The thing is…I don’t want to.
I really don’t fucking want to.
I let my hand hover over the door handle, weighing my options. I could sleep in a bed with Sloane and everything might be okay. I could sleep in a bed with Sloane and I could wake up and think she’s Charlie, and try and kill her. The risk just seems like it’s too much. Fuck. I pull my hand away, turn and head down the hallway, hating myself more and more with each step.
Charlie’s fucking dead. He’s fucking dead, and he should not still be able to fucking dictate my life. He should not get to ruin the one good thing I have going for me. It’s crazy. It’s absolutely fucking crazy that I’m still letting him.
I make a decision there and then that I won’t anymore.
I stop. I turn around. I head back to Sloane’s room before I can change my mind. No hovering outside the door this time. I go straight in, and Sloane is curled into a ball in the middle of the bed. Her breathing is slow and even, the sounds of someone deep in sleep.
I can do this. I can sleep in a bed with her and not hurt her. I lose my towel, and climb into the bed, completely naked. As though she senses my presence, Sloane wriggles into me so her back is pressed against my chest. This is entirely alien to me. I don’t really know what I’m supposed to do, so I do what I want to do—I wrap myself around her and I draw her in tight. This is so different to the time Sloane and I passed out on the same bed at Julio’s. This time I’m actually holding her, and I’m meant to be here. I fall asleep for the very first time with a woman in my arms. It feels like heaven.
I feel like I’m being cooked. I feel like my body is made out of lead. The world’s still dark when I wake up, and there’s a strong possibility I’m suffocating. For a moment it’s as though I’m paralyzed and I can’t move. Panic surges through me, setting my heart racing. But then I realize I’m not paralyzed; I’m merely being pinned to the mattress by a very heavy, sleeping man.
Zeth is in bed with me. Zeth’s in bed with me, and he’s fast asleep.
He did it. He got into bed with me, after all this time, of his own volition. I carefully turn over so I’m facing him, my nose pressing up against his collarbone, and I take a cautious breath in.
He smells incredible—a mixture of shower gel and something manly and distinct, something that doesn’t smell like anything else on this planet. It’s just Zeth’s smell, and I love it. My head’s pounding—I’ll have the hangover from hell by the time the sun comes up, but right now I’m at that in-between stage where I can still feel the alcohol powering around my body, but I’m stone-cold sober.
Zeth’s arms tighten around me. At first I think it’s a subconscious action carried out in sleep, but then I feel the press of his lips against my forehead and I know he’s awake.
“Sorry,” I whisper. “I didn’t mean to wake you.”
“S’okay,” he tells me, his voice thick with sleep. “Come here.” He places a hand on my hip and inches me closer somehow, even though we are already skin on skin.
“You…okay?” I ask carefully. I don’t want to make a big deal out of him being here. But it is a big deal. It means a lot to me, and this, how he’s being with me, is definitely a big deal, too.
“I’m okay,” he whispers. There’s so much feeling behind those words. I know Zeth’s not just talking about the fact he’s here in this bed with me. He’s talking about Lacey. It’s going to take a long, long time for any of us to get over her death, but for right now Zeth’s letting me know he’s holding his shit together. That might not necessarily be a good thing. It might be better for him to break for a little while, but I can’t be the person to tell him that. He’ll break or he won’t break, and either way I’ll be here to help him. He moves slowly, sleepily, bringing his fingers up to touch my cheek. The action is soft. Gentle. Unexpected.
“Sloane…we’re free,” he whispers.
“Are we? Julio—”
“Julio’s been dealt with.”
“Michael said that. But how?”
“I don’t know the details yet. But Rebel said he was long gone.”
“As in dead?”
I can just about make out the outline of Zeth’s faint smile in the darkness. “I really don’t know. But long gone is good enough for me right now.” He continues to trace his fingers over my face, the pads of each fingertip tenderly exploring the lines of my nose, my cheekbones, my chin. “And you don’t need to worry about Lowell anymore, either. I took care of it,” he says.
“Took care of it? Like took care of her?”