“What about reapers?”
She looked up.
“Kidding,” Dustin said, and took the key.
The room was small, but clean enough for Dustin's standards. There was a desk, a TV bolted to the wall, and a bathroom with a door that didn't quite close all the way.
And, as he had requested, there was only one bed.
He watched Greg take this in, watched the reaper's ears turn pink.
“I can sleep on the floor,” Greg offered. “Or not sleep. I can probably get away with not sleeping.”
“Relax.” Dustin dropped his bag on the desk with his good hand. Then he turned back to Greg, who was still hovering in the doorway.
“I'm going to take a shower,” he announced. “You're welcome to join me.”
Greg's mouth opened, but nothing came out.
“I suppose you can get comfortable.” Dustin jerked his chin toward the bed. “Or you can take your chance to run. Your call.”
He held Greg's gaze for a beat longer than necessary, then turned and walked into the bathroom and shut the door—as much as it would shut anyway. There was a half-inch gap between the frame and the wood that let in a sliver of light from the room. Whatever. If Greg wanted to peek, Dustin had nothing to hide.
At least until he caught his reflection in the mirror and stopped.
The road rash looked bad in the harsh light of the bathroom, all raw and red, the skin scraped away along his cheekbone and down his jaw. His lip was swollen on one side. Had he bitten it? He didn't remember now, but he must have.
He scrutinized himself.
Well.
He looked like shit.
But still fine for someone who'd gotten hit by a car.
And Greg hadn't run yet.
Dustin turned on the shower and worked himself outof the sling, then the shirt, then everything else. His movements were slow and clumsy and sent bright flares of pain through his shoulder every time he forgot and used his left arm—which was constantly.
The water stung too, as it scraped the rest of the dirt from his body, but Dustin almost welcomed the pain. It was something to anchor him to the moment. Something that proved that he was still alive—against all odds.
An image of Greg rose in his mind, unbidden. The way he'd looked at him on the highway, his knees on the asphalt, his hands on Dustin's face. Completely forgetting about his assignment and his whole purpose for being.
Dustin used to think that there was nothing more important to Greg than doing his job.
But maybe there was.
Maybe he was more human than he'd claimed.
Struggling with that thought, Dustin kept his shower brief.
He dried himself off perfunctorily, managed to get his sling back on after some cursing, and wrapped a towel around his waist.
It was time to find out whether Greg had taken his opportunity to run or not.
Dustin opened the door.
Greg was sitting on the edge of the bed, hands folded in his lap, back straight, looking like a man waiting for a job interview he was certain he'd fail. Dustin's ruined shirt was folded neatly on the desk.
