The Alignment (11 page)

Chapter 14

Trey

I
know I should
stop talking to her. She probably wants me to leave her alone, but I can’t help myself. I have to know how much she remembers about the other night, and what she can tell me I missed the last couple days. As soon as I know I can leave her alone.

Being out cold for two days must have made me delirious. Once I get my bearings back, things will be back to normal. I hover, feeling like I need to say something to her.

“Thanks for—”

“You don’t need to thank me.”

“…not leaving me out there to die.”

She tilts her head, sizing me up in a strange way. Then I notice her wrists again. My guilt is a cancer growing inside me. I don’t know how I could be capable of hurting her like that. My hands on her is one vivid memory I have of that night. An action so normal to me I rarely second guess it. My hand now cups her wrist. I’m not sure how it got there.

I am losing it.

“Sore?”

“Not…too bad,” she answers slowly.

She’s obviously trying to figure out why I care.
I’m
trying to figure out why I care.

“Have you been drinking that tea?”

“What? No.” I let go of her.

She eyes me for a moment before resuming her cleaning. My first reflex is to help her, but I feel like I’m overdoing it. She doesn’t need my help anyway. It makes no sense. I should make dinner, so I break away and head to the kitchen. I’ll get the information out of her, one way or another.

There are no fresh ingredients so I snatch some red potatoes and zucchini from the garden. River is gnawing on something behind the garage. I chuck a potato at her just to give her shit. It hits hard, inches from her paws. She doesn’t flinch but raises her eyes like I’ve got mine coming.

While I chop, I try to organize my thoughts, but there are too many things I need to ask her. Should I start with more recent things, like what did I miss this morning? Or should I ask her how much she saw of the fight after she woke up the other night? And how the hell did she move that bureau to get out of the bedroom? She materializes next to me, hands on hips. I look over at her to acknowledge her.

“What happened to all the dirty laundry?” she asks.

“I burned it.”

“You burned it? I was going to wash it!”

“Not worth the effort.” I look away. “It was a gorefest. There was more blood than fabric.” She doesn’t answer, so I add, “I’ll pick up some new stuff tomorrow.” I have no idea why I’m trying to appease her.

“Then what are we going to do about bedding for tonight?”

I glance over at her and just can’t help myself. “We could do the same thing you did the past two nights. You didn’t seem to have a problem.”

After the words are out, I wish I had phrased them as a question because, as much as I hate to admit it, I’m dying to know. There’s an unfamiliar thrill in my blood. I try to keep cool.

She changes the subject. “Can I put some ointment on your back? I don’t want it to get infected.”

Since she’s already unscrewing the lid to the ointment, I understand it was a rhetorical question. This is the nurse in her, doing her job, and nothing else. She cared for me for two days, so I can understand she wouldn’t want her hard work to go to waste.

Her cool fingers soothe my burning skin. “You must have a fever. You need to take a fever reducer. Okay, turn around.” It’s an order that should annoy me.

Tempted by that strange thrill, testing it, I oblige. I watch her face as she works on the cut across my chest and the one across my neck. Her bangs are swept to the side, out of her eyes, blending into osprey-brown hair streaked by the summer sun. I had myself trained not to notice these things about women. One blow to the head, and all that training went to shit? It can’t be possible. It isn’t me.

When she goes for my cheekbone, I feel like I’m being a pushover, so I swat her away. “That one’s fine.”

“No, it’s not. It’s going to split.”

“I’m cool with that.” I turn back to the stove.

She leaves the room. When she returns, she offers her balled fist to me. “Here.”

I take the pills and set them on the counter. This is getting to be too much. I need to put a stop to it. She fills a glass with water, sets it down next to the pills, and looks at me impatiently.

“Just leave it there.” I’m surprised at the lack of irritation that usually accompanies this kind of exchange.

She raises her eyebrows and nods toward the pills.

“I’ll take them later if I still feel warm.” God. Pushover.

