I close my eyes, wishing when I opened them I would find this has all been just one, long, horrific nightmare.
19
Dove
I openmy eyes to Tate sitting next to me on the floor. His face just inches from mine.
“How long have you been there?”
“Long enough to hear you snore.”
“I don’t snore.” I swipe at him, and he laughs.
“I didn’t want to wake you. You looked peaceful. That rarely ever happens.”
“There is rarely ever peace in my life.”
“There can be if you let it.” He touches my cheek, swiping his thumb upward along my heated skin.
“I wish it was as easy as you make it sound.”
“Me too,Tiburona, me too.”
I roll over with an ache in my side. I let Tate tend to me. I have no energy left to fight. He lifts my shirt and pulls the bloody bandage away.
With the most tender touch, he wipes all around the gash until it’s clean. After, he applies some antiseptic to the square piece of gauze and places it over the fleshy wound.
“All better.” He leans in and kisses the dressing, and my stomach quivers. My reaction to him doesn't go unnoticed, but it does go unaddressed. Which I am thankful for. My feelings for Tate are still so chaotic. Half the time I want to kill him, and half the time I want to ravage him.
It’s a complicated in-between to live in.
I close my eyes, desperate for more sleep.
Tate doesn’t move from his spot on the floor. I can feel him looking at me, watching me, but I don't care.
For the first time since I found out who he really is, I’m comfortable with him next to me. I don’t know what tomorrow will bring, but I hope it’s a little bit of stability and a little bit of peace.
* * *
Being coopedup with Tate hours on end is a little bit maddening.
So far, we have played three games of poker, two games of gin rummy, and five rounds of go fish. We have polished off all the tacos from last night, and watched seven episodes of a telenovela Tate had to translate for me. He made it extra entertaining by changing up the character voices.
I’ve come to realize being cooped up is not for me.
“Is this what a stakeout is like?”
Tate looks up from his phone as he lounges on one of the beds. “Yup, except the van is usually dirtier and smellier.”
“Ewww.”
“It’s not for everyone.”
“How long have you been a DEA agent?”
My question garners his full attention. Up until now, we have sort of danced around the subject.
“Seven years.”
