“Let’s go.” He knocks my shoulder with the barrel of the gun. My exhale is laced with annoyance as I walk back to the bedroom. “Get on the bed, put your hands back over your head.” He gestures with the Glock. I listen, grudgingly. “Lock them.” Pausing to stare him down with daggers, I mentally stab him to death as I lightly click the metal until it’s secure around my wrist. Fucker.
Baz walks over once I’m bound and checks the handcuffs. He tightens the one I just refastened. Oh, he isn’t stupid. I had left it loose enough to slip out of.
“Nice try.” The cuff is biting into my skin now.
“You’re one hell of an actor,” I tell him.
“That’s the pot calling the kettle black, no?” He pauses pointedly and gazes down at me. “And I wasn’t acting.” The sentence is acerbic.
“Then who is this person standing in front of me?”
“My darker half.” A little bit of the crazy dissipates in his eyes as he reaches down to touch me. I edge away, but he merely brushes his fingertips along my lower abdomen, a brief, wistful look skirting across his face.
Everything south of his fingers tightens as I try to reject his touch. Want to reject it, but the feelings I harbor for Baz are still present. Still as strong and brilliant and prevalent as they had been in Colorado. I want to hate him. I want to want to kill him. But when he looks at me like that, touches me like that, all I want to do is go back. Start all over, tell him everything. Give us a fighting chance.
He suddenly yanks his hand away, snapping out of whatever daze he was just lost in.
“You’re a fucking siren, Stevie.” It isn’t a compliment. It’s a resentful declaration. My heart sinks, but the emotion isn’t worn on my sleeve.
I watch helplessly as he storms out of the room, slamming the door behind him.
I relax once I’m alone, the constant sickness pulling me under. I allow it to. I’m exhausted from constantly fighting the rising bile and turbulence in my stomach.
I blow out a deep breath, sinking into the mattress. I close my eyes, willing myself to sleep. The stress isn’t helping my situation.
Attempting to get comfortable, I give in to the daunting fatigue.
It doesn’t look like I’m going anywhere anytime soon.
I DON’T KNOWhow long I sleep, but it’s a deep, dream-filled slumber. Clips of my life turn over, mostly from when I’m a child. I remember the way the dreams feel more than what they’re actually about. Loneliness is the star emotion. So lonely, so desolate. I just wanted someone to love me. Anyone. One of my foster parents, a teacher, my mother. Why couldn’t she love me more than the drugs? I don’t even know what she looked like. Despair takes over as I morph into an adult, watching as I hold a newborn in my arms. I’m humming. I’m happy. For the first time in my life, I feel happiness.
Then I look up, and my face is missing, just rubbed away. The baby screams, and I jolt awake.
“Oh, God!” I try to touch my stomach, but my hands are still bound over my head. “Damn it!” I scream, fighting against the metal. I just want to cradle my belly.
I look up and find Baz standing there with a tray, a confused expression, and riotous eyes. I hate him momentarily. Hate him for not allowing me to soothe myself and my child the way I need.
“Can you please fucking uncuff me?” I fight with the shackles.
“Calm the fuck down, and no,” he snaps.
Rage radiates. “Baz!”
“You think I’m going to release you in this state? I’m crazy, not stupid.” He places the tray down as my heart beats as hard as a bass drum.
With my limbs still slightly shaking, I force myself to calm down. That dream. That dreadful, wretched dream. I want to erase all remnants of it.
This babywillknow who it’s mother is. Itwillbe loved. Itwillbe cherished. Itwillbe protected. So help me fucking God.
“You calm now?” Baz asks after a few long, agitating heartbeats.
“Yes, I’m fine,” I lie. I’m nowhere close to fine.
Baz perches on the edge of the bed next to me, his usual spot, and picks a soda can up from the tray on the nightstand.
“Drink it.” He shoves the long straw in my face. He brought me ginger ale. And when I glance over at the nightstand, there are crackers there, too. I can’t believe it. Even in his fucked-up state, he heard me. He listened.
I take a long, slow pull of the crisp, sweet soda, and the cold effervescence instantly extinguishes the fire in my throat while the cool ginger calms the upset in my stomach. That small hint of relief is like a godsend.
