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“I had a nightmare.” What the fuck? I replied almost instantly. I could feel my body inching toward him, as if he held a magnet only I responded to. I wanted to say fuck off, I wanted to bite my tongue, but he had an undeniable pull.
Vic didn’t change his tone, asking, “What kind of nightmare?” I knew I would do anything for him if only he asked in that voice. It was soothing but at the same time completely powerful.
“The kind with memories.” I looked away. Even Vic’s intense, mesmerizing gaze couldn’t captivate me as the nightmare washed over me again. I could feel my heart beat faster. Dean’s face started to flood my brain. Shit. Shit, shit, shit. I so didn’t want to lose it in front of Vic. He was always so composed.
Too late, shit lost.
I buried my head in my knees so hard that I saw white. Better I felt pain than fear. I heard the door close and figured Vic had left. Guess he was satisfied. Either that or he didn’t want to deal with an emotional train wreck. Then I heard a squeak, as if someone were sitting in a chair. I jumped again. God, my nerves were frayed.
“It’s just me.” Vic’s voice ghosted through the darkness.
I blinked a couple times, my eyes readjusting to the black, until I saw him. He was sitting in the corner in my favorite wingback chair.
“Why are you still here?” I asked. There was no trace of fear or anger in my voice, just curiosity.
He shrugged, his well-defined muscles showing themselves through his black sweater. “I guess I wanted the company.” Vic smiled.
Oh man. If I wasn’t a complete basket case, I would have attempted to jump him. His smile was swoon-worthy. I knew he was staying for me, but I appreciated his attempt to save my dignity.
“Look,” I said, trying to find my words. “I’m really not in the mood to talk—”
Vic held up his palm, stopping me. “Just go to sleep.”
“What are you going to do?”
“Sleep.” He responded as if he’d said “duh.”
“In that chair?” I asked, incredulous.
“I’ve slept in worse.”
I didn’t want to invite him into my bed. Ever since Dean, I was pretty terrified by the idea of a man in my bed. It made me feel too . . . too vulnerable. Vic in the chair though? That was okay. His presence was more like a gargoyle than a man. A stone figure to watch over me. Still, I felt like a shitty person sleeping on my mattress while he slept in a freaking chair.
“Stop,” Vic said, interrupting my spiraling logic. “Stop thinking, just go to sleep.”
I sighed. I barely knew this man, yet he seemed to know everything about me. How did he know I was thinking too much? I was too tired to think anymore. I’ll just lie my head down on the pillow for a minute.
I woke with a start, sweaty and confused. Light was seeping through the window blinds, and Vic was gone. I couldn’t decide if I was glad Vic was gone or not: Seeing him in the harsh light of day would make me feel so embarrassed—me, a grown woman with nightmares that needed to be watched and protected. Yet, I wanted him to be there; I wanted to wake up and see his face. I wanted to make sure my gargoyle was still there protecting me.
I wasn’t sure what to feel.
“Honestly? I just sort of woke up. I saw the road I was going down and I didn't like it. I was in college, wasting away, and I decided to wake the hell up and make something of myself. I stopped sleeping around and started focusing more on my studies. The cutting was a harder habit to kick. Sometimes I still get the urge.”
Vic and I were friends. The word still fit weirdly in my mouth, but that's what we were, friends. After the night he stayed over, something clicked between us. There was still romantic tension between us, hot and tight like an electric wire, but we ignored it. Mostly.
We had taken to getting lunch together. Or dinner. Or breakfast. W
henever one of us was free, we hung out. Sometimes, he would come over to my place, unannounced, like Kramer in Seinfeld. He would burst the door open and act like he owned the place (which, I suppose, he did). I'd gotten used to it, and a part of me looked forward to his daily visits.
This was one of those visits. He was sitting on my wingback chair while I put together a seating arrangement for a new party on the floor.
“Is that when you decided to be a party planner?” he asked, stroking the side of my chair.
Absentmindedly, I wished I was the chair and he was stroking me. I was a bad friend. Good friends don't think about their friends sexually.
Returning my gaze to the color-coded seating, I barked a laugh at his question. “No!”
Vic stopped stroking the chair, looking taken aback by my outburst.
