“I’ll read up on what else you can eat, so you don’t get bored of chicken,” I tell her softly. I pass her more pieces and she nibbles these.
Her kittens are tiny and still have their eyes closed. They make the cutest snuffling sounds as they burrow as close to their mama as they can. Would the girl Jack has holed up in one of the rooms like a kitten? She might bond with a fellow lost soul, because she really did look kind of lost when she arrived here. Like a little waif and stray who just needs some shelter and safety.
“Now, then, I’ll tell Jack about you tomorrow,” I promise Mama Kitty, “but we won’t let the other guys near you. I don’t know exactly who I can trust around here yet. I need a name for you, too. Can’t keep calling you Mama Kitty.” Staring at the stripes of lighter and darker ginger fur, I grin. “Marmalade,” I say. “That suits you.”
My aunt used to love that British spread, and the cat’s stripes remind me of it.
I sit in contemplative silence, watching her eat for a while, and then, not wanting to spook her and make her abandon her kittens—or is that birds and their nests?—I leave and quietly climb down the ladder. She has enough water left, and I will come back and check on her in the morning.
Some of the guys around here got weird when I rescued a baby rat a couple of weeks ago, so I hope they won’t be the same way with the kittens. There had been screaming and everything. Grown men, shrieking, just because they’d found a baby rat in a box keeping warm on the top of the stove in the clubhouse kitchen.
I roll my eyes at the memory.
The moment I step out of the barn, I draw to a halt.The two men Jack had ordered to guard Camile’s door have left their post and are running up the hill, shouting to some other guys loitering outside the clubhouse.
Where the fuck are they off to?
Were they not supposed to be guarding her? Jeez, can’t get anyone to do a good job these days. I might fuck around a lot, but when I’m on a road trip, I’m all focus. That’s my job as the Road Captain. I make sure the routes we take are well planned out, map out logistics, and make sure everyone is safe and sticking to the plan. When I’m on duty, I’m all work. Not like these fuckers.
I watch as the men sprint toward a small copse of trees. Clearly, they've spotted something that demands their immediate attention. Maybe an intruder? I glance over at Camile's door, momentarily torn by indecision, before I start walking toward it.
Jack wouldn't want Camile left completely unprotected. With her guards gone, someone needs to keep an eye out for her, and Jack told me he wanted me on security, even though he never actually gave me a job to do.
When I reach the door, I sink down and sit on the step, the dusty ground scratchy against my jeans. The low bass from thumping rock music still rings out from the clubhouse, and I expect the party will go on for another few hours yet. I enjoy partying, but I much prefer breaking bones and making people who hurt others scream. That’s my kind of fun.
That and rescuing kittens, and rats, and once a chinchilla… oh, and a baby raccoon. There’ve been a few.
I lean my head back against the door and close my eyes. I'll only stay until her guards come back, and then I'll go and create some mayhem in the clubhouse. For a moment, I drift, just letting myself think, planning whatto do with the kittens when they’re old enough to find a home, but then I hear a low sound from inside Camile’s room.
It's a strange kind of strangled cry, followed by a broken sob.
Is she crying in there?
The thought makes something in my chest twinge. She’s a pretty thing, and the idea of her curled up all alone in bed crying is a travesty.
The sobs are followed by a shouted, “No, get off me,” which tells me that she's most likely dreaming. I drum my fingers on my thigh and tell myself it's not my business, but as the sounds grow louder and more upsetting, it becomes difficult to stay outside, leaving her to the night terrors.
“Please,” she whimpers from behind the door.
Fuck it,I'm done.
I jump to my feet, brush some of the gravel and dust from my jeans, then test the handle on the door. It clicks open softly, so I push it wider and stick my head inside the room.
Whoever was in here last left a small lamp lit by the bedside, so I can see Camile clearly.
The double bed makes her look tiny. She’s on her back and has the sheets pushed down and her arms either side of her head on the pillowcase. She thrashes her head from side to side and mumbles in her sleep. As I watch, another cry escapes her.
Glancing behind me to check that no one is around, I step into the room and close the door.
I shouldn’t be here, doing this, but I can’t seem to make myself leave. She needs someone to watch over her.She can’t be left to cry out in her sleep, right? That’s cruel.
I'll just sit on the chair in the corner and watch her sleep, so she's not alone. I nod to myself. Where’s the harm in that?
Should I wake her? I can't remember what you're supposed to do when someone is having night terrors. Is it that youaresupposed to wake them up, or you are not?
The poor girl must be traumatized after what happened to her. She looked terrible when she arrived at the compound.
Nothing like the girl I recall from the first night I saw her at the college party that Jack’s daughter held.
