Page 11 of Exclusive

At my fingertips, with permission this time, is the whole story; the blanks filled in, the missing pieces I’ve been starving for — a hunger so ravenous, I’d eat off the bottom of a shoe to feed it. But I’ve yet to even open the journal, let alone dive in and read every damn page as fast as my eyes and brain can take in the vat of information.

Her before me. Always. In all things. This being no exception.

And more important than my quest for knowledge, is the state of her apartment. It needs cleaned. All fucking kinds of badly. JT wasn’t kidding as to the extreme direness of going-ons over here; when he’d said ‘Presley hasn’t quite been herself,’ he was really saying ‘I’m not quite sure how Presley is, because I can’t find her, under the piles of… pick something! Come to think of it, I’d rather eat off the bottom of the aforementioned shoe than… anywhere in here.

As soon as I hear music — I was waiting; she always has a playlist at the ready for baths and showers — I use the noise as camouflage and start cleaning like Mr. Clean on crack.

Just the detoxification of her bed and floor/perimeter around it fills a whole trash bag, so I grab another on my way back from the laundry room, sheets on heavy-duty cycle, and start in on the living room. It’s not near as bad, which isn’t near as good news as it should be — tells me she’s been spending most of her time in bed — so not like my Hot Shot, stirring up another wave of worry in me. But I squelch it; I’m here with her now, and clear the kitchen table of all the dead petals that’ve fallen from the bouquets I sent. Wiping a trickle of sweat off my brow, I take survey; not too shabby, if I do say so myself. No idea when, or where, I learned to clean, but just my turbo-attempt made a very noticeable difference.

All that’s left to do now is get Castello’s stuff set up. As I’m racing around, finding a spot for his water and food dishes, placing his bed in her room, (now that there’s clean floor space for it), and putting the bag of food in the pantry and the puppy pads under the sink, Presley’s song choice echoing down the hallway catches my attention. I don’t know it off hand, but the slow, steady beat would be perfect to f-, nope, not gonna think about it.

I force a more productive thought — at least she didn’t choose a depressing ballad — but at the same time, I know it to be a sign… that she’s officially given up. She let me come in. Handed over her journal. And couldn’t be bothered to find the perfect, melancholy melody. The fight’s gone out of her… which concerns me on new, frightening levels. A mad, raging, ornery, or snarky Presley, I’m armed, practiced and prepared to do battle with; a desolate, lifeless Presley… I have no plan of attack for that.

And now that Castello’s sacked out, having gotten his belly full, and you can walk through here without needing a hazmat suit, it’s past time for me to find out why my girl’s fire has gone up in billows of smoke. So, I grab the journal, take a seat on the couch, and a long, full breath of fortitude, leery, but ready for what more I’m about to learn.

And conquer.

With her. For her.

God damn.

I read it, every page, some twice, and… God. What was even more enlightening, painfully so, than her words, were all the ones not written. The things written in between the lines. Every ghost that haunts her, each shadow chasing her, not in black and white, but screaming from the gray.

It takes a while for my mind to fully absorb it — process, contemplate, and travel back to now attach the real reasons to every sentence and scenario she and I have ever shared — and once finished, returned to an awareness of my surroundings, I realize… there’s no longer music playing. She’s been in the bath way too long. This is the part where I’m supposed to leave, already be gone; so says Presley. Yeah… that was never gonna happen anyway, but it’s a hell, fuck no now.

Until that amazing, truly selfless, creature just down the hall walks, with or without me, a different path, steps lighter, I’m not going anywhere. Little by little, one by one — one less glance over her shoulder, one less “but what if” barter with herself — we will get there.

“Presley?” I yell, approaching the bathroom door, banging far too hard to call it a knock, when I reach it. “Presley, answer me. Not playin’ around. And not leaving.”

Under normal circumstances, I might’ve missed it, but given that my concern, empathy, desperation, and love, are all hyper-extended… I hear it as though thunder.

A sob.

I pound on the door this time, jiggle the knob, then pound again. “Presley, baby, answer me, dammit!” She may not thinkshe replies, but her tiny whimper speaks volumes… and I raise mine. “Brace yourself for a boom, babe. I’m coming in!” I warn, grab