I grab an onion and go back to cooking, doing my best to ignore her. We’re going to have to settle for canned beans since I didn’t soak any. I toss the sandwich bread she bought on the table—processed crap I’ve been pigging out on all day like it’s my birthday. When the vegetables are ready and the beans are warm, I turn off all the burners and mound my plate. I leave her clean plate on the counter, pour a scotch, and sit. I don’t need to call her. She’ll come when she’s hungry.

Several minutes pass and I’m halfway through my plate. I slow my pace. But it would be ideal to finish quickly so I don’t have to eat with her. Somehow that just doesn’t seem right. I toss back the rest of the scotch and refill my glass.

She finally joins me, wearing the jacket I let her borrow the night we took our walk together. She helps herself in silence. I offer her some scotch but she shakes her head. I can tell she wants to say something, but I try to ignore it and concentrate on my dinner.

I finish before her and get up. Sensing her eyes on me, I rinse my plate and put it aside. When I turn around she’s already looking away. I turn to leave the room.

“Are you going to fix the furnace?” Her words are gentle. An obvious effort not to nag.

“I doubt it’s broken. It’s probably just the pilot.” I open the door to go downstairs.

“When can I go back to my house?” There’s an unmistakable sadness in her voice. How I recognize it is beyond me.

“You can go back to your house whenever you want. I just don’t think it’s safe. For reasons you’re well aware of now.”

“Don’t you think if they wanted me they would have come yesterday?”

She’s right. They should have killed her and it would have been easy. It’s not something they’d overlook though, unless they thought I’d already done it. There’s no easy way to explain that to her. It’s something I’d rather keep to myself. It’s something I’d rather erase.

“They must have thought you were…gone.”

“Why?”

I search for an explanation that would satisfy her and exonerate me, but why am I bothering? I shrug and go down the stairs before she can respond. I don’t need to explain anything to her.

The pilot light is indeed off. I light it, go back upstairs, and set the thermostat. As soon as the house warms up, I’m going to burn my ass off. I return to the kitchen and take both pills on the counter as she watches.

She still seems upset. What do I care?

“So it works?” she asks.

“What?”

“The furnace.”

“Yeah, I just had to light the pilot.”

“But that still means we have no sheets or blankets. And I’d really like to pick up some of my warmer clothes so I don’t have to keep wearing yours.”

There it is again, that thrill. A long lost excitement rises inside me and I concentrate to suppress it. I need to get back to my normal self. This can’t go on.

If I wanted to be logical, she does have a valid point. “Okay. Let’s make a run to your place.”

I pull on a jacket and my running shoes and grab my keys. She’s already waiting at the front door. The unseasonable chill outside suggests a cold night ahead. I don’t know how she managed without heat last night. Well, I have a hunch, but I try to put it out of my mind while we both climb into the truck.

As I back out, she strains to look out her window toward where that body was. “Did you—”

“I took care of it.”

The sun has already set, leaving a sleepy blend of color in the sky still powerful enough to light the landscape with a soft glow. I look over at her. She appears to be lost in thought, staring out the window at the blur of scenery. It’s hard to control the need to strike up a conversation and ask her one of the many questions looming in my mind.

“I’m sorry,” I say without meaning to. I wasn’t even thinking it.

She abruptly looks at me but it takes her a moment to respond. “For what?”

“Everything.”

My eyes return to the road, but she continues to watch me. I crack my window, and the wind stirs her long hair around her shoulders.

“I just…moved out here to escape. To simplify my life. To get away from…everything.” She takes a deep breath and turns away from me to look out her window again. “I think it was the worst thing I could have possibly done. And now I’m trapped.”

She makes the last sentence sound so final, so hopeless. Like she has been defeated. My guilt eats her words up, relishing them, licking its fingers. I pull up to her house, and we both get out of the truck. Her dog stands from his watch on the porch as if he had been waiting for her for days. He probably has been waiting for days. As we get near, he comes toward us, and she stiffens and stops walking.

“What?” I search her face.

The dog licks her hand. “He’s never done that. He’s never been this friendly.”

“There’s a first time for everything. He misses you.” I find myself squinting in confusion at my own strange optimism.

“Is it awful that I’m afraid of him?”

“Why would you be afraid of your own dog?” A laugh stirs in my chest, and I breathe it out.

