At the top of the stairs he pauses, looks down at me for a moment, and asks, “I know it’s been a weird day. Are you really as okay as you seem tonight?”
“I am, I promise,” I tell him. And in that moment, I actually mean it. “I’m just sleepy.”
He gives a single nod. “Alright then,” he says, “Let’s get you to bed.”
We slip into his suite, and he takes me directly to the master suite. I still feel guilty about taking his room, but he insisted. I yawn and he helps me off with my shoes and my property cut. Suddenly, I’m not shy. I shove my jeans off, pull my shirt over my head and stretch my arms over my head. Then I crawl into bed, glancing up just in time to see Mica’s smiling face as he pulls the blankets up over me. I watch my handsome husband walk out of the room. He’s tall, immaculately groomed, and all sexy, inked muscles, the kind of man that any woman would consider a catch. I roll over and cuddle up to my pillow, thinking that I’m definitely the any woman in that scenario.
Tonight, sleep comes easier than I expect. I drift off and end up dreaming about work. I’m standing in the parking lot at the trucking company. It smells of diesel and there is a nip in the air. It’s all so real. I can even smell the faint sweetness of the Flake’s Bakery boxes that hint of cinnamon.
But something is wrong. My dream is moving in slow motion. I wave at Mac as he drives away in the refrigerated truck. He doesn’t wave back, and when he turns to look at me, for a brief second I see my grandfather’s face instead of Mac’s. He pulls away, still in slow motion, but I’m rooted in place and can’t make a sound. It was my chance to tell my grandfather that I loved him one last time, and for some reason, the words wouldn’t come.
The sky is gray, the trucks all look wrong, like they’ve aged twenty years. They have rust around the fenders. My feetfinally unstick from the pavement, and I walk back, looking for my other employees. The doors to all the trucks are standing wide open, keys are in the ignitions and engines are running, but there are no drivers.
I finally see someone, but it’s someone who shouldn’t be at my worksite. Devon is leaning against the corner of the building with his hands in his jacket pockets. He looks just like he did at the grocery store. He’s got the same slight smirk, like he’s trying to look cool and unbothered. His eyes have the same dead-eyed stare as Bran.
“You’re here early,” he says.
“You’re not supposed to be here,” I tell him, feeling my panic rising.
He pushes off the corner of the building and starts stalking towards me. When his expression turns angry, I back up and the ground falls away underneath me. I land on my ass on the hard pavement. I scramble back to my feet and try to run. In the dreamscape, I am barely moving and he’s gaining on me, slowly but surely closing the distance anyway.
Before I know it, Devon is right in front of me, larger than life. His hand closes around my throat, and he leans in, whispering, “You should’ve been mine. Your grandfather died so there would be no one left to object to us being together.”
His words send a shiver up my spine. I open my mouth to object, but nothing comes out. Then the ground starts to tilt. Devon and I are drifting further away from the trucking company and everything that means anything to me. I claw at his hand, desperately trying to get him to let go of my neck. Nothing I do matters. A feeling of inevitability swamps me. Wefall into blackness together as he cackles an ugly laugh. Being lost with him feels so permanent, like something I’ll never come back from.
I jolt upright in bed with my heart hammering so hard it’s almost painful.
The room is dark except for the low amber nightlight Mica left on. There is no hand around my neck, no maniacal laugh and most importantly no Devon intent upon pulling me into the deepest pits of hell.
I sit there for just a minute trying to catch my breath and still my pounding heart. Thank God it was just a dream. Dreams aren’t real. Devon touched me in a grocery store, Mica handled it. Then we came, ate a good dinner, and went to sleep. I’m fine, I tell myself.
Being fine is easier when there’s a table full of bikers arguing over breakfast or I’m doling out jobs to eager drivers. It’s harder all alone at two in the morning with the memory of Devon’s hand around my throat.
Right now, I don’t want to be alone. The truth is, I don’t want to knock on Mica’s bedroom door either. I have never been that woman who knocks on a man’s door in the middle of the night because she had a bad dream. But I think Mica wouldn’t judge me harshly for needing someone. The thought of going back to sleep and maybe back to that confusing and terrifying dream is too much, so I push myself out of bed and pad across the short hall to Mica’s guest room. His suite is small and the door’s locked, so there’s no chance anyone will see me half dressed.
I stop in front of his door, standing there for a minute to gather my courage. I knock twice, and then I wait.
Mica automatically calls out, his voice groggy, “Come in.”
The minute I open the door, he asks, “What’s wrong? Are you sick?”
I’m almost too awestruck to respond because Mica is sitting in bed with his sheet pooled around his waist. He’s not wearing a shirt. When he moves forward slightly, looking alarmed, his massive, inked shoulder muscles move as if they have a will of their own. I catch a glimpse of the low-slung waistband of his boxers and the tattoos crawling up from his ribs and across his chest and down his left arm. His tattoos are dense and overlapping. I’ve seen pieces of them before but not like this, not all at once. He looks like an inked God, sitting there squinting at me. I can tell that he’s not quite awake. His searching gaze reminds me that he asked me a question.
“I’m okay. I had a bad dream,” I say. “Do you mind if I sleep in here with you?”
He doesn’t hesitate. He moves to one side of the bed and fluffs a pillow for me.
“Not at all,” he says. “Come here and make yourself comfortable.”
The room is darker than mine because he doesn’t sleep with a nightlight. As I move forward, I notice the room smells like him, the clean soap he uses.
He holds the covers back and I get in without needing to be told twice. We lie there in the dark with six inches of mattress between us. Being in Mica’s bed should feel stranger than itdoes. I’ve never been in bed with a man or had sex before, so I didn’t know what to expect. I probably should have thought this through more. Maybe he will see this as me wanting sex.
Mica finally speaks, “If you wanna talk about your dream, I might be able to help.” Turning over to face me, he adds, “I once read a book on dream interpretation when I was twelve.”
I let out a strangled laugh, because that was not what I was expecting him to say. Mica is always amazing at icebreakers, so I turn to face him and although I can’t see his face clearly in the dark, I talk about my dream anyway.
“My dream started with Mac turning into my grandfather and ended with Devon having his hand around my throat in the parking lot at my trucking company. It was one of those super creepy dreams where hardly anything made sense.”
