Lathan clenched his teeth to keep from calling Gill out. Intimidation to get capitulation, he reminded himself.
“But I-I did. Have a nightmare. I’ll tell you everything I know, but it doesn’t make sense. Dreams aren’t real. Right?” She glanced back and forth between the two of them, question wrinkling her forehead. “I didn’t think so. It’s finally happened. I’ve gone nuttier than trail mix.” Her eyes took on the slightly unfocused look of someone replaying a memory. She began telling them everything.
Lathan had no problem hearing and reading her words. The story she told was something he’d expect to read in a Stephen King horror novel. And completely implausible. Maybe she hadn’t just been in shock out on the road; maybe insane was her baseline. Even as the thought crossed his mind, he X’ed it out, fully aware he was choosing to ignore all the evidence to the contrary.
She began shivering again, her arms, her legs, her chest covered in pimply goose bumps.
“When I woke up with…with it in my hand, I thought it was just part of the dream.”
She believed every word she spoke. If she lied, he would have smelled it as easily as he smelled his own lie.
“Wow.” Gill reached into his pocket. “I apologize. I didn’t introduce myself.” He flipped open his wallet to his FBI badge and credential. “I’m Special Agent Gill Garrison. Do you seriously want to fuck with me?”
“Here’s what’s going to happen.” Lathan gave Gill a look built on unspoken words. Let it go. For now. I’ll explain later. “She’s going to brush her teeth, then get back in bed and take a nap. She’s tired, she’s sick, and she’s had a shitty evening.”
The sharp jump of muscle across Gill’s jawline showed his anger, but they had twenty years of trust built between them that Gill wouldn’t ignore.
“This isn’t done.”
“I know.” Lathan handed her the toothbrush that he’d been gripping in his hand the entire time. She spoke to Gill, but her words were too muffled for Lathan to decipher.
Gill smiled at her as warmly as an abominable snowman and sat on the closed toilet lid. “Babe, I’m not moving. I’m guarding evidence.”
“Don’t call her babe.” He might not know her name, but he knew it wasn’t Babe. “He won’t bother you. He’s just going to sit there guarding his throne like the king of assholes.”
Gill scratched his knee with his middle finger.
She ignored Gill and began brushing her teeth. Gill ignored her and played with his cell phone. Lathan couldn’t ignore the reek of hot tar coming from both of them. Mutual dislike.
Lathan waited until she finished before he spoke to her. “Is there someone you want to call?”
“What…ime is it?”
Time and dime looked the same. Dime just didn’t make sense in the sentence.
He yanked his cell from his pocket. “Eight thirty. Why?”
A pretty blush added color to her pale features. “Can I stay until morning?”
“You can stay as long as you like.” He meant it. More than he wanted to admit.
“I have to be at work at eight. Could you take me? I’ll pay you for the gas.” Her mouth fell open. “Oh, my God. My money. My apron. My keys. I left everything in the car. I should’ve—”
“Listen.” He waited a full ten seconds for one hundred percent of her attention to land on him. “I don’t want your money, and I’ll help you get your stuff from Junior.” He motioned her to go into the bedroom, but followed her only as far as the doorway. He pointed toward his dresser. “Pick something of mine to wear. You’ve got vomit on your clothes.”
She started to look down at her shirt, but he caught her chin. “Don’t. It’ll only make you sick again.” He released her. “Toss your clothes out the door, and I’ll wash them for you.” He closed the door behind him and waited in the hallway, but his imagination remained in the bedroom with her. He pictured her grasping the hem of her shirt with both hands and pulling it up over her head in a long, languorous movement. Her bending, the fragile bones of her back jutting as she shimmied out of her shorts. Her walking across the room to his dresser, her limbs as graceful as a dancer. Leaning over the dresser to pull open a drawer.
The door opened. She wore one of his sweatshirts. The sleeves were a crinkled-up mess where she’d pushed them up so her hands could poke out. The shirt was three times wider than her and snugged the tops of her knees. Somehow, on her, it made one fuck of a sexy dress.
He bit his tongue just to make sure it wasn’t hanging out the side of his mouth.
“Thanks for offering to wash them.”
He took the bundle of clothes from her. “Get some sleep.” He turned to walk away, but she grabbed his hand. Her skin was cool and rough.
“Thank you. For—”
He could see her mind replaying what happened out on the road with Junior.
“—Everything.”