Only My Beds

Chapter 3:

The room upstairs is small.

A bed that's too big for it. A dresser with a lamp. A window that looks out at the street. And a door with a deadbolt on the inside that's been there so long the brass has gone green.

Kael stands in the doorway with his shoulder against the frame.

"Bathroom's through there. Water's hot if you let it run."

I don't move.

"There's no motel in Blackpine," he says. "There's no hotel. There's no bed and breakfast. There's my bar, there's the room above it, and there's my bed."

I look at him.

"And that's supposed to make me feel safe?"

"No." He tips his head. "That's supposed to make you understand the situation."

---

He walks in and sets a paper bag on the dresser.

"Toothbrush. Soap. A comb. It's from the gas station. It was the only place open."

I look at the bag.

"You went to the gas station."

"I went to the gas station."

"At two in the morning."

"Carl opens at four. He came down when I called." Kael's mouth moves. "He didn't ask why."

I pick up the bag. It's got a green toothbrush in it and a bar of soap that smells like lavender and a comb that's still in the plastic.

"Thank you."

"Don't thank me yet." He walks to the door. "Rules."

I set the bag down.

"Of course there are rules."

"There are rules." He counts them on his fingers. "One. No phone. You don't have one, and I'm not getting you one. Not until I know what's coming through that door."

"Marcus is what's coming through that door."

"Then you don't get a phone." Second finger. "Two. You don't leave this building. Not the front, not the back, not the roof. Not for a cigarette, not for air, not for anything."

"And if I do?"

"Then Dutch will pick you up and carry you back in, and he won't be polite about it."

I look at him.

"Three." Third finger. "You tell me the truth. All of it. Not the version you tell the sheriff, not the version you tell a doctor. The real one. Every time I ask."

"And if I don't?"

"Then I can't protect you." He tips his head. "And I'm going to protect you."

The room's quiet.

"Why?"

He looks at me for a second.

"Because somebody should've," he says. "And it looks like nobody did."

---

He leaves.

The deadbolt turns from the inside.

I stand in the middle of the room for a long time. Then I go into the bathroom and turn the water on and let it run until it's hot.

I don't look in the mirror.

I know what's in there.

I get in the shower and stand under the water and let it run over my head and down my back and it stings the split in my lip and my ribs and the cuts on my feet from the gravel.

And then I start to shake.

Not crying. Not yet. Just shaking. The way your body does when it's been holding something too long and finally gets to put it down.

I put my hand on the wall.

And then I cry.

It comes out of me quiet. That's how I learned to do it. Quiet, so nobody hears. Quiet, so nobody comes. Quiet, so he doesn't get a reason.

I don't know how long I'm in there.

Long enough that the water goes cold. Long enough that my legs give out and I sit down on the floor of the shower with my knees pulled up and the water running over me.

Then there's a knock on the bathroom door.

"Elara."

I don't answer.

"Elara."

"I'm fine."

"You've been in there forty minutes."

"I'm fine."

Silence.

Then, quieter, through the door:

"You safe now, baby. Breathe."

---

I stop crying.

Not because he told me to. Because something in the way he said it — low, and steady, and not asking for anything — something in that gets through the noise in my head.

I breathe in.

I breathe out.

I turn the water off.

---

There's a towel on the back of the door. I dry off and I put on the shirt he left on the bed — a gray t-shirt, washed a hundred times, with a wolf on the front and IRON VIPERS under it.

It comes down to my thighs. The sleeves hang past my hands.

When I open the door, he's sitting on the floor in the hallway with his back against the wall and a shotgun across his knees.

He looks up.

"You're wearing my shirt."

"You left it on the bed."

"I know I left it on the bed." He tips his head. "I didn't think you'd put it on."

I look down at it.

"I didn't have anything else."

"That's not what I meant." He stands up. The shotgun comes with him. "Bed's yours."

"And where are you sleeping?"

He points at the floor.

"Absolutely not."

"It's a floor. I've slept on worse."

"You're six and a half feet tall."

"I know how tall I am."

"You can't sleep on the floor."

"Sure I can."

"Kael."

He stops.

It's the first time I've said his name. I don't know how I know it. The men downstairs called him Prez. But it's in my head and now it's out of my mouth.

He looks at me.

"You know my name."

"Everybody in this bar knows your name."

"Yeah." He tips his head. "But you didn't hear it from me."

The hallway's quiet.

"Take the bed," he says.

"Take the bed with me."

He goes very still.

---

I don't know why I say it.

That's a lie. I know exactly why I say it. Because I've been alone in a house with a man for two years and I know what it costs to be alone in a room. Because he told me I was safe and then he sat down in the hallway with a shotgun. Because I'm so tired I can't see straight and I don't want to be by myself.

And because some small, stupid part of me wants to know what he'll do.

He doesn't move.

"Elara."

"Don't." I pull the shirt tighter. "Don't tell me it's a bad idea. Don't tell me you're trying to be a gentleman. Don't tell me anything."

"I wasn't going to say any of that."

"Then what were you going to say?"

He sets the shotgun against the wall.

"I was going to say that if I get in that bed with you, I'm not going to sleep." He tips his head. "And neither are you."

I look at him.

"Then don't sleep."

---

He doesn't move for a long moment.

Then he picks up the shotgun and walks to the door and sets it against the frame. He turns the deadbolt.

And then he comes down the hall.

He stops in front of me. Close enough that I have to tip my head back.

"You're mine now," he says.

"That's not—"

"Not like that." His voice is flat. "You're in my bar. You're wearing my shirt. And every man in this town knows what that means. Anybody comes through that door looking for you, they answer to me."

"That's not what I asked for."

"No," he agrees. "But it's what you're getting."

He puts his hand on the back of my neck. Not hard. Just there. Warm and heavy and steady.

"Now here's what we're going to do," he says. "We're going to get in that bed. And you're going to sleep. And I'm going to lie there next to you with my eyes open and my hand on the gun on the nightstand and I'm going to make sure nothing comes through that door."

I look up at him.

"And if something does?"

"Then I'll handle it." He tips his head. "And you'll keep sleeping."

---

He gets in the bed first. Shoes off. Shirt on. Shotgun on the nightstand with the barrel pointed at the door.

I get in after him.

The bed's too small for both of us. He's on his back with one arm behind his head and the other at his side and I'm on my side with my back to him and maybe four inches between us.

He doesn't touch me.

He doesn't move. He doesn't breathe loud. He doesn't do anything except lie there and stare at the door.

I fall asleep in about ninety seconds.

---

I wake up at four in the morning to the sound of a chair scraping.

Not in the room. Downstairs.

I lift my head.

The bed's empty. The shotgun's gone.

And in the doorway, with the hallway dark behind him and the shotgun across his knees and his back against the frame, Kael's sitting on the floor with his eyes open and his jaw set.

He didn't sleep.

He's been sitting there for three hours.

He hears me move.

"Go back to sleep, doll."

"Kael—"

"Go back to sleep."

I lie back down.

And I do.

Chapter 3 Ends.