“He’s not my dog. He just lives here. He lived here before me.” Her eyes catch mine and hold them in a gentle captivity. An alarming comfort surges through me, like the ebb of a strong tide. Instead of swimming against it, I take a deep breath.

Instinct jolts me to reality. Something doesn’t feel right. I take her arm and pull her toward the front door while analyzing every object, shadow, and movement around us. As she rummages through her bag for her house key, I notice. “The lock has been picked.”

She looks up at me, then at the door. “How can you tell?”

I push the door open with my palm. It wasn’t even closed all the way.

“God, no,” she whispers.

Side by side, we peer inside the house beyond the creaking open door. Nothing in our line of vision looks to be out of place. The dog probably wouldn’t be here if someone was still around, but I pull her behind me as I check each room. At least they didn’t trash it this time. They must have found what they wanted the first time. They weren’t so lucky when they came back for something else.

I lead her back to the living room and let go of her hand which falls lifelessly to her side. She stands silent, motionless, so I spin her to face me. Tears streak her face, but she makes no effort to wipe them. “I’ll never be safe here,” she whispers.

When her eyes meet mine, it’s too late. Her grief has somehow infiltrated me. My control is lost. I crush her against me, my face in her hair. It’s that moment when whatever chemical you’ve consumed has finally saturated your brain, planting you in place with no desire to argue. Setting you free.

Too comfortable to fight it, I simply let myself be. The soft warmth of her body feels delicate against me. I feel her give, molding to fit me. Her hair smells like a forbidden pleasure, and I take a deep breath, savoring the lusty scent of female skin mixed with body heat. I never want to let go. Because it’s not just any chemical but
that
chemical. The one you’ve been craving. It’s settled in, lulling your nerves back into harmony, and you realize it’s more than a recreation. You’ve become too attached. You can’t live without it.

Reality hits me like a floodlight flipped on in the darkness. I unwrap my arms, grasp her shoulders and hold her out to arm’s length. She looks as shocked as I feel. I release her. She wipes her face with her sleeve. I need some time alone, time to think. This is madness.

“What are we here for again? We should get it and go.” My voice is not mine.

She blinks a few times before heading down the hall. I follow her. She loads my arms with sheets, blankets, a big comforter. I wait outside her bedroom as she shoves clothes into a bag. Then she’s in the bathroom grabbing things out of the cabinet and tub.

She leads us out the front door and pulls it closed, locking it with her key. After tossing her bags in the back of the truck, she climbs up front. I place the bedding on her lap. The truck engine startles the still air. We drive back to my house in amplified silence.

Dusk has descended on my house, bringing my attention to the air that has dropped several degrees during our absence. River raises her head from her station by the garage but doesn’t bother getting up, so I open Liv’s door and take the bedding from her lap so she can get out. The house is warm when we enter. I carry the bedding to the bedroom but stop, unable to enter because of the bureau. She drops her bags to the floor and holds out her arms, so I hand her the bedding and heave the bureau back down the hall.

We both go into the bedroom. I help her make the bed up with clean sheets and a comforter. Then I put one of the remaining blankets at the foot of the bed. She gives me this grin—it goes through me like a guided missile.

And I’m left standing alone in the room, staring at the wall like some dope who’s never had a woman smile at him.

I take the other two blankets out to the living room with me. Water rumbles through the pipes beneath my feet to the shower as I collapse on the couch. I take off my shoes, unzip my jacket and shrug out of it. The corner of something catches my elbow, so I pull it out from between the cushions. It’s one of my astronomy books from the basement. She must have gotten bored watching my stupid ass sleeping off a concussion for two days. This also means she went downstairs. I try to think of anything down there she shouldn’t see, but it doesn’t matter. She’s already seen too much.

Pulsing with energy yet unable to think, I know I could probably use a good run, but I don’t want to leave her alone. The only coherent thoughts I can manage are the nagging questions I’m dying to ask her. How did she get me in the house by herself that night? Did she see the other guy or what I did to him? What did she do to me while I was unconscious? Did she sleep next to me on the floor?