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And I’ve got a reason to win. I’ve got Alix.
It’s easy, the first five days after Dr. Hanson declares her clean. Alix’s body is still recovering from the heavy doses she ramped up to in such a short time and from her rapid detox. She sleeps most of the time. I follow the doctor’s orders, making sure she eats three meals a day, lots of Vitamin B12, heavy on the fruits and vegetables, tons of protein—all of it good for repairing damaged nerves.
Just like I promised, I keep my fucking hands to myself. My hands, my cock, the tools in the dresser drawer. There’s a part of me that wants sex with Alix, that craves that physical bond. But the doctor said Alix needs to heal.
I haven’t taken this many cold showers since I was sixteen years old. At this rate, my right hand is going to have callouses an inch thick. The worst part is waking in the middle of the night and knowing she’s just inches away. The smell of her… the heat of her…
A sane man would go sleep in the guest room. But I’m never putting that distance between us again.
Of course, none of this can go on forever.
We’re sitting at the counter in the kitchen. We watched the sun set over the treeline an hour or two ago. We made a dinner of cheese, crackers, and leftover steak from the fridge. I’m sipping an eighteen-year-old Glenfiddich that tastes like smoke and apples. She’s got an over-size mug of chamomile that she’s sweetened with honey. The room smells like autumn.
“With everything that’s happened,” she says, “I almost lost track that Thursday is Thanksgiving. I’m going to see if I can get a reservation somewhere in town.”
I frown. “Let’s get something catered. I don’t want to deal with families and screaming kids.”
She nods, like that makes sense. A minute or two later, she says, “There’s an auction coming up at Sotheby’s. Last one of the year—some really interesting works by Italian Impressionist painters. I thought we could go up there together.”
“The timing doesn’t work for me,” I say automatically. I realize she didn’t give me a date and I bite back a wince, hoping she won’t notice.
Her eyebrows peak, though. She knowssomething’sup. “I want to go to Tiffany’s,” she says. “To check out some holiday gifts for staff.”
I scowl. “Narrow things down online, and we can have someone bring samples here.”
Fuck. I answered too fast. She counters: “I’ve never seen the holiday show at Radio City Music Hall.”
I look her right in the eye and say, “Maybe next year.”
“Then how about the National Gallery of Art, down in DC? There’s a photography show that just got a great review in thePost.”
“No.”
She spreads her palms flat on the counter. I watch her take a deep breath. She doesn’t count out loud, but she might as well. I can hear the numbers in my own head. When she speaks, her voice is very small. “Is this because I vetoed all your ideas when I was high? Are you punishing me for using Crash?”
“No!” How the fuck can she think that? I reach out and turn her chair, framing her knees with my legs. “It’s not punishment. It’s common sense. I’m keeping us safe.”
“We can’t stay locked up here forever.”
“We don’t have to. Just until those cocksuckers are nailed.”
“What if that doesn’t happen?” From the way her voice slides into a new octave, I know she’s terrified.
I set my palms against her cheeks. “We’ll get them. They breathe and eat and shit like everybody else. And they can’t keep their heads down forever. We know every home they own. They’ve got a business to run. At some point, they’ll poke their heads over the goddamn horizon, and we’ll blow their motherfucking brains out. You just have to wait a little while longer.”
She draws a shaky breath, but before she can say anything the wall of glass beside us shatters into a million pieces.
37
ALIX
* * *
Trap reacts before I do. He pulls me off the bar stool, folding his arms around me like his body is made of steel. Somehow, he yanks us over the center island, sending the cheese plate flying. I’m fighting him by reflex, struggling to gain my feet, but he drags us down behind the counter. His palm spreads over my head as he presses me into the floor.
Only then do I realize my ears are ringing in the aftermath of some loud sound. My arms are etched with dozens of tiny cuts, each one beginning to ooze a little snake of blood. Cold air rushes in through the gap that used to be windows.
Trap raises a finger to his lips, telling me to be quiet. I obey, because I can’t think of what to say. None of this makes any sense.
