Page 32 of Keep Me

He leans back and knits his fingers together on top of his head, sighing. His eyes flicker across the ceiling, and he slowly nods like he’s thinking. He’s clearly processing something, working something out in his mind, but he keeps any clues of what off his face. He must come to a conclusion because he rocks forward and rests his elbows on his knees before asking thoughtfully, “What about Thai?”

I bob my head in question. “What?”

“For dinner. What about Thai food? There’s nothing to be done right now about your dad and, who knows, maybe it’s like a fractured hyoid bone from a car accident—not the obvious answer, but not impossible.”

I smile weakly, appreciating the notion. “What do you think?”

“I can’t decide, but I think I’m leaning toward green curry—”

“No, tonto.” I laugh, but then say more seriously, “About my father.”

He waits until I meet his eyes to speak. “It doesn’t matter what I think. What I think won’t affect the truth, and that’s all that matters. We don’t have all the information yet, so it would be foolish to assume that something is true only because it looks like it is.”

I inhale deeply, nodding along, wanting to file away all of my conclusions and put them aside until we know more. “I’ll get the pad see ew.”

Roan smiles, satisfied. “That’s my girl.”

I’m sure he doesn’t mean it in any way other than he’s happy to get his choice of dinner, but I don’t like the way my stomach swoops at the idea of being his girl. It would make the harrowing question before us a little less daunting. But growing attached to the idea of being his girl poses a much bigger threat.

Roan

Halfway through the movie, she berated me for my lack of decent dessert choices and accused me of being a robot when I argued it tasted just as good as the real deal. I don’t remember exactly when she fell asleep. It must have been some time after she polished off the rest of my ice cream, a half-filled pint of “a sad, ketogenic excuse for dessert,” according to her. And when I stand up at the end of the movie, she is curled up on her side with her arms tucked into her chest, fast asleep.

I don’t know what to do. I’ve never had a woman sleep over, let alone pass out on my couch before. I stare at her like a wild animal who’s broken in and made herself at home. I consider carrying her to the guest bedroom, but for some reason the prospect of her in my arms, holding her body to mine, sounds as dangerous as walking into a burning building.

I grab another beer and sit there slowly sipping it, watching the steady rise and fall of her breath as I try to figure out what to do with her. I run through what my brothers would do, hoping for some ideas.

Cash would carry her to bed—his bed.

Lochlan would slide in behind her and snuggle her to his chest. Hard pass.

Finn would leave her as is since she decided to fall asleep there. Maybe he’d toss a blanket over her.

That seems like the most logical response—though I don’t know if I’d use “logical” to describe any of my brothers, especially when it comes to women. I go to the guest bedroom to get a blanket, grabbing a light throw off the bed. I hold it in my hands, hesitating because I know I keep the AC low at night. Will she get cold?

I wipe my hands over my face. This is getting ridiculous. I throw the blanket back on the bed and grab a heavier one from the closet, my eyes catching on the pillows before I leave. I shake my head. She can survive one night without a pillow for her princesa head.

I return to the living room and drape the blanket over her, then drag the armchair across the room to face the door. I sink into the chair cushions and close my eyes, ready for sleep to end this foolhardy saga. But something keeps nagging me and I bolt up, stomping back to the guest room to grab that damn pillow.

I gently lift her head. Her eyelids lightly flutter, but luckily she doesn’t wake. I can’t think of anything more horrifying than her waking up amidst my pathetic attempt to make her comfortable on my couch. I’ve carefully chosen the parts of me I let her see, and whatever compels me to slide a pillow under her head isn’t one of them.

When I settle back into the armchair, I fall asleep right away.

In the morning, my legs stretch out before me and my neck is sore. A soft rustling jolts me awake. I wrench my head to the side in the direction of the threat, only to see it’s Reggie looking at me like a deer in headlights. I deflate, and my fingers that are tightly gripping the armrests relax.

“Why are you sleeping there?” she asks, her voice curious and light.

“You were on the couch,” I explain simply.

“What about your bedroom?”

“You were here, so I was here.”

The chair starts vibrating, and I dig into the cushion to pull out my phone. “Yeah…Okay…On Delancey, right?...Okay, bye.” I stand and say to her, “The safe house is ready.”

Chapter 16

Sewer Rat

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