Unlocking it, he guides me inside first, crowding behind me as he ushers me into his home. “I haven’t done much with the place since I moved in,” he says, his cheeks pinking a little, like there’s something embarrassing about this huge and beautiful home.
“It’s nice,” I tell him, and it is. The walls are white and empty, but it’s clean and it smells fresh. It’s a hell of a lot nicer than anywhere I’ve ever lived.
The tiny apartment I ran from was full of damp and black mold, and the whole place was probably the same size as this room.
“Let me show you around,” he says, stepping past me and towing me toward an open kitchen with black cabinets and wooden countertops. “Kitchen,” he says with a smirk. “That door leads out onto the yard. The garage is through there.”
Tugging me forward, he leads me to the stairs, not pausing as he starts to climb, forcing me to go with him.
“My room,” he says, pointing to an open door. “That’s the bathroom.” He gestures to the closed door on the opposite side of the landing. “And you can take your pick of either of these rooms,” he says, throwing open the two closed doors to reveal two bedrooms.
Both rooms have twin beds with black bedding on them, but nothing more. There’s no other furniture or anything on the walls to suggest they’ve ever been used.
“I don’t have many guests,” he says with a soft, low laugh. “We can order you some furniture or whatever else you want or need.”
“This is fine,” I say quickly, not wanting him to spend money on things that I have no intention of using. I’ll stay the night, but in the morning, I’m going to figure out how to get back to town, and then I’ll find a bus and leave.
“I’ll go and grab your bag while you figure out which room you want,” he says, releasing my hand and heading down the stairs before I can protest.
Pausing between the two doors, I freeze, unable to move. Before I can even process what I’m doing, I’m spinning around and moving away from the empty rooms and toward his room. The door is open, so I’m not invading his privacy as I peer around the door frame and take in his space.
His room is large, easily twice the size of the other two rooms. His bed is massive, a California king, or maybe even bigger, like he had it custom-made. The comforter is a crisp white, clean and fresh, but anonymous.
The rest of the space doesn’t tell me much about him either. The walls are white, the hardwood floors are stained a dark brown. But there’s no personal items. No pictures or photos,only a TV on the wall. It’s an entirely blank canvas, and I don’t know why I find that disappointing.
At the sound of his footstep on the stairs, I dart back to the other bedrooms and instinctively pick the one closest to his, stepping inside and taking a tentative seat on the edge of the mattress. It sinks beneath my weight, and I have to hold back the moan of pleasure that tries to burst free.
Even one night in a comfortable bed is going to ruin me. I’ve spent months sleeping on the ground with only a thin mat protecting me from the bottom of the tent and the dirt below. My tiny canvas home was better than ending up on a park bench or actually sleeping rough, but it’s a long way from a thick mattress and clean bedding.
“I have my own bathroom, so the other one is all yours. I’ll grab you some towels,” Warrick says, stepping into the room and placing my ratty backpack onto the floor at my feet.
“Thank you,” I say, and I am grateful. Showering in privacy is a luxury I haven’t had for a while, and I’m almost as thankful to not have to keep my shoes on while I get clean as I am to have a real bed to sleep in, even if it’s only for one night.
“Why don’t you get settled and then come on downstairs. Do you want a coffee or something else to drink?”
Wrinkling my nose, I try not to let him see my revulsion.
“Not a coffee drinker then?” He laughs.
“Err, no. Sorry.”
“You don’t need to apologize. I have water and soda and some juice too, so come on down when you’re ready,” he says, eyeing me like he wants to say more, before he turns and leaves, pulling the door mostly closed behind him.
The moment he’s gone, I start to panic. I can’t stay here. I can’t be around this man. I shouldn’t trust him. I shouldn’t feel safe. I shouldn’t want to take a shower and then strip off and sleep in this super soft bed.
But leaving feels insurmountable too, and not just because I’m miles from anything familiar. But because a part of me is so relieved to not have to spend another night only sleeping a few minutes at a time, waking every time the wind rustles the tent or I hear an animal snuffling past.
Tears burn at the backs of my eyes and then spill over, dripping down my cheeks as I fight to stay silent. I know that Warrick probably won’t be able to hear me, but the relief I feel at even having one night where I’m not scared or cold or uncomfortable is more than I’ve had since I ran from BJ’s in terror at being forced to have sex with strangers at Benito’s whims. The feeling is so big it’s overwhelming.
More tears fall free as I slip from the bed and curl into a ball on the floor. How did I let this happen? How has my life become so broken that I lose it over the offer of a safe place to sleep? My emotions overwhelm me as desolation, fear, and shame consume me. But then suddenly I’m not on the floor anymore. I’m engulfed in huge, strong, warm arms.
SEVEN
WARRICK
Instead of turning on the coffee machine, or keeping myself busy hiding that fucking tent and the rest of her things, I find myself standing at the bottom of the stairs listening for her. I don’t know what I’m expecting to hear. The window doesn’t make enough noise that I’d know if she was climbing out and trying to make a run for it, but I still don’t move, straining to hear anything that proves she’s still here.
After spending well over a year wondering what crazy fucking Kool-Aid my brothers and teammates have drunk that made them lose their shit over women they barely knew, I finally get it. Having her here has settled the frantic anxiety that’s been humming beneath my skin since the moment I saw her.
