“This is a lot. I didn’t have to deal with all this in my first month on the job and I knew what I was signing up for,” Declan says.
I shake my head, because he did have to deal with an explosion killing his mentor and almost finishing him off as well and I don’t think there is an appropriate amount of time for that either. “I think this is the part where I question if this job is worth it.”
Declan splits the rest of the small pizza between us. “I understand the fear, the danger. But we have to think about those weapons, how many people could be hurt, could die. We have to help.”
My mind pictures the crowds that will be at the World Games. I used to envision them chanting my name as I crossed the finish line. Now I can only hear the phantom screams of how they’ll react to an impending terror attack. This threat is so heavy. “Do you sometimes think someone else should save the day?”
Declan gives me a devilish smirk. “No.”
Of course not.Declan Davidson is a good guy through and through. Even if some of his intentions lead him to be a little overprotective.
I offer to clean up and Declan settles onto the couch to sleep. It doesn’t look at all comfortable.
“Are you OK over there?” I ask.
“We’re locked in for the night,” he tells me before locking his eyes on mine. “I’m not going anywhere.”
I nod and turn off the lights in the kitchen before climbing the metal stairs. The entire safehouse is dark, save for the small amount of light coming from the digital clocks in the kitchen and the loft.
I get under the unfamiliar covers of the bed, cocooned in these oversized clothes. Exhaustion demands my full attention. Declares how worn down I am. “OK, goodnight,” I call out.
From below, I hear Declan’s voice. “Goodnight, Ross.”
I take a deep breath and close my eyes.
I’m back at the World Games trials. My legs are sculpted, my body ready. The starting gun fires and the race begins. But I am stuck. I try to move, but nothing happens. The other runners round the oval and I’m standing in the way. They crash into me, as if they can’t see me. I’m on the ground, trampled under their racing spikes. I try to roll away, to escape. But I’m frozen. Immovable.
I jolt awake with a scream. I can’t see anything in front of me, but I can tell I’m not at home. I hear movement nearby. Feet on concrete, then a rattle on metal.
“Charlie?!” Declan calls out in the darkness. My eyes adjust and I see him reach the top of the stairs.
I’m still gasping for air as I cover my face, embarrassed that my bad dream disturbed Declan, who was already going out of his way to be nice and sleep on a tiny couch because I’m too scared to function right now.
“I’m sorry,” I tell him, shaking my head. I try to steady my breath, but I find myself still heaving for air.
Declan crosses over to me, setting his handgun on the bedside table as he passes. He must have grabbed it when he heard me cry out. Declan is now wearing only his undershirt and boxers.Right. He probably waited to change until I went to sleep.
Declan sits on the bed next to me and wraps an arm round my shoulder. “It’s OK, sweetheart,” he says, his lips on the crown of my head. My senses register everything while my eyes still adjust in the dark. Declan’s cologne isn’t that strong, but his skin is warm against mine. His firm arm muscles hold me as if I am about to crumble.
My body sinks into his. I can’t hold this fear and tension when he touches me. It melts away.
“It was just a nightmare,” I explain. “I feel so ridiculous.”
“Stress is dangerous to our bodies and our brains,” Declan offers as an explanation.
“Yeah, but could my stress dreams just be public speaking while naked? Or my teeth falling out? Something embarrassing but not terrifying?” I say, trying to make light of the situation.
“My nightmare is that I’m back in high school and I have to take a final exam I’ve never studied for,” Declan confesses as his thumb rubs my shoulder.
“Nerd,” I tease him.
“I mean, I would have aced it, but still stressful,” Declan adds. I can hear the smile in his voice.
“Always so confident, always so cocky,” I mutter.
Soft lips press into my hair. “You wouldn’t want me any other way, sweetheart,” Declan says. He’s right. And without realizing it, my breathing is normal again, my nightmare forgotten.
I want to apologize for being weak, for being scared. I’ve told myself a million times that I’m strong. I was an elite athlete. I’ve tackled endless doctors’ appointments to finally get the correct diagnosis. I moved across the country to start a new job and a new life. I know I’m tough and brave. So why is that feeling abandoning me now?
