I stare at Troy through my blonde hair. He has blond hair too. I focus on the strands covering his forehead. A few flutter in the air blowing from the air conditioning vent above him. I study the way his dark lashes look against his bronzed skin whenever he blinks. His blue eyes flicker towards me occasionally. My gaze takes in his perfectly straight nose and sharp chin. He's flawless except for a white scar across this throat.
I focus on his hands. Passivity from an aggressive man, they're so still on his lap. I'm fascinated by how calm he looks. He lies so well. I sense he's edgy, but I have no proof to what he's really feeling. So rather than choosing between staying and going, I consider his struggle.
Troy wants me to follow his instructions. He likes getting his way, but his way scared the shit out of me. Now he's pretending to be casual, so I won't cry again. He's lying with his every breath to keep me calm. I have the power to make him squirm. This realization clears away the darkness.
Power sounds fun, even if I don't know what to do with any of it. Yet the darkness breaks enough for me to sit down on the couch and stare at the TV.
"Was that really so hard?" he asks quietly.
"You have no idea."
Without looking at me, Troy smiles slightly. "Do you want to eat out tonight or order in?"
"What do you think?" I say, immediately regretting my tone.
Troy focuses his gaze on me and lifts an eyebrow. "You went out earlier with Minka. I'm stronger than she is, so why not trust that I can protect you?"
I say nothing, feeling guilty for sounding pissy. I've forgotten how to tease someone or even how to have a conversation. I always sound depressed, tired, or grumpy. Two weeks earlier, I was in a good mood, but Shelley thought I was about to cry. Apparently, even my happy voice sounds miserable.
"I don't want to eat out," I finally say after thinking for excessively long for a response.
"Fine, but I'm not eating any foofoo stuff. Nothing with kale or tofu in it. A man needs to put his foot down occasionally."
Lowering my head, I smile behind my hair. Troy leans over and studies me.
"Are you smiling or about to cry?"
"Both."
Troy smiles before he sits back and watches the TV. His hands are now tapping steadily. His feet tap along with those fingers. No longer does he pretend to be passive for my sake. He reminds me of a kid kept inside for too long. I watch his movements and feel more in touch with my surroundings.
I suck at keeping track of time. Growing up, I was often teased for being constantly late. So sitting in the living room, I don't know how long I peek through my hair at Troy's tapping fingers. He glances at me during commercials. A few times, I think he'll speak, but he doesn't. Troy is trying to figure me out. He needs to regain control of this situation. I know exactly how he feels.
8
~~~
Troy
Playing the Games Others Created
The ballgame is nearly over when I ask Darla if she's ready to order dinner. Whispering her answer, she asks to take a shower first. Two hours later, she still hasn't reappeared from the room.
I know she's sleeping. No way did I wait for more than 20 minutes after the water turned off to check on her. Darla left her door unlocked, and I pushed it open soundlessly to find her hidden under blankets.
Figuring she needs the rest from all the medications she takes, I leave her. When the first hour passes, I shrug it off. By the end of the second hour, I'm edgy again.
What's the proper way to handle this situation? Do I wake her up? Order us food and hope the aroma lures Darla from her slumber? Or let her sleep forever how long she needs while I eat alone?
I finally decide, after much pacing in the living room, to order dinner before waking her. Darla needs to eat. When Minka had knee surgery and was drugged up on meds, she went too long without eating, and all hell broke loose. Well, mostly vomit, but the result was horrifying.
The food ordered, I return to the bedroom and watch her sleep. With her hair away from her face, Darla's incredible beauty is more apparent. I wouldn't be a man if I didn't pause to admire such a sight.
My fingers curl into fists, struggling against the urge to caress her soft pale skin. Darla fears me in the same way she fears all people. I'm both her protector and a threat.
I'll never be smart enough to reprogram what Locke twisted up inside her. Maybe no one is, but I believe in miracles. I'm alive based on no more than perfect timing and pure luck. Some might call it all a coincidence, but I'm old fashioned. Miracles do happen, and Darla deserves one.
I don't touch her golden hair or delicate face. My desires feel small when I recall her earlier fear. Rather than caress her in a perverted way, I stand a foot from the bed, lean forward, and knock loudly on the dresser to her left.
Her eyes open wide and stare horrified at me. Seeing only panic in her expression, I say her name.
"You are Darla. I am Troy Sheridan. I was hired to protect you."
Holding her breath, Darla remains stuck behind her terrified expression.
"Look around at where you are," I say in an emotionless voice. "You know this place, and you know me. I've ordered dinner. You need to get up and eat. Do you understand?"
Finally breathing, Darla stares at me for another minute. The fear fades from her eyes until she's watching me in a tender way.