He walked like a gnarled old man, tiny shuffling steps, through the door and into the room.
Red sat against the headboard of the nearest bed – the one he always took so he could be closest to the door, a shield between her and whoever might try to come after her. A silent way of her acknowledging that he was a dirty liar who did in fact need her to work her magic. The brat.
She turned around when he approached, expression pinched with worry. “Oh Rooster, why did you wait so long?”
“It’s not…that bad,” he lied. Lied badly, voice jumping and catching.
She scooted to the edge of the bed, positioned so she’d be on his bad side when he lied down. She patted the stacked pillows. “Come on.”
Getting onto the bed was a process, one that left tears standing in his eyes. He blinked them away and breathed shallowly through his mouth, teeth clenched against the litany of curses that waited on his tongue.
When he was reclined against the pillows, Red knelt by his hip and reached to very gently push his sleeve up. Her own sleeves were singed at the edges, the delicate lace detailing charred and crumbling.
“You ruined your dress,” he said, sad for her. She’d spent hours bent over the thing with thread and needle, humming an old Bee Gees song to herself.
Her smile was warm. “Worth it. Now hold still. Where does it hurt the worst?”
“Everywhere.”
She nodded. “Thanks for not lying that time.” And put her hands on his arm.
It was the same every time, but he always managed to forget; it always shocked the air out of his lungs, bowed his back off the mattress. Her power hit him like a train. The forceful shove that pushed the pain back into his marrow where it belonged; that chased agony back to the root of all his nerves and pinned it there.
He closed his eyes and thought, like always, that he must be on the floor, all the way across the room. Must have gone through a wall. But when he opened his eyes again, he was lying on the bed, his body warm and humming, brimming with energy.
And Red knelt over him, red hair falling in tangled curtains around her face, her skin pale and her mouth slack, eyes vacant with exhaustion.
Shit, he shouldn’t have let her do this. She was still worn out from the show, and she’d pushed herself too far. Was now drained. He should have waited, should have put his foot down. Damn it.
Rooster reached with arms that no longer shook and caught her around the shoulders, eased her down to lie beside him, her head on his shoulder.
Her hand settled, limp, on his chest, right over the steady thump of his heart. She let out a quiet little sigh. “I’m alright.” But it was just a thready whisper, sleep pulling her under.
Rooster cradled the back of her head, the small, fragile shape of her skull. “It’s alright. You go on to sleep.”
“’Kay.”
The last of the tension left her as she drifted off, her body relaxed against his.
He stared mindlessly at the TV screen, listening to the normal hotel sounds around them, straining for the barest whisper of a threat.
One didn’t come – not tonight – and he eventually fell asleep, lulled by the gentle rhythm of Red’s breathing, the press of her slender rib bones against his own.
7
Turned out the bank opened at eight-thirty, and by nine they were seated across from one another in a window booth at Mosby’s Diner, steaming plates of ham and eggs in front of them, two-hundred dollars richer. Rooster had awakened starving that morning, and shoveled his food in with only a token stab at table manners. By contrast, Red only picked at hers, tired eyes downcast, hand limp on her fork.
“Eat,” he prodded, nudging her plate toward her.
One corner of her mouth lifted, a sad attempt at a smile. “I feel kinda sick.”
“That’s ‘cause you need to eat.”
She speared a wiggly clump of egg with her fork and looked at it dubiously. Her gaze slid to the laminated menu cards in their rack behind the salt and pepper shakers. “They have chocolate chip waffles,” she said, voice all innocence, and bit down on her lower lip in that way that meant she was trying, badly, to contain a smile.
Unlike her, Rooster had gotten very good at holding back smiles in these sorts of situations, content to enjoy the little blossom of warmth in his chest. “That shit’s just sugar.” He tried to sound stern. Which was a waste, because she’d never once been put off by that.
She looked up pleadingly through her lashes, green eyes catching light from the window, dazzling as gemstones. “I’ll eat the eggs, too. Promise.”
Rooster feigned a deep sigh and flagged down the waitress.
Red beamed at him, and it was the kind of smile that toppled kingdoms. God knew it had toppled him a long time ago.
*
Red loved diners. The blended smells of savory and sweet, thick curls of steam licking off the massive flat-tops behind the counter. She loved the clink of plates and cutlery, the outdated country music on the radio, the rustle of newspapers and controlled shouts of the kitchen staff as they worked at a lightning pace to get everyone’s food out. She loved the gleam of morning sunlight on the chrome of the stools, the glass of the bakery cases, the fake-maple syrup pouring down onto her waffles. She especially loved diners in the morning, when the world was waking up, when sitting in a booth felt like being a part of something bigger, like being involved in the mundane dramas of some small town where everyone’s biggest worry was finding a seat for the Friday night football games.
Across from her, Rooster choked down the last bite of his breakfast, pushed his plate away, and turned his gaze to the window and the street beyond, little line sprouting between his brows. On guard, as ever. Gone was the sleepy, pain-free man who’d tucked her into his side last night, and back was the Marine in the middle of a warzone, at least three guns on his person.
Red loved diners, but she hated what they did to Rooster.
“These are really good,” she said, chiming the tines of her fork against her plate. “You want some?”
“Nah, you eat them.” His gaze slid to her, briefly, sparking warm a moment, giving that divot in his brow a second’s respite, before he returned to his vigil. “I know how much you like your chocolate.”
And what do you like? she wanted to ask. He took scrupulous care of his guns. He drank bourbon – sometimes enough to get maudlin. He always ordered his Whoppers with cheese, and sometimes, through closed hotel bathroom doors, she heard him groan in a grateful way when he stepped into a hot shower.
But unless he was smiling, his mouth was tight with stress, even in sleep sometimes. He didn’t ever seem to enjoy anything, not the way people did in movies and TV shows, laughing and playing and spending “guys’ nights” in front of football games with all their friends. Rooster had friends – he had Deshawn, anyway – but they never saw each other, only talked on prepaid cellphones sometimes.
Rooster didn’t have a wife, or even a girlfriend, a woman to kiss, and hold, and take to bed, and make gasp. She thought he probably needed that. Didn’t everyone? She didn’t know for sure, but was starting to be curious. Sometimes she felt…
Well, she didn’t know. But she wondered, sometimes.
A vanload of children in soccer uniforms and knee socks came bursting into the diner, all talking excitedly, blocking the door and drawing eyes.
Red grabbed her coffee mug and slid out of the booth.
Rooster’s gaze snapped around immediately, watchful frown deepening into an expression a lot like panic.
Before he could ask, she smiled and waved her mug at him. “Just gonna get a refill.”
He scowled. “She’ll come around and do that.”
Red gestured to the counter. “It’s two steps. Be right back. Promise.”
It took an effort not to laugh at his face – the awful, overdramatic, twisted-up frown – and she turned, took the as-promised two steps to the counter, and climbed onto an empty stool.