Page 13 of The FBI Agents Who Stole Me

I pull her in tight once more.

“Love you, sissy,” I say before leaving.

She never came home to watch movies with me that night.

My body tosses in bed, and the memories fracture as I try to wake up. My chest aches. That was the last conversation we had. I failed her. I should have pushed harder or demanded she tell me what was going on.

Emily.

I’ve never felt so broken.

Another turn on the bed, or attempt, I suppose. My limbs are heavy, and only twitch then do nothing.

Why did I drink so much? That’s my first thought. And why are my eyelids stuck together? Can eyelids stick together, or are they actually stuck to my eyeball?

I could ask Julian. He knows a lot about the body. The human body, not so much mine anymore. I miss his touch. He hates me now.

Wait. Julian… He did this. My hand flies to the side of my neck, but without full control it just flops uselessly back to the mattress.

“You motherfucker,” I try to scream. The sound that drags out is raw and garbled.

I pry my eyes open and look around. Wood-paneled walls close in around me, the air thick with the scent of pine and old cedar. A narrow window frames nothing but dense green trees pressing against the glass.

A cabin. He brought me to a cabin knowing damn well how I feel about nature.

The man himself appears in the doorway. His broad shoulders cut off what little light reaches the hall.

“Don’t sit up,” he says.

I try anyway. My body betrays me. The room spins fast, and I collapse back onto the pillow with a frustrated huff. The fabric is too soft for this rustic setting.

“Are you hungry?”

Yes. But I won’t tell him that.

“I’ll get you a sandwich and some water.”

“No, thanks.” My words are slurred.

I think I’m drooling. Damn it, drool is not sexy. Not that I want to be sexy for him. We are broken up. I go from mad, to horny, to sad in under a minute. I blame the drugs.

“Go back to sleep. We’re going to talk when you wake up.”

He walks out through the doorway the same way he came in, without a care in the world.

I stare at the ceiling, thinking of my apartment. It must be gone now. Burned to the ground along with the evidence turned to ashes. I loved it there. The thought makes the anger burn hotter.

Elliot.

My eyes sting. I didn’t see that coming, even if we were broken up. If we were even ever really together. Was everything fake between us?

My chest seizes. An uncontrollable sob slips through my mouth before I can stop it.

With a body that refuses to obey me, there isn’t much I can do. I curl into the pillow and cry myself to sleep again.

I wake up to the smell of something cooking. It’s savory, onions and garlic, maybe bacon sizzling in the pan.

My legs feel less like deadweight now, and the throbbing behind my eyes has dulled to a low pulse.