I grabbed my phone and stomped to his bedroom, but heard grunts coming from the gym. He was underneath a bench press with an atrocious amount of weights on the bar. The show-off.
“Did you send this?” I said. He placed the bar on the rack and sat up. He wiped his sweaty brow on the back of his hand, then looked at the phone.
“Send what?” he asked.
“This!” I thrust the phone in his face.
He stared for a moment. “What is it?”
“These came from an unknown number, like the picture from yesterday.” I crossed my arms. “Are you fucking with me? Why don’t you do it now? Get it over with. Kill me. What’s the point in scaring me first?”
Grant swallowed a deep breath, then held my eyes with his. “I didn’t send the pictures,” he said calmly. “Cameras aren’t allowed in Club Hades, especially not during Afterglow events.”
Panic rose in my throat, bile threatening to escape. “Then who the hell took these pictures?” I stammered. He took the phone and studied them, then turned off the screen. “I can’t deal with this.”
“What do you need?” he asked. I stared at him, waiting for an explanation. “What will make you feel safe?”
Safe. The concept was always so out of reach. Tears welled in my eyes. It wasn’t that I was scared, but I was exhausted. These last few weeks had been insane, and asking Grant for help was like asking the devil for a way back to earth.
“Zaid has surveillance equipment,” Grant offered. “I can install some around the apartment. I’m sure with enough prodding, the concierge will agree to cameras in the lobby.”
I blinked back the tears. I hated him—I mean, Iwantedto hate him, but I wanted him to hold me too. That was how shitty I felt.
“You’ll do that?” I stammered.
He nodded, then stood and grabbed a towel from a basket, wiping his face. He let himself out of the room but left the lights on. I stood there in the makeshift gym by myself. Soon, the sounds of Grant’s shower knocked me out of the trance.
In bed, I turned off my phone, only to turn it on again in case Heather needed anything. An hour later, after tossing and turning, I slipped on a shirt and bottoms, and crept down the hallway. The apartment was dark; the windows across from the walkway were dark blue, but you couldn’t see any stars in Las Vegas. The shadows of a television program flickered down the lengths of the walls. I don’t know what possessed me. But I did it without thinking. I needed to feel safe.
Was it wrong of me to do what my heart kept screaming to do? Following my heart had always gotten me into worse trouble than before. But I calmed my logical mind, reminding myself that this was the same man who had taken Micki to a shelter. He hadn’t left her behind.
Grant was in a king-sized bed like mine, though his bed was taller. A nature show played on the television on his dresser. Besides those two pieces of furniture, the room was otherwise stark. He was half sitting up, half slumped on the mattress, his eyes closed.
I lifted myself, trying to be as quiet as possible, but my weight dipped the mattress. I thought for sure he would wake up, but he didn’t. I slipped under the covers. It was warm, and so damn soft, softer than mine. I couldn’t help it; I scooted closer to him, rubbing my legs on his, wanting his body heat.
“You’re ice,” he said.
I startled, lifting myself up on my elbows, ready to dash out. “You’re awake?”
“I almost fell asleep,” he said. Did I hear a hint of agitation in his voice?
“Kick me out, then,” I huffed.
“No.”
My stomach twisted in knots. I had expected him to do one of two things: to kick me out, telling me that I had my own bed for a reason, or, the more likely response, to ignore me, and not saying a single word, as if I wasn’t there.
But he had said his response. He had actually said ‘no.’ Telling me he wouldnotkick me out of his bed.
Which was almost like telling me I was welcome.Almost.
I rested my head on the mattress. His plum sheets were like silk against my skin. The sheets smelled like him: spicy and masculine. He had showered after working out, but the sweat smell couldn’t escape. At least the lucky bastard smelled good when he sweat. I ran my fingers along the sheets, careful not to interrupt his attempt at sleep, but my fingers traced the side of his chest, his warm skin.
He lifted his head and adjusted the king-sized pillow, moving it towards me. Offering me a space on it.
On the ground, there were a few decorative throws and another king-sized pillow. He could have gotten one of those. But he hadn’t. He had offered me his. He wanted to share.
Maybe he was too lazy to pick up another pillow. I could have gotten one if I wanted, but I didn’t want to disturb the peaceful balance we had right then.
