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Why is it that I can logically predict an entire faction of operatives’ responses and reactions in the field yet can’t seem to grasp what his will be in thisoneaspect?
Too tired and too not ready for another hard conversation – let’s be real, explaining our boss is my ex is hard enough – leaves me with no choice but to logically nod in compliance.
He didn’t say I had to tell him everythingnow.
I’ll ear mark that big reveal for my death bed.
Huh.
Myactualdeath bed, not hospital bed where IthoughtI was dying.
“Alright then,” he begins at the same time he leans over to open the bedside drawer. “Back to the beached whale radio that puts you to sleep…”
“It’s not beached whale radio,” I giggle while shaking my head. “Do you have any idea howsadthat shit would be?”
“Look, you’re the one into beluga depression.” Playfully nudging him with my knee occurs prior to him pulling out a tablet to use. “I just need to know if it’s a specific station or will anything in the category due.”
Doing my best to get comfortable underneath the covers, I reply, “Any kind of soft waves are good. They have this way of painting my mind white. Erasing all the colors of the day and easing me into just…the most peaceful state possible.”
“We definitely want you peaceful, Angel Cake.” Slater shoots me a sweet beam. “Especially after the hellish twenty-four hours you’ve had.” A couple taps later, gentle sounds of crashing water flood the speaker system I didn’t realize the room was wired with. My best friend carefully places the device on the nightstand, pulls up the cover a little higher, and offers me a kind grin. “Protocol dictates I keep the door open to maintain visual contact; however, if you need it closed, we can figure out a way to make that happen. Maybe use a video chat service for surveillance until I can get proper gear. It wouldn’t be the most secure, but-”
“Leaving the door open is totally fine.”
“Really?” He instantly lifts an eyebrow in suspicion. “No argument?”
“You asked me to let you do your job.” Fluffing my pillow under my head occurs on a crooked grin. “Would you like me to make it hard again?”
“Absolutely.Fuckin’. Not.”
After we exchange a round of small nickers, Slater slides my glasses off my face, places them on the nightstand, and says goodnight. I watch him exit his own room, turning off the lights on his way out, yet wait until I hear him land on the couch to close my eyes.
For the first few moments, I lay completely still.
Remind myself that while I’m in a very strange bed, it’s a familiar location.
That in spite of what happened to me exactly a day ago, I amsafe.
I amprotected.
I am…okay.
Turning away from the door becomes my next decision in the pursuit of sleep. I expect facing the direction I know houses his leather reading chair and favorite western novel to provide me with comfort and further feelings of reassurance; however, knowing those things are there but that he’s not, that he’s not relaxing, that he’s in the other room, watching, waiting for something awful to happen has me flopping around onto my back.
Looking up at the high ceiling.
Wondering how many times Slater’s aimlessly stared at it before bed.
Wondering what he thought about.
What he’sthinkingabout right now.
Is it me?
Is it about the other people he’s protected?
Others he’s rescued and saved?
What he might have to do to keep me safe?
