I smile as I watch him scruff Rocco behind the ears, and lead him back to the living room. “On your bed, buddy.”
My dog obeys, clearly taken with his new master. Traitor.
“Have a seat. You thirsty?”
“Jonesing for a coffee.” I lower myself on shaky legs down to the seat of the armchair, scoot backwards, and lie my head on the back.
We were at the ER for what felt like days, weeks even. I’m so tired, so much so I swear I could sleep for days on end.
“You have to take your meds with food,” Malice calls from the kitchen. “I’ll bring you a sandwich.”
There’s no arguing with him—I’ve learnt that already. I close my eyes, and drop my head back. The tension I’ve harbored for the last few hours whooshes free of my lungs. I smile at the stupidity of it all, but his house already feels more like home than the house I paid a mortgage on for years ever did.
“The cops will be around in an hour, they said. We’ll be gone before then, just in case he shows up, anything happens. You know?”
I nod, unaware if he can see me, but speaking right now would break my trance. At this moment I’m living the lie, pretending his house is my house, that this is the norm for me. For whatever reason¸ speaking seems like it would shatter my dream faster than glass on concrete.
A nudge at my shoulder jolts me from my illusion, and I open my eyes to find him standing beside me, holding a plate with a sandwich, and a glass of water.
“Here.”
I adjust my seat, and take the items from him. The first bites of the sandwich are heaven on my buds—even if it is simply cheese, and tomato.
He drags a small table from next to the couch, and positions it beside my chair. With gentle hands he takes the glass from me again, and sets it down on the table, placing the painkillers next to it.
“Anything else?”
I shake my head at him, mouth too full to speak.
“Good.”
He vanishes back to the kitchen, and Rocco commando crawls off the bed to lie at my feet, waiting on scraps. Some habits die hard. I give him a crust, and wonder how tomato never tasted so good before now? Maybe it’s true what they say about putting love into the food you make. In that case, Dylan has been eating shit all these years.
I snort at the thought, and narrowly avoid spraying chewed bread over Rocco. Not that I think he’d mind, but I don’t plan on being that much of a mess around Malice. As ludicrous as it is, I still want to try and impress him, be lady-like and feminine—despite the fact he’s seen me at my worst now.
The tension in the room grows noticeably as he takes a seat opposite me on the sofa. His plate is something different altogether. Lined up next to two hard-boiled eggs is a massive tin of tuna. He cranks the rip-tab lid open, and dives in with a fork.
“Do you always eat it like that?”
“Like what?”
“Raw?”
“It’s not raw.” He smiles.
I swallow back my sudden case of schoolgirl nerves. “I meant unprepared.”
He smirks. “It all comes out the other end the same, no matter how it goes in your mouth.”
I grimace, and to him it’s hugely amusing. A deep chuckle erupts as he covers his mouth with the back of his hand.
“Squeamish eater—I’ll remember that.”
Rolling my eyes, I go back to eating what’s left of my sandwich. Whatever the situation we’re in, he always manages to make me feel comfortable with him.
I like that.
Finishing my last mouthful, I pick up the pills and the glass of water. “How long have you lived here?”
The question comes left of field for him, but it’s one that’s been burning in the back of my mind. I want to know how long he’s been here, listening to us argue next door, and why he chose now to intervene. One step at a time, Jane.
He pauses in his eating, and taps the tin with his fork. “About a year.”
“Oh. I was curious, since I’d never seen you. I don’t see anyone around here much, to be honest.”
“Goes both ways,” he says, and stuffs another forkful in. He pushes the lid into the empty tin. “I’ve never seen you before now, either.”
“I can be a bit of a homebody.”
My joke falls flatter than a pancake. Rocco senses the awkwardness, and moves back to his bed.
“I’d wanted to help before that night, you know.” He looks up at me, and the hurt in his gaze causes me to avert my eyes. “I didn’t know what he’d do, though. Or if you’d let me help you.”
“I don’t know either.”
I throw the pills back while I think it over. What would have happened if he’d come over on another night, and asked me to go with him? If he’d struck out at Dylan on any other given day? Was the fact I was so emotionally distraught the thing that made me welcome his intervention, as brutal as it was?