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“Well, it has to be hard to work on sleeping. It’s not like something you can really control. If you don’t sleep hard, your sleeping partner—me, in this case, and maybe who you meant in this scenario—it might be easy to get you to scoot over. If not, Imight have to be tougher about it. Really shove at you to get you to move.”
I was starting to be able to see better in the dark, my eyes focusing until I could pick out some of his features. He smirked at me. “Sounds like no fun.’
“No fun. That’s right. So would it be worth it to have to go through that effort? Is sleeping with you that much fun?”
He laughed. “Maybe not the sleeping part, but the other things we could do in a bed might make it worth it. You’ll have to tell me.”
I shifted, utterly fascinated by the turn of the conversation, but I wanted clarification. It felt important not to misunderstand him at the moment. “We’re both acting like there might actually come a time when I would sleep with you—sorry, let’s be clear, have sex with you. Do you think that’s true? Or are we just playing around? Sometimes I have a hard time telling.”
“You don’t, actually, because you’re really good at reading people. You just started doubting yourself a few years ago. No one watched people more closely or understood them more clearly than you for most of your life, and I have no idea what changed that for you. I’d love to hear about whatever happened sometime, but I doubt you’d tell me. Maybe you don’t know yourself, so I’ll have to figure that out myself? Probably.” He sighed. “I think it’s highly likely we’ll sleep together one day, Bridget. Sorry, have sex. For now, Iknowyou’re going to sleep with me. We’re both going to sleep, in fact, in about ten minutes or so.”
The dark made it possible to speak truthfully, without artifice, like it created a protective barrier that doubt and embarrassment couldn’t get through. Darkness as a shield? Even though I knew I would likely regret being so honest with Michael in the morning. Just moments ago, I considered never making one particular confession in my whole life.
But in the night, I could be honest. “Truthfully, Michael? I hate sex. We can have it if you want, I guess, but even when I want it, I always end up wishing I didn’t bother.” I yawned. “But, yes, I think I’ll go to sleep. Probably sooner than in ten minutes, which proves you don’t know everything.”
He was quiet, so I wondered if I’d finally managed to put him off. I knew it was always going to be a matter of time. I snuggled into the blankets further, because it ended up being easier than the real conversation—the one when I turned down his beautiful offer four years ago, then I ran like hell and never discussed it again.
Michael rolled onto his stomach and winced. I shook my head and sighed. Why did he keep hurting himself?
His deep voice rumbled across my skin, causing delightful little prickles of pleasure when he spoke. “When we have sex, you’ll like it. You’ll more than like it. You’re going to love it, because I won’t rest until you do, my sweet Bridget. That’s something we can both think about tomorrow and the next day.”
“Michael,” I said then touched his hair. “Roll over onto your back. I’m in no mood to take you to the hospital tonight to get your stitches fixed.”
“I could fix them myself, but I will roll over.” He took my hand in his and kissed my palm. “Have good dreams. You’re not alone. I’d kill anyone who came at you tonight.”
Now there is an image. My lips curled in amusement as I pictured it behind my closed eyes—Michael, shirtless, gun drawn, and firing at someone coming through the door. My imagination roved my gaze downward, following the trail of tempting hair until it vanished into gray pajama pants. I joked, “Just make sure they’re not here to, you know, bring me dinner or something before you kill them all, okay?”
He lifted his head, his mouth twitching. For whatever reason, he did find me funny when most people didn’t. I wasn’t normally known for my sense of humor. “I’ll try to be discerning.”
“Can you even hold a gun right now?” I didn’t actually know if he was right or left-handed.
“Not as well as I can fire with the hurt one. It’s fine. There are lots of ways to kill someone.”
Hadn’t he said something about watching television together,I wondered as I closed my eyes.
Six years earlier
“Congratulations, Bridget,” Michael greeted me as I exited the auditorium where we’d just graduated high school. My father hardly paid attention, even during my speech, his eyes on his phone while I thanked teachers and friends for the memories we had made along the way. The crowds of kids around us celebrated loudly, but I just needed to get outside. Away from them, away from my father, and away from all of it. I didn’t think there was one person in the entire building I would still want to know in five years, other than my sisters. My brother hadn’t bothered to come see us graduate, so I didn’t need to decide if I liked Justin or not in the moment, which was for the best. It was a complicated question.
Layla would agree with me, I thought. Our high school companions—I wouldn’t call them friends—were too much, but Hope loved friends. She was happily talking, her face animated as she stopped every couple of feet to give someone else a hug.
“Thanks,” I smiled up at him, when someone jostled me into him. I hadn’t known he’d be there. Plenty of hidden securitylikely filled the room while we graduated, but we didn’t really need Michael there. He was pretty much just with my father lately, anyway. Next to him, a beautiful, slender woman lounged in a stunning black dress that slinked up her body to match the cheerful top hat she artfully displayed among her curls. It was daring, like the slit in the skirt that crawled high up her tanned thigh, but she was gorgeous. I didn’t care at all about fashion, but I was sure Layla and Hope would have recognized the label of the designer of her gown just by the cut. I mostly wore what they told me to wear.
Not anymore. At eighteen, I didn’t have to pose anymore, not if I didn’t want to do it.
“Hi.” The woman in the slinky black gown held out her hand. “Oh, how adorable you are! So much prettier than in those pictures. Why do they always make you look like the dowdy one?”
“Hey,” Michael snapped at her. “That’s not nice and not true.”
She waved her hand in the air. “Sorry, I just talk. I’m paying you acompliment. I’m Christine, Michael’s girlfriend. I insisted on coming when he said he wanted to stop by the Redheads’ graduation.”
He sighed. “Pretty sure I said Radfords.”
Christine kept talking—she hadn’t lied, she clearly enjoyed talking. “Ihaveto meet Layla and Hope. I’m hoping they’ll want to wear my stuff.” She was a designer, which made more sense. “And you, too, Bridget…if you want to.”
“I don’t.” I smiled at her, but the expression held no warmth. “Thanks for coming, though. It’s so nice to have friends in the audience.” It was polite, I hoped. “My sisters and my father are inside.”
Christine whirled around and grabbed a brown bag. “We came with gifts! It’s your graduation, but I picked them out. He’d never know what to get for three teenage girls.”
