Gill watches me for a long moment and then nods, like he's thought better about saying whatever words are hovering around his lips.
“I'm gonna take a shower,” he tells me, and I try really hard not to think about him soaping up that strong, hard body of his. “Will you be up when I get out?” I shake my head, realizing that this is a golden opportunity for me to crawl under the covers and try to fall asleep. If I wait for him to lay down next to me, I'll have to listen to the rhythm of his breathing and remember the many, many nights that we drifted off to sleep in one another's arms.
I shake my head.
“Je vais dormir.” I'm going to sleep.
Gill smiles tightly at me, pausing at the door to the bathroom.
“Fais de beaux rêves,” he says. Sweet dreams. “Ma belle petite fleur.”
I watch as Gill disappears into the golden light of the bathroom and shuts the door behind him.
Three o'clock in the morning.
That's what time it is when Gill wakes me from sleep, wrapping a hand around my mouth and pulling me tight against his body. I know that only because my eyes have sprung wide open and I find myself staring right at the green letters of the alarm clock on the nightstand. Fear whispers through me, its cold fingers tracing up my spine and dulling any excitement I might've had at being pressed up so tight to Gill.
“Don't make a sound,” he whispers, his voice low and rough, laced through with violence. I go completely still as he releases me, sliding his hand away from my lips and rolling from the bed without making any noise at all. How long has he been lying there? I wonder as I stay right where am I, one leg outside the blankets, one pillow tucked between my knees, and another clutched in my arms. I've slept this way every single night since Gill left—whether I had a boyfriend or not. Apparently nobody was good enough to replace the solid feel of him in my arms.
I want so badly to ask what's going on, but I don't. I don't even turn over. If Gill wanted me to do anything but lie here, he'd have said something. So I wait there in the dark, my heart pounding, my mind racing, and I listen to the click of a lock, the slight whisper of the hotel room door sliding across the carpet.
Seconds tick past, but they feel like hours. My whole body starts to itch, my muscles cramping, suddenly desperate to get out of this position now that I know I can't move. This psychological torture lasts for all of about two minutes—I know that because the only thing I can do right now is stare at this damn clock.
And then I hear the first of two gunshots, whipping myself up and around to catch sight of a man collapsing to the floor in a heap. I manage to actually see the second shot take place as Gill emerges from the shadows like a panther, melting into the slight glow of light from the cracked bathroom door.
His face is so cold, almost inhuman. I clamp a hand over my mouth to hold back a scream as he oh so calmly levels his pistol at a second man's head and pulls the trigger. Just. Like. That.
I jump, my back slamming against the headboard as Gill's blue gaze tracks the body's descent to the floor. The sound of the gun going off is loud, yes, but not the earsplitting sonic boom that I'm used to from days spent on the range, earplugs stuffed nice and snug on either side of my head. The noise I just heard was more like a really loud click. I'm not an idiot—I know the suppressor on the end of his gun isn't the sole reason for the decrease in noise; they don't work like they do in the movies, where silencers turn pistols into laser guns, sending a pew pew noise out towards the audience. Subsonic ammo, then?
I realize that my mind is spinning with useless facts, trying to cover up the truth of the moment with shock. Who gives two fucks about subsonic ammo and pistols and the fact that Gill's tattooed fingers are still wrapped around the butt of a Walther PPQ .22? Who cares that he's standing there in the shadows between the bathroom wall and my bed, lowering his gun with muscles taut, face expressionless? I notice all sorts of random things in that moment, like how the blood from the two men is splattered on the wall behind them in a red blotch like a firework blooming in the night sky. I don't see any bullet holes in the wall or anything, but maybe it's just too dark to notice? I know subsonic ammo moves much slower than supersonic ammo. Maybe there just aren't any?
I turn my head slowly, painstakingly slowly, towards Gilleon.
He just killed somebody. Two somebodies.
Holy. Shit.
I drop my hand and take in a gasping breath that hurts my chest and makes me shudder. The sound causes Gill to jump, like he forgot I was there for a moment. I watch as he lowers the gun and turns to look at me. He must sense some of what I'm feeling because he doesn't move any closer, giving me a second to gather myself together.