But Rooster touched her like he thought she might break, always so careful, mindful of the size of his hands and the strength in his big, warrior’s body. Touched her like she mattered, and always had, since that first night in his friend’s house when he’d pulled her with his arms and comforted her.
Sometimes she wanted more, a low, humming sort of craving in the pit of her stomach. She understood what it was, mechanically, but practically, it overwhelmed her. Almost frightened her, the things she wanted.
The things she wanted from Rooster.
She tipped her head back and looked up at him, her vision hazy with sleep.
His eyes were open, she could tell, trained on her. He had such pretty eyes: a gold-flecked green that he called “muddy,” but which was really hazel. No one noticed their color, she figured, because his scowl was usually enough to put people off from a distance. But in the quiet, stolen moments like these, she got to admire them up close. And think…
Things.
Things maybe she shouldn’t.
Things he most certainly didn’t reciprocate.
“You alright?” he asked, his voice steady, like he’d been awake for a while, watching her.
“Yeah, I’m alright.”
He reached out – careful, always careful – and cupped the back of her head in one big hand; it felt supportive, steady, even though the pulse in his wrist flickered against her scalp, betraying nervousness.
“You were having a nightmare,” she said, remembering. She’d been awakened by his moaning, the shushing of his legs kicking around in the sheets. When she’d turned on the light and said his name aloud, he hadn’t awakened, though he’d turned toward her, grimacing in his sleep.
“No,” he’d whimpered. “No, no, no.”
He’d thrashed, and then stiffened, hissing in pain, his left side catching in that way that had become so familiar to her. She’d known that he was hurting, that he’d needed her touch; but she hadn’t known what had snuck up on him in his dreams and tormented him. Drawn him up tight as a bowstring until he’d twisted and turned himself into a full-body crick.
He swallowed now, throat bobbing. Wet his lips. “Yeah. I was.”
He wore a deep groove between his eyebrows, and she reached to smooth it with her thumb. It relaxed beneath her touch, though the rest of his body stiffened, arms and legs going taut against her own. “What was it about?” she asked.
His gaze slid away, moving over her shoulder. His breath stuttered a step. “Nothing.”
“I don’t believe that,” she said, cajoling.
“Red, just…” His hand flexed against the back of her head, and then fell away, moving to her shoulder, and then off completely as he drew it back to hold awkwardly at his side. “Leave it,” he said, heavy, sad.
She frowned, wishing he would cradle her head again, leaning into him. “Rooster.”
His eyes snapped back to her face, gaze harsh now, breathing quick, like he was in pain. “Red…”
“Do you ever,” she started, and the words welled up on her tongue, fully formed, betraying her carefully-controlled subconscious. She looked at him – the suntanned lines of his face, the pale wheat of his mussed hair on the pillow, the bulk of his shoulders throwing shadows over her, blocking the sun, blocking the world, and anyone in it who would dare hurt her – and something tightly held inside her loosened, suddenly. She took a deep, quick breath. “Do you ever wish you weren’t alone?”
He blinked, face wiped clean by surprise. “What? I’m not alone. I have you.” He said it like it was obvious.
She smiled, but she knew it was sad. “But,” she said, “don’t you need someone…someone who’s just yours? Someone who…loves you?”
His eyes widened. He looked like he’d been punched. “You don’t love me?” Like a wounded child.
“I love you more than anything,” she said, immediately. “I’ve never loved anyone or anything, but I love you.”
He breathed out in a rush, sour morning breath against her face.
“But, I mean.” She cupped his jaw in her hand, the sharp line of it like cut glass against her palm. And then, caught between her better judgement and sleepy impulse, she moved her body against his; tried to be sinuous like the temptresses in the grocery store paperbacks she read. “Someone you can…someone…” She blushed, face hot, palms tingling. “Someone to…to make love to. Don’t you want that?”
His reaction was bad.
Embarrassing…for her.
He clamped his hand down on her shoulder and held her there while he pushed back with his own body, breaking the contact between them. At another time, she would have laughed to see his eyes so wide, his mouth open in shock.
Shame flooded her, hot as a brand. She shrank back, letting go of him, pulling her hands into her chest.
His mouth moved silently for a moment. “Red,” he finally said, helpless.
“No, I–”
He caught her with both hands: one on her shoulder, one awkwardly capturing her face. His eyes flared. “Hey. Hey. Listen to me. You are the most important – important person – who’s ever been…I’ve never…” He took a deep breath, expression clamping down with frustration. He’d never expressed himself eloquently.
“It’s okay,” she whispered, but it wasn’t. She’d ruined everything.
“No, listen,” he repeated, eyes blazing now. “Red. Sweetheart.”
Her heart leapt, just a moment. But then…
“I would never do that to you.”
“Do…” she started, and then understood. “Oh,” she said again, even softer, a bare breath of sound.
“I would never hurt you,” he said.
She glanced away from him, shifting her gaze to his shoulder, the threadbare cotton of his t-shirt. “Hurt me,” she murmured, but it felt like she was hurt. Like he’d reached inside her and broken something fragile and tentative with his bare hands. Snapped it in two without even looking at it first.
“You don’t want me,” she said.
“I don’t want to hurt you.”
She looked back at him, sharply, because those two things weren’t the same. His face was pained, features twisted up with an emotion she couldn’t label.
He exhaled in a rush. “Where is this coming from?” he asked, but guilt lurked in his eyes.
He’d thought about it, too, she realized. He’d wondered.
Maybe. She hoped.
“I…” she started.
His phone rang, and he rolled away from her to reach for it, breathing a relieved sound.
Red let her hands fall to the mattress and stared at the line of his back, the musculature visible beneath his thin shirt.
He’d said he didn’t want to hurt her.
But he had.
*
The phone call was from Jake: news about the truck. Bad news, she guessed, judging by the heavy frown that graced Rooster’s face as he stood and started rummaging through his duffel bag for clothes.
“We gotta head to the garage,” he said, tone flat. His all-business voice.
Red took a moment to sit up and let the room stop spinning, sighing quietly to herself. When he got like this, there was no shaking him out of it. Their conversation, however strange and disappointing, had come to a close for now.
She showered, brushed her teeth, and frowned at her too-pale, black-haired reflection in the mirror. The dye made her face look sallow and sickly; she had a true redhead’s skin tone, and the black leached all the meager color from her cheeks. There was nothing to be done for it, though, so she dressed and followed Rooster out of the room, waited patiently while he checked that the door was securely locked once, twice, three times.
After, he ushered her forward with the usual gesture of his arm; he always wanted her to walk a half-step ahead of him, so he could guard her from all sides at once. This morning, though, she was struck by the way that gesture never actually brought them in contact. He didn’t hook his arm around her, or slide her arm through his, no. At least a foot separated them.
He would have said he had to keep his gun hand free, and she knew that. She was being stupid. She…
Her breath hitched and she realized she hadn’t moved off down the sidewalk, was standing rooted in place, staring blankly at him, his arm held out in invitation.
He frowned at her. “You okay? You still tired?”
She jumped on the excuse. “Yeah, I…” She blinked back sudden hot tears, ashamed of herself. “But I’ll be fine. Just a little shaky still.”