He winked at that and surprised her, rolling over and taking her with him, until she was on her back with his weight, sturdy and strong, above her. His green eyes didn't look so shadowed anymore. Her fingers found his biceps, played gently on his muscles, running up and down.
"Are you gonna say yes?" he growled teasingly. "Or am I gonna have to beg you?"
"I like the way that last option sounds … " she purred, eyes half-lidded.
"Tricia Garland, will you help me do what a gypsy does best?"
"That depends, what does a gypsy do best?"
"Go where he wants, when he wants, how he wants … all while loving the shit out of his woman?"
Tricia leaned up, met his lips with her own, pulling him down with her as her head hit the pillow once more.
"Is that a yes?" he asked, whispering in her ear. She wrapped her arms around him, feeling the steady pulse of his heart against hers.
"Can I DJ?"
Epilogue
Tricia turned over on the air mattress. She was freezing. And it was Damon's fault. She knew it would be too cold for camping, even deep in the desert. Not that he hadn't done his best to keep her warm … while he was awake. She still felt the byproduct of his (and her) favorite way to keep warm between her legs.
Tomorrow night, we get a room, she thought, backing up until she felt his warm body against hers.
For six months, they'd been crisscrossing the states, going wherever their fancy called them. Damon had hired someone to take his place at the store, and Tricia had been living off her savings; camping was cheap, splitting gas was cheaper, and they only splurged for nice dinners once or twice a week. And it didn't matter to Tricia whether they ate at Michelin-starred restaurants or McDonalds; as long as she was sitting across from Damon, it was alright with her.
They'd seen Wall Drug, Mount Rushmore, Big Sur; breezed through the Big Easy and the Windy City and the Twin Cities; spent nights under the lights of Las Vegas and days under endlessly blue skies in Utah; caught in desert rainstorms, mountain mists, and oceanside heatwaves; bought cowboy boots in Nashville and went clamming in Nantucket.
Tricia had never been happier, and Damon seemed like he was a different man altogether. He was less dire, less dark. Those shadows in his eyes had slowly given way to a lightness.
Tricia had never believed in soulmates before, but she couldn't explain the way she felt about Damon any other way. Most relationships took a while, moving from like to love over the course of months. With Damon, it had taken days; and even more, even stranger, it had lasted. They fought, as all couples do, but they made up sweetly, softly, easily. Neither were too proud to apologize.
They were happy. They would have been happy regardless of what came from Miami. But what came from Miami happened to make happiness easier.
Damon had been mostly right; his witness statement was too little too late, the confession he'd conned out of Curly not admissible evidence. But Ricky had gotten in touch with the detective who'd worked the case twenty years earlier, and he'd pulled some strings in the department. They could point to Damon's statement if and when anyone questioned why they'd re-opened a twenty-year-old case, and why they specifically sought Curly Gottlieb's profile from the DNA database of the state of New Jersey, where he'd been arrested on felony assault charges in 2005.
And when they examined his DNA in comparison to the pubic hairs and semen collected from the crime in Providence, there was sufficient evidence for an arrest – and, subsequently, a conviction. He was not given leniency based on his age at the time, or the fact that it was so many years ago.
If anything, the fact that he'd been able to walk free for so many years worked against him.
Damon never heard from the woman Curly attacked, the woman he'd failed to save. Curly took a plea deal from the DA, so it never went to trial, never required him to return to Providence and bear witness. But it didn't matter. He had redeemed himself as best he could, and made peace with the ways in which he would never feel wholly absolved.
Which made life all the easier for Tricia as she took up her role of co-pilot, DJ, food critic, audience, entertainer, and – most importantly – lover.
Except for that night, when Tricia could only focus on how damn cold she was. Her nose felt like Rudolph's. She considered waking Damon up and telling him they needed to sleep in the car, or drive back into town and get a room. But as she was weighing the possibility of sleep coming eventually versus a cranky, just-woken Damon, she heard a telltale buzzing from her knapsack.
Going to get her phone would mean separating herself from Damon's warmth, something that seemed unbearable for even a few moments. But if someone was calling at 3 in the morning …
She groaned, rolled over, and darted a hand out, searching for her phone with her head under the blanket. She found it. Kim's smiling face spread across the screen. Tricia's heart doubled. She'd been waiting for this call.
Six hours, two flights, and a rental car later, Damon and Tricia were running through the halls of Mercy Hospital, just outside of Kingdom. They already knew they'd missed the main event – but not by much. As they counted down the room numbers, slowing their pace, catching their breaths, they both felt a giddy sort of nervousness. They hadn't seen anyone – Kennick, Cristov, Mina, Kim, or Ricky – since Miami, except over video chats. They talked regularly, but this would be the first time seeing their families, both blood and extended, in over half a year.
They found the room where Ricky was recovering; they didn't need to look at the number on the door. There was a window looking in, and they paused before it. No one noticed them as they peeked in.
Damon wrapped his arm around her, kissed her temple. Through the window, she saw Ricky and Kim on the hospital bed, tears rolling down their faces. Cristov had the baby in his arms, was looking down with a smile that Tricia had never seen on him before. Kennick stood behind his brother, beaming over his shoulder at his new nephew. Mina held Ricky's hand with one of her own, her other hand on Cristov's shoulder.
"Ready to go in?" Damon said, feeling her torn soul. She wanted to be with them. She wanted to feel a part of their family. And she knew there was a place for her there. She knew there would always be a place for her with Ricky and Kim, just like there would always be a place for Damon with his brothers and sister.
No matter what had happened … no matter what things had forced Tricia and Damon to feel separate, to feel unwelcome, to feel out of place …
"I'm ready," Tricia said, but held tight to Damon's hand when he started to lead her to the door. He looked back at her, a question in his eyes. "I don't just mean that I'm ready to go in. I mean … I'm ready for us to come home."
Damon smiled, one hand on the doorknob. He nodded.
"Me too," he said, yanking until she stumbled into his arms. They entered the room together, a chorus of happy voices welcoming them back, welcoming them to stay.
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REIGN
Part I
1
Oh great, a used condom.
Oh, wow, super, a bloodstain.
What is this even, yogurt?
Who does this to a pillow?
Was it very necessary, whoever you are, to completely cover the walls with shit?
What is this … oh please … don't even … no … yup, it's piss.
Jesus Christ, is it that hard to put your used needles in the damn trash can?
Oh … a dollar tip, how nice, considering they left an entire week's worth of rotting fast food and half-empty beers all over the floor.
How did they manage to get cum on the ceiling?! That's actually impressive, I can't even be mad …
All in a day's work for me. I pushed my cart from room to room, arms sore from scrubbing at mysterious stains, clothes splotched with bleach, mind numb to what wonders might await me behind the next door.
People are animals, I tell ya. No one knows that as much as a cleaning lady at a hotel. And, no, before you start dreaming up my identity for me, I'm not an "illegal alien". I am half-Latina, but I'm a full-blooded American citizen, born and raised, and I speak perfect English, thank you very much.
What is it about staying at a hotel that can turn even a mild-mannered person into an untamed beast with no problem pissing all over the floor or dumping an ashtray onto their sheets before checking out? Is it because it's not their home, so they don't care what happens to it? Is it because they don't realize someone like me has to come and clean it up? Or – and perhaps this is the scariest possibility – is it possible that they're actually like that at home, too, and you just never see it?