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Rory
OPERATION “LET’S KEEP RORY ALIVE.”
“Three minutes until we’re out the door,” Drake calls from the hallway outside my bedroom. I stand at the end of my bed and stare down at the pile of clothes that magically appeared for me overnight.
And by magically, I mean Detective Archer Malone, or someone he knows, went shopping for me. Three pairs of jeans, all loose-fitting to make room for my still swollen leg. A half dozen shirts that range in full sleeves, down to no sleeves. Some have buttons, others are pull-over. None have pictures or weird branding on the front.
Completely non-descript, which, I suppose is entirely intentional.
A pair of Nikes sit in a box, and though Drake didn’t ask for coats, Malone thought to get those, too. Plus socks. And Chapstick. Anti-inflammatory medications call to me, and a small first aid kit almost seems like a bad omen.
Like he knows we’ll need it at some point. And that potential future sucks as much as the bus-dragging thing.
Fortunately, Archer was mindful enough to buy a bag to put everything in, so as I choose an outfit for today, I stuff the rest back in the bag and zip it closed. So next time I’m forced to escape in a hurry, I can hopefully take my things and have a toothbrush to clean my teeth with before bed.
“Aurora?” Drake thuds a fist on the door and makes me jump as I work to step into jeans. “I said three minutes. What are you doing?”
“I’m getting dressed.” I slide my right leg into the denim and hiss as the movement hurts my bruised hip. Shimmying to bring the pants up and fixing the button and zipper, I shrug into a long sleeve, but it has a short torso so fabric and denim meet, but there’s no crossover. If I stretch up tall, my belly will be exposed to the world.
Thankfully, I pull on a coat next and brush my hair quickly to tame the frizz from going to sleep with wet locks. I spy the package of hair elastics and grab two, then sectioning my hair, I braid each side of my head and secure it with a tie before sitting on the end of the bed and pulling on socks and shoes.
My life is on fire right now. It’s highly possible I’m going to die soon, and even more likely it’ll hurt. But there’s a small, materialistic shred of my consciousness that notices the expensive new shoes cushioning my feet. The soft socks, not stiff from washing and wearing on repeat for years. There are no holes in my underwear. No frayed ends of my jeans from where they drag on the ground. My shirt is soft and hangs on my body in all the right ways, and though my coat feels a little bulky and warm inside this room, I know once we step outside, I’ll appreciate every morsel of protection it brings me.
“One minute,” I call out, finishing the lace on one shoe and swapping feet to do the same on the other. “I’m hungry, so do you think we could—”
“I already got you food.” Like he knows I’m dressed, or he doesn’t care, Drake surprises me by opening the door and holding a paper bag and to-go coffee. He wears a fresh outfit today, not all that different from yesterday’s. Jeans, a black button-up shirt, and boots that would hurt if he stomped a man with them.
His hair is freshly combed and still a little wet from the shower I didn’t hear him take. When I finish my laces and set my foot on the floor, he wanders into the room and takes my hand to pull me up to stand. “Coffee first,” he murmurs, placing the cup in my hand and nudging it up until the plastic lid touches my lips. “Then food. Eat fast, since you can’t really eat and walk at the same time.”
“I could probably eat in the car,” I argue, but I sip the perfectly warm—not too hot, and definitely not cold—coffee, and swallowing that down, I catch the scent of something else. Pastry and butter. “Is that a croissant?”
He takes my coffee and replaces it with the paper bag. “Ham, cheese, and tomato. If you don’t like that, I can get you something else.”
“No. I like it.” I open the top of the bag and stuff my nose inside to inhale. “I’ll pick the tomato off and call it a day.”
“Alright.” He steps to the door and grabs the crutches I’ve already sized up this morning. But when he offers them, I shake my head and tilt my chin toward the cane instead. He stops for a beat and studies my request before swapping and turning back to face me. “You prefer the stick?”
I reach out and take it in my left hand. “It’s easier to use,” I answer, placing my weight on the stick and breathing a sigh of relief as I bring my breakfast bag down. “One-handed. It doesn’t hurt my arms, and it’s way easier to maneuver.” Drawing a fortifying breath and releasing it again—my signal to myself that a new day is beginning—I step past Drake and head into the hall. “Did you sleep last night?”
“Yeah.” He follows me out and closes the door, the snick of the catch echoing along the hall. “I caught a couple of hours while Malone was on the door.”
“Sohehasn’t slept?” I emerge into the living room to find both of the other detectives staring back at me. I jump in surprise and crush my breakfast in my fist. “Shit!”
“Sorry.” Archer Malone raises his hands in surrender and stays on the other side of the room to give me space. Comfort. Reassurance. “Detective Fletcher and I took shifts on the door last night. I slept while he was on duty. He slept when I was on.”
“Which means the three cops who swear to protect me today are functioning on minimal, broken sleep?” I argue, my heart pounding so the sound fills my ears. I head to the counter and set my pastry down, then releasing my cane and standing on my own, I open the bag and flip the top half of the croissant off to reveal the tomato ready for me to pick and toss away. “The men I’m trusting my life to,” I continue, “are at risk of nodding off at the wheel?”
Archer chuckles in dismissal. “We’re always working on minimal sleep, Ms. Swanson. It’s how we function best. What matters is that you got sleep?”
He waits while I pick apart the food he or someone else bought for me. And when I say nothing at all, but reassemble my breakfast, he asks again as I turn. “Did you sleep?”
“Yep.” I take a bite like it’s a big, fat juicy burger and speak around the clump in my mouth. “Got a few hours.”
“Is there anything you need?” Detective Fletcher asks. “Anything we can do to make this is a little more comfortable?”
I choke out a scoff, resulting in a small flake of croissant flittering from my lip and diving toward the floor. “The men looking to hurt me make me uncomfortable, Detective. Theirreasonsfor hurting me, make me uncomfortable.” I bring my gaze up and meet Detective Malone’s. “The fact Detective Banks doesn’t trust you makes me uncomfortable.”
Malone’s eyes harden and jump to the mouth of the hall, where Drake stands. “Really, Banks?”
