.
Bianca’s mothering and the warm, sunny glow of the bedroom are the calm before the storm. Because, as much as this is Bianca’s house, I am in Rem’s territory. I don’t know why he was in my apartment last night and I have this foreboding sense that we’re tied together in a way I can’t begin to explain and definitely don’t want.
He might’ve saved me from the shooter, but that doesn’t make him any less lethal.
Like I’ve conjured the devil himself, I catch voices in the hall. Deep ones in a tense conversation.
I don’t hear any footsteps approach. There’s no warning. I’m still holding coffee in one hand and a fork in the other when Rem strides into the room, shutting the door behind him. The bolt clicks into place; someone has locked us in from the outside.
Just like last night we stare at each other for one breath, then two, this time without the darkness to dim the intensity of his gaze.
There’s an odd flip-flop in my stomach when I’m hit by another realization: this is the first time I’ve seen him in any real light.
He’s wearing a suit. That’s the first thing I notice. My memory of last night is shaky at best, but I can remember the feel of denim beneath my hands when we were in the back of his car. Butter-soft leather against my cheek. I remember his clothes being all black and forbidding, just like today, but the suit makes him look sharper, the tailored lines so clean they’re borderline lethal.
