waiting while he swallows the pills. I grab one of the pillows and take it out to the couch.
He’s climbed into bed when I return for an extra blanket. Too different, too many faces, and I can’t reconcile his earlier words with the man in front of me. “You didn’t really mean that, did you? Earlier?”
“If you’re going to be vague about it, yes, I meant it.”
I open my mouth to continue, and some part of my mind scolds me. The horse is dead. It’s time to stop beating it. This aching, beaten man is far more complex than he’ll admit. That’s all I need to know.
And I’ll do well to remember he only kissed me so the next time I murmur a man’s name in my sleep, it’d be his.
“Never mind,” I mutter. “Good night.” I shut the door behind me, strip off my clothes, and fall onto the couch, squirming to pull the blankets over me.
The dreams that come are fractured, fragments of Ryan and I, pieces of Declan, and always, always a city bent on grinding itself into the dust.
Chapter Ten
Obviously, the “club” doesn’t open the next night.
Murat comes by with detailed descriptions of the carnage, and my anger rises with each word. Pointless, completely and utterly pointless. Innocent people dying because not so innocent people think it’s a good tactic to keep others in line.
Declan just gives me a mild look as I sit fuming, hands clenched into fists. “Going out?” he asks once Murat leaves.
“No,” I mutter. I’m not stupid enough to go tearing through the streets to find Cristian and demand an explanation for the government’s actions. This isn’t my war, anyway. Who wins isn’t my concern. I can’t bring myself to stop stringing him along, not yet. The information he unwittingly passed on is why there were Molotov cocktails at the ready the day Declan was beaten.
And I can’t quite give up the hope that he might be able to help clear my name so I can go home.
Morning slides into afternoon, into evening, into night, and we wake and do it all over again. Days pass. We spend hours sitting in the quiet of my flat, sometimes reading, sometimes having actual conversations where those little tidbits you glean about one another are exchanged. He’s the oldest of five and older than me. Our mutual love of
The Master and Margarita
leads to the discovery of other favorite books and movies, though his taste in music is atrocious. I tell him about the time I convinced my brother I was Santa’s special helper and could get him anything he wanted for Christmas as long as he was my slave. He told me how he’d dislocated his shoulder twice before, once playing rugby, once reaching for a shot on location in Kabul.
“You’ve been to Afghanistan? By choice?” Another level of hell. A hot, swirling dust storm of hell.
He shrugs, then rotates his injured shoulder. He can do it now without the fine lines of strain running over his face. “The money was good.”
“I’m beginning to sense a pattern here,” I say dryly. “You just love being tossed into volatile situations, don’t you?”
His grin is bright and quick. The bruising on his face has mostly shaded to yellow, the swelling negligible. The expression shouldn’t be charming. It is, and it disturbs me on a level that’s still insulted by the cocky bastard who pops up at random moments.
It’s cozy, disconcertingly so, and I'm frustrated by the fact that he doesn’t touch me and goes to bed each night in
my
bed while I’m left with the couch.
We have more company. Ismael, bearing alcohol. Doctor Gudelj to check his shoulder. Zlata comes over and flirts outrageously with Declan, and he’s borderline rude. It doesn’t deter her in the slightest. In fact, I think she gets off on it. Strange, having people over, after month upon month of
He’s climbed into bed when I return for an extra blanket. Too different, too many faces, and I can’t reconcile his earlier words with the man in front of me. “You didn’t really mean that, did you? Earlier?”
“If you’re going to be vague about it, yes, I meant it.”
I open my mouth to continue, and some part of my mind scolds me. The horse is dead. It’s time to stop beating it. This aching, beaten man is far more complex than he’ll admit. That’s all I need to know.
And I’ll do well to remember he only kissed me so the next time I murmur a man’s name in my sleep, it’d be his.
“Never mind,” I mutter. “Good night.” I shut the door behind me, strip off my clothes, and fall onto the couch, squirming to pull the blankets over me.
The dreams that come are fractured, fragments of Ryan and I, pieces of Declan, and always, always a city bent on grinding itself into the dust.
Chapter Ten
Obviously, the “club” doesn’t open the next night.
Murat comes by with detailed descriptions of the carnage, and my anger rises with each word. Pointless, completely and utterly pointless. Innocent people dying because not so innocent people think it’s a good tactic to keep others in line.
Declan just gives me a mild look as I sit fuming, hands clenched into fists. “Going out?” he asks once Murat leaves.
“No,” I mutter. I’m not stupid enough to go tearing through the streets to find Cristian and demand an explanation for the government’s actions. This isn’t my war, anyway. Who wins isn’t my concern. I can’t bring myself to stop stringing him along, not yet. The information he unwittingly passed on is why there were Molotov cocktails at the ready the day Declan was beaten.
And I can’t quite give up the hope that he might be able to help clear my name so I can go home.
Morning slides into afternoon, into evening, into night, and we wake and do it all over again. Days pass. We spend hours sitting in the quiet of my flat, sometimes reading, sometimes having actual conversations where those little tidbits you glean about one another are exchanged. He’s the oldest of five and older than me. Our mutual love of
The Master and Margarita
leads to the discovery of other favorite books and movies, though his taste in music is atrocious. I tell him about the time I convinced my brother I was Santa’s special helper and could get him anything he wanted for Christmas as long as he was my slave. He told me how he’d dislocated his shoulder twice before, once playing rugby, once reaching for a shot on location in Kabul.
“You’ve been to Afghanistan? By choice?” Another level of hell. A hot, swirling dust storm of hell.
He shrugs, then rotates his injured shoulder. He can do it now without the fine lines of strain running over his face. “The money was good.”
“I’m beginning to sense a pattern here,” I say dryly. “You just love being tossed into volatile situations, don’t you?”
His grin is bright and quick. The bruising on his face has mostly shaded to yellow, the swelling negligible. The expression shouldn’t be charming. It is, and it disturbs me on a level that’s still insulted by the cocky bastard who pops up at random moments.
It’s cozy, disconcertingly so, and I'm frustrated by the fact that he doesn’t touch me and goes to bed each night in
my
bed while I’m left with the couch.
We have more company. Ismael, bearing alcohol. Doctor Gudelj to check his shoulder. Zlata comes over and flirts outrageously with Declan, and he’s borderline rude. It doesn’t deter her in the slightest. In fact, I think she gets off on it. Strange, having people over, after month upon month of
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