This girl. This crazy fucking girl. She’s asking me the same thing I asked her in the park outside Newan’s office. Once we’d established that she could actually acknowledge her feelings and own them, I’d thought we were pretty much set. That even though she might have had a few issues accepting her attraction to me, she was entirely aware of my need for her. But then again, I know I’m a stone-cold asshole the majority of the time.
“I stopped you from losing your virginity to a guy I thought would treat you badly,” I tell her, attempting to make my voice soft. “I trusted you with the life of someone I’m responsible for when I could do nothing to help her; I went against the man who raised me to find your sister; I put myself directly in danger when I went to get her back for you; the only life I’ve ever known has not only been turned upside down but burned to the ground since I met you. And I keep coming back, Sloane. You don’t need to ask me if I want you to leave. You don’t ever need to ask me that. At this stage in the proceedings, I don’t think there’s any leaving for either of us.”
I watch every last scrap of color drain from her face. I’m not one for speeches or expertly explaining myself, but I can’t lay it out for her any clearer than that. Her hands are trembling as she laces her fingers together and then changes her mind, quickly shifting to slip them beneath her thighs so that she’s sitting on them.
“Oh,” she says.
I can’t tell if she looks happy or really fucking freaked out. She’s a smart girl, so I know what’s going on in her head. How trapped she might feel right now. Because I’m the bad guy. The dark shadow you run from. The nightmare you’re relieved to wake up from.
And she’s stuck with me now, whether she likes it or not.
Zeth’s warehouse is neatly compartmentalized into areas where I feel safe, and areas I don’t. The kitchen, bathroom and his bedroom are all fairly safe, but the open-plan living space just kills me. The black leather couches; the bookcase with so many books stacked and wedged into it that you have to use brute force to even extract one; the magazines and the running shoes by the door, and the heavy bag, taped over and over with duct tape where it’s been split from all the abuse it’s taken. All of it. It’s just too him, and raises far too many questions. I want to know whether he’s actually read Dostoevsky, or whether he just bought Crime and Punishment to look smart, or to impress a girl he brought here once. I want to know whether he’s aware that he rolls out when he runs; that the heels of his running shoes tell me he strikes too hard and if he only landed a little flatter, it would hurt less. I want to know if he works out in here, beating on that heavy bag, because he’s frustrated or angry, or simply because it feels good to smash his fists into something.
I am way, way, way too close.
And I have no idea how, or if I want to get away.
Coming here to Zeth’s place was a necessity, but now that I’m here, I find myself wondering strange and disconcerting things. Like where do I fit into this world of his? What would it look like to have my medical journals crammed up there beside his Dostoevsky, or my running shoes sitting right there next to his?
After Zeth’s admission earlier, I have no doubt in my mind that he wants that. I never would have thought it possible, but apparently it’s true. He does want me. He wants me to be with him. In what capacity, I have no idea. Perhaps he just expects to keep me here as his plaything; to screw me when he feels like it and then ignore me when he’s bored of me. Whatever he wants, though, I’m now faced with the question of what I want. A place to stay safe until all of this blows over, or something more.
I’m staring at the vast bookcase, thinking this over, when Michael finds me. I feel like crap for slapping him. He’s been so good. He even drove back to my house and collected more clothes for me, since my bag got carted away with my wrecked car after the crash. He’s been practically glowing since Zeth woke up; his smile is a mellow one as he sits down carefully next to me.
“He still sleeping?” he asks.
I nod absently. “Yeah. He’ll be tired for a few days more, I think. Then he can start rehabilitating. Maybe we can have him walking around in a week or so.”
Michael almost chokes. The coughing, spluttering sound doesn’t look like it’s being caused by some obstruction in his throat, but more like poorly contained laughter. “You’re kidding, right?” he wheezes.
“What? It’s gonna take a while for him to get back on his feet.”
Michael looks at me like he almost feels sorry for me. “Zeth is gonna be back up and running by the morning, trust me.”
“No way.” I shake my head. “I’m going back to work tomorrow. You have to make sure he doesn’t get out of that bed. Not even to go to the bathroom.”
Ever since I’ve met him, Michael has been the epitome of dignified grace, yet he doesn’t look very dignified right now, howling on the couch. I might as well be the funniest stand-up comedian in the world because Michael is finding everything I’m saying side-splittingly hilarious. He gets to his feet, holding out his hand. From there he starts to unbutton his shirt.