“I’ll see you in the morning,” he said. “Try not to get any ideas.”
He walked to the door, stopped with his hand on the knob, and turned back.
“If that Bloody Scythe shows up, I want you to watch what I do to him,” he said. “I want you to remember it every time you close your eyes.”
He left, slamming the door so hard the lamp flickered back to life. The TV had gone to static. The only sound was the ice machine outside, spitting out another batch of noise.
I lay there, wrists throbbing, neck burning where his hands had been, and tried to picture Augustine. I tried to remember the way his voice sounded when he was winning, the way his eyes softened when he thought I wasn’t looking. I tried to remember the last time someone had held me without wanting to hurt me.
I couldn’t.
But I could still remember how it felt to want him, and that was enough.
I flexed my hands against the cuffs, just to feel the pain. I didn’t let myself cry.
Saint could have my body. But he’d never get my soul.
***
I didn’t move for a long time after Saint left. The sound of the door slamming echoed down the hall, then faded, replaced by the shouts and thumps of Leatherbacks doing what they did best: drinking themselves stupid, betting on card games, and bragging about who’d hit the hardest that day. The room stank of Saint’s cigarettes, the stink clawing at my throat until my tongue went numb. I could still feel the print of his hand on my neck, a ring of heat that pulsed with every heartbeat.
The lamp was back to flickering, sending seizurey shadows up and down the walls. The only thing constant was the blue glow of the TV, and even that was half static, half ghost image. Once in a while, a car would rumble past the motel, headlights sweeping across the ceiling. They made moving shapes—lines and circles and, if you stared long enough, the outline of a face. I focused on that. Tried to see something, anything, besides the inside of my own head.
My arms burned from the cuffs, but after a few hours, the pain went weird and distant, like it belonged to someoneelse. My hands had gone pins-and-needles, and I could barely wiggle my fingers anymore. I tried to shift, find a position where the metal didn’t cut so deep, but there wasn’t one. The best I could do was wedge my shoulder under the pillow and let the circulation drain from my forearms entirely. It helped, a little. The ache reminded me I was still here, still breathing, still capable of suffering. That was something.
Outside, one of the Leatherbacks laughed so loud I thought the window might crack. It wasn’t a good laugh—it was a sound you made when you wanted the world to know you were on top, when you needed someone else to hear it and feel smaller. There was a chorus of hoots, then a sudden crash, like someone had body-slammed a vending machine. I wondered if they were talking about me. Wondered if they were placing bets on how long it would take to break me. They’d lose.
I stared up at the ceiling, watching the light show, and let my brain drift. I tried to picture Augustine’s face, but every time I got close, the details slipped away. I could see the eyes, dark and furious, the way his jaw clenched when he was about to say something that mattered. I could see the bandages on his hands, the tattoos running up his arms like blue fire. I could see the smirk he wore when hethought he’d gotten the best of someone, and the sadness that slipped out when he was sure nobody was looking.
I tried to remember the sound of his voice. I remembered how it got rough when he was tired, how it dropped to a whisper when he was close enough to taste me. I remembered the way he said my name—like it was both a warning and a promise.
I’d never let anyone get this far into my head before. I wasn’t sure I liked it.
Another car rolled by. The headlights slashed across the popcorn ceiling, making it look like a field of ice. I listened to the engine fade, then caught the rumble of motorcycles farther off—two, maybe three, racing each other up the strip. The sound made my stomach knot up. Every time I heard a bike, I wondered if it was him. Every time it wasn’t, I had to swallow down the disappointment before it curdled into panic.
I didn’t want Augustine to come. Not really. I wanted him to be safe. I wanted him to be halfway to Arizona, riding into the sunrise with a six-pack and a fresh pack of smokes, telling the world to go fuck itself. I didn’t want him to die for me. But I knew he was coming, because that’s the kind of person he was. Even if it killed him.
The room felt smaller as the night went on. The shadows pressed in, and the bed creaked with every breath. Icould taste Saint on my lips, his aftershave and blood and hate, and I couldn’t scrub it away. My wrists ached. My head throbbed. My heart felt like it was trying to claw out of my chest.
I thought about my mother. About the last time I’d seen her alive, lying in a hospital bed, skin so thin you could see the blue of her veins underneath. I’d been thirteen. She’d told me not to cry, that the world wouldn’t do me any favors. She said I was strong, stronger than any man she’d ever met. I didn’t believe her then. I didn’t believe her now. But I wished she’d lied to me one more time.
I let the tears come, just a little. They slid down my cheeks, hot and embarrassing, and I was glad no one was here to see them. I bit down on my lip until I tasted copper, then forced myself to stop.
I flexed my hands. The skin was raw and puffy, but the pain felt good. I gripped the metal, let it cut deeper, tried to imagine it was Augustine’s hand, solid and steady, holding me in place. That helped more than I wanted to admit.
I stared at the ceiling, watched the headlights make their rounds, and whispered his name.
“Augustine.”
It tasted strange on my tongue, like saying a prayer in a language you don’t believe.
I closed my eyes. Let myself drift, just for a second.
If he was coming, he’d better hurry. I wasn’t sure how much more of me there’d be left to save.
9
Augustine
