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“No.”
“Annalise—”
She turns her head sideways on the pillow. “No,Tripp.Now stop being paranoid and let. Me. Sleep.” She yanks the covers over her head, leaving my bruised ego to heal on its own.
Annalise
I do feel bad about Marco sleeping in his truck. He says he was heading home to New Mexico anyway, but I have my doubts, and if he were alone, he might have driven through. No matter what he says, this stop was for me. He’s been very attentive to my condition, my needs, and I’m uncomfortably floored by that. Tripp’s sister or not, he barely knows me, owes me nothing, and yet, he’s the one balled up in the cab of a pickup while I stretch my limbs in a queen-sized bed—with a spare on the other side of the nightstand. Beds that he paid for, no less.
What a joke, my prudish insistence on separate quarters. I mean, under normal circumstances, of course separate is right, but in this muddle? He’s either laughing or cussing me. A week ago I leave a bar with him. Tonight, I toss him to the curb, close to literally. It isn’t that I don’t trust him. Incredibly, he’s shown himself reliable and…safe…over and over again. I’m the flake in this low-budget production.
Instead of being gracious about the chicken tortilla soup he brought me from the little diner across the street, I grumbled about my sleep being disturbed—then scarfed it down while he showered one wall away. If I weren’t so miserable, yep, that’d be a little unsettling.
So, I offload my empty to-go container to the nightstand and feign sleep, but in truth, I’m peering surreptitiously when he emerges, his wet hair poking in all directions and his fitted t-shirt, a soft, steely gray, clinging to his muscles. I like his square jaw, still unshaven, and somehow the overload of tattoos works for him.
Finally, he sets a fresh cup of water on the nightstand, takes a pillow from the extra bed, cuts the lamp on the small dresser, and whispers for me to text if I need anything. Faking sleep, I let the kindness go unacknowledged.
As soon as the door latches behind him, I flip onto my back and stare up at the sparkly popcorn ceiling. Why am I not sleeping? I should be sleeping. There isn’t a part of my body that doesn’t ache. What if the doctors missed something? I can’t fathom that this is what being on the mend feels like.
Since it’s dark and I’m alone, I’m going to admit it: I wish Marco were here. Not necessarily in this bed because, truly, I’m not that kind of girl, but sawing logs in the neighboring one would be great. He’s calm in the midst of chaos, kind in the face of ugliness. Mine, to be exact. Marco graciously looks after me with none of the craziness my family would bring, not to mention the burden of their sadness and the quiet disappointment that I just know would permeate it all.
Someday I’ll pay him back, for the motel, the food…everything. How dare Tripp accuse Marco of hurting me. Shouldn’t he know his friend better than that?
When this is all over, my dear brother will be getting a piece of mind.
∞∞∞
My eyes fly open and any semblance of sleep is gone. I heard something. I don’t know what, but a jarring sound yanked me from the deep sleep I finally fell into, what feels like hours ago. I listen for more, and within seconds I begin to hear shouting, not immediately next door but in the vicinity. I throw back the covers, but before my feet find the floor, the door opens.
“Marco?”
“It’s me. You alright?” He closes the door and flips the metal guard over it.
I nod, which he can’t see in the dark. “What’s going on?”
“Some jerk plowed into one of the concrete posts in front of a room a few doors down. The guy stumbled inside and now it sounds like he and some woman are fighting.”
I press my hand to my chest as if that will steady the pounding. “Should we call the police?”
He switches on a lamp. “Someone already did.” Marco drops into the chair near the foot of my bed. “I’m giving the cops five minutes and then I’m going down there.”
My pulse leaps. “No.”
Squinting, he looks adorable with his hair all sleep mussed. “You worrying about me?”
“Huh. I’m worrying about me. Just be sure and leave your keys if you go so if anything happens I’m not stranded in this dump.”
Watching me, he taps the side of his thumb on his Nike shorts. “Keys. Got it.”
Suddenly, another round of shouting ensues and quickly escalates. And then a gunshot. Marco shoots to his feet, patting the center of his back. Of course he has a gun. I should have known.
“Don’t go.” But his hand is already on the door.
Mr. Easygoing’s face has hardened into a shockingly scary affect. “I won’t be long.”
“Marco!”
“Stay put, Annalise. Stay inside, and whatever you do, do not open the door for anyone except me or the cops.
