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Jealousy?
No.
It had to be something else.
I didn’t get jealous.
“It’s more that… I don’t think he would approve of anyone calling him their friend,” she said. “He’s… let’s call him anti-social,” she decided.
And given Murphy’s lack of connection to others, I figured that was likely saying something.
“Will he lose his shit if I come?” I asked.
“He’ll… deal with it,” she said, shrugging. “I pay him for the use of his land. I imagine it’s probably the only income he gets.”
We finished the walk, we went home to eat, then we each got ready for bed.
It was all… surprisingly seamless, considering the situation.
And I’d just fallen asleep when I’d heard her cries again.
I knifed up off of the couch, making my way into the hall, and opening the door to find Miranda and Samantha making little whimpers and pacing the room.
“Don’t worry, girls,” I said, patting their heads. “I’ve got this.”
I don’t know what I expected when I shook her awake again.
But it wasn’t for her to throw herself into my arms, her face resting against my chest as she let out a sob.
“It’s okay. You’re alright,” I assured her, one arm holding her close. The other started to stroke down her hair. “I’m not going to let anything happen to you.”
The craziest fucking thing was… I meant that.
I wanted to uphold that vow.
Not just for the week while she worked on the guns for us.
Forever.
What the hell was that about?
CHAPTER EIGHT
Murphy
I guess you could say I never truly confronted my feelings about what had happened, about the memories and the nightmares.
I didn’t go to therapy and work through it.
I didn’t have any friends or family to confide in.
So I did what seemed possible for me.
I worked hard to make sure it didn’t happen again.
I bought the cabin. And the other safe house I decided not to tell Sway about.
I got a better security system.
I paid for the lot out back.
I got my trained dogs.
I hid weapons all over my condo, and some even outside of the building, just in case.
I addressed the danger of it happening again.
But not the trauma of what had already happened.
So, yeah, I jumped at shadows. I expected the worst from people. I trusted no one.
And, of course, I had the nightmares.
Some were worse than others, dreams that felt so real I could feel the pain on my body, felt trapped in the fear and helplessness until something finally forced me toward consciousness again.
That first night back at my place was one of those bad nights. Where the space between reality and memory blurred, where I felt like I was in it all over again, living through each hellish moment.
When I woke up and it was kind hands touching me, I just… lost it.
I wrapped myself around him as the sobs that I’d been refusing to release finally broke free, racking my body, shaking into his.
And he, a practical stranger, just held me.
He didn’t try to pull away, insist that this had nothing to do with him, leave me to my own misery.
He stayed.
He ran his fingers through my hair.
He told me he was there, that he wasn’t going to let anything happen to me.
The craziest part, though, was that I believed him.
I mean, not in the long-term. Of course. But in the short. If someone were to burst into my place right then, for example, I believed he would do everything in his power to protect me. Even if I hated the idea of letting a man do that for me.
The thing was, I didn’t really, truly have much of a parental figure growing up. Yes, I had my dad. And, yes, he provided money to keep us from becoming homeless. He also gave his own version of love and care. But because he was so averse to riding in cars, to crowds, to people as a whole, I’d needed to grow up fast.
I had been taking care of myself for a long time before he passed, leaving me wholly alone in the world.
So I’d never needed or relied on anyone to take care of me, to protect me. I handled it all myself.
That independent part of me grumbled at the idea of leaning on a man. The part of me that had once needed protection when I wasn’t capable of protecting myself, though, leaned into the safety of having someone else around to help.
So I let him hold me.
I believed in the sincerity of his words.
“How about we have another sleepover?” he suggested when I finally pulled away, reaching for a tissue off of my nightstand, and rubbing at my tear-stained face.
“What do you mean?” I asked.
“I mean… how about I sleep here? That way, I can catch any bad dreams before they get to that point again,” he said, already climbing over me to get to the free side of the bed.
