13
Nil
I wake up to a knock. The type of tapping that’s almost silent, I nearly miss it. I might’ve even imagined it.
My eyes blink open to the dark. The light strip by the door’s faint. I roll my head to check the clock.
I read the bright red.
5:59 a.m.
My jaw gets tight. I hate that number. Fifty-nine. LIX in Roman numerals.
Clo’s voice comes to mind, uninvited, calling me by a number instead of a name. There’s another memory attached to it, blurred and half burned, but it never quite comes into focus.
I can imagine a voice—so soft and so light—calling it out, but I can’t place it.
Before I can put a face and name to the voice, the knock comes again. A little firmer this time.
Behind me, Stan sleeps. His front’s against my back, bare skin warm, arm slung over me.
And he’s hard. His cock’s tucked between my cheeks, hot and heavy, like his body didn’t get the memo that we stopped fuckinghours ago.
I breathe out through my nose, a tired sound that turns into a reluctant smile, too satisfied, too happy. But I like it too much to take anything back.
Last night was a blur of heat and sweat and his voice breaking around my name in a moan. Every time I thought we were done, he pulled me back in. I let him.
It was better than remembering we’re stuck on a ship where people are getting carved up.
The knock comes a third time.
“Yeah, yeah,” I mutter under my breath.
I’m not about to tempt a fourth knock. That number’s bad fucking luck. Not inviting that into a room I’m sharing with someone I love.
Careful, I slide out from under Stan’s arm. His dick drags along my lower back as I move. My body reacts before my brain can talk it down. My groin’s begging. I ignore it.
He makes a low sound and reaches for the space where I was, hand grabbing air. I wish I could stay in bed with him all morning.
Hell, all day and night. All our lives, even.
But my feet’s down, and I grab the first pair of sweatpants I find and step into them, tugging them up while I pad to the door.
It slides open at my touch. Idris is standing on the other side of it.
He’s in a dark shirt and slacks, like he never went to bed. Tie gone, top button open. His eyes look more alert than usual, though the skin under them seems worn out.
“Morning, Nil,” he says, sorta strained. Same as yesterday and the day before that.
“Morning,” I answer. My voice comes out rough, having just woken up.
He spares a glance over my shoulder, where I’m sure Stan’s sprawled naked, still in the bottom bunk, face buried in the pillow.
I should be back there, but Idris’ weary smile is making me worry. So I stay put and see what he needs.
He sounds even worse when he says, “Can we talk? It’s about Em.”
My stomach clamps from hearing her name in a tone like that. “Where is she?”
