That crushing sound dissipates into a low churning when I hear Rusty shout, “You not staying for breakfast!?”
There’s no response until the sucking sound starts again.
I throw the blankets away from my quivering body and drag myself to the edge of the bed. My palms are splayed at the mattress and I’m rising to my feet when I hear the slam of a cardoor outside the window. Taking a step toward it, I find Chase sitting in the driver's seat of his old red truck. His chin screwed down, his right wrist draped over the beat-up wheel. He looks to be shoving his keys in the ignition when the rumble of his engine kicks to life confirming my suspicions.
He keeps his head down, pushes a bottle of water to his lips and lifts his chin.
Then his brown eyes find mine.
He slumps back into the seat, swallowing the water, allowing his dark, empty eyes to drop to my chest. They peruse the length of me, and I find myself casting a gaze down at myself, searching for what he may be looking at and realizing very quickly the mistake I’ve made. Lifting my chin as panic grips me, I see he’s already backing out, spinning the wheel in the palm of one hand and shifting his old truck into gear with the other.
I had taken one of his shirts from his dresser last night after realizing that I’d forgotten to pack one of my own to sleep in.
My fingers quiver when I reach for the side that has fallen to my elbow, returning it to my shoulder, watching the red glow of Chase’s brake lights disappear into the distance. Swallowing the lump in my throat and feeling my stomach ball tighter, I can’t help but wonder what he might have been thinking and where he might be going, and then, I berate myself for even caring.
Taking a step away from the window and then another until the back of my thighs hit the mattress, I fall onto the cushioning, bringing my hands to my face and groaning into my palms.
I don’t know why I am here. It wasn’t as if Chase had to drag me, even though the hard tone of his voice implied he would.
I chose to get in his car, and I hate that a part of me wanted to, that I was scared, that deep down I didn’t want to be alone becausehewas back.
Our time is coming, Laiken.
Because I knew he was coming for me.
I straighten the kink out of my neck and rise to my feet.
Tonight, I’ll return home. I’ll sleep in a direct line from the front door with the gun Chase had taken from me. The same way I had done more times than I could count.
I couldn’t stay here forever, and I wouldn’t let myself fall into the trap of finding safety in a place where it could quickly be stripped and taken from me.
Chest heaving, I make for my bag, crouching to my heels and scrabbling through for a fresh set of clothes. I find my light pink ringer tee, trimmed in red at the neck and sleeves, and a pair of medium-wash high-waisted denim shorts that button at the front.
I make good on getting dressed, and once I've tied the laces of my Reeboks, I step out of the room and shuffle across the hall to the bathroom, where I brush my teeth, wash my face, and comb my hair, drenching myself in caramel body spray.
It's when I step into the hall, still shaking, that I fly into the solid brick wall of Harlen’s chest.
He catches me before I have a chance to rebound and kiss the timber floor with my ass.
“I was just about to come see if you wanted some breakfast,” Harlen says, steadying me on my feet, then dropping his arm around my shoulders. I’m about to speak when Harlen pushes his nose into me, sniffing as we continue down the hall.
“What are you?—”
He cuts me off, “Why the fuck do you smell so…edible?”
I snort at the same time Harlen takes another sniff, stepping onto the deck.
Rusty’s back is to us, his elbows resting over the ledge of the railing, speaking into his phone. I slip onto a seat, as Harlen does the same, and reach for the jug of freshly squeezed orange juice, realizing it to be the culprit of the loud grinding sound from earlier.
I pour half a glass and chug it back when Rusty spins around, shoving his phone into the front pocket of his dark denim jeans.
“Morning, Laiken, did you sleep okay?”
I shrug, and he lets it go.
Shielding my eyes from the sun, I ask, “Did you make all this?” Letting my gaze drift across the table spread with fried eggs, bacon and what looks like homemade hash browns made from sweet potato.
“Sure did, sweetheart…” He claps his hands together. “Dig in before it gets cold,” he says, dragging out his own seat and pouring a glass of juice.
