“And yet that’s still more than anyone else. So, even if that trust looks more like wanting to put your boot on his neck until you figure him out, I need your boots at the ready. You’ll notice if he twitches wrong. I want him in sight of someone who won’t freeze if that bag suddenly becomes everyone’s problem.”
“He’s not going to like that,” I said.
“Good,” she replied. “He’s not here to feel comfortable.”
“Isn’t 8-Ball coming?”
Liberty sighed, held her phone up and wiggled it. “Club business. He’ll be here in the morning now.”
She clapped my shoulder again and walked away, leaving the order hanging in the air like smoke.
I went back to the bar.
He was sitting with his empty glass on the counter, staring at the shelves like they had answers written in the labels.
“Come on,” I said. “Field trip.”
He looked up. “Where?”
“Bedtime,” I replied. “Liberty says you’re not leaving, and you’re not sleeping in a chair or staying up drinking all our good shit. We’ve got a spare mattress.”
He scanned my face for a second, then nodded. He then pushed off the stool and followed.
No argument came. He was too tired to waste energy on protest.
We walked down the hall past closeddoors and open ones. The building grew quieter with each step. Behind one door, I heard soft laughter. Behind another, the sound of pages turning. Behind another, muffled music.
At the end of the corridor, my room waited. The door was open. I always left it that way unless I was sleeping.
He stepped in and stopped just inside, taking in the space.
Walls painted dark. Not black, but close. Posters framed from old shows, some signed, some torn. Hooks holding spare helmets. A shelf of knives, each one cleaned and sharpened, lined up like silver teeth.
My bed sat against the far wall, thick black comforter, and two pillows. Across from it, in the corner under the small window, an inflatable mattress lay rolled out, already inflated. Someone had tossed a spare pillow and thin blanket on it already. Probably Liberty.
“Were you expecting me?” he asked dryly.
“Liberty plans ahead,” I said. “You’re on the air bed. Try not to pop it. You blow a hole in it, you’re sleeping on the floor and buying us a new one.”
He set his jaw like he wanted to ask where I was sleeping, then seemed to realize how obvious the answer was. This was my room. My space. There was only one actual bed.
He shifted the backpack off his shoulders carefully and set it down beside the air mattress, the strap still looped around his wrist. Then he lowered himselfonto the plastic with a faint grunt.
The movement pulled his shirt a little tight across his chest. I looked away, annoyed with myself for staring longer than a glance.
“You staying?” he asked after a second. “Or do I get the privilege of a locked door and trust?”
“You get me in a chair or at the foot of my bed,” I said. “That’s all the trust you’ve earned.”
He huffed something that wasn’t quite a laugh and wasn’t quite an exhale. “Better than I expected,” he said.
He kicked off his boots, laid back, and folded an arm under his head. The other dropped across his ribs, his fingers resting near where the backpack strap disappeared from view. It wasn’t possessive. It was reflex.
I pulled the chair from my small desk and set it near the now closed door, angled so I could see him and be hidden behind the door should anyone try to enter.
From here, I had a clear line of sight of his face.
In sleep, he looked different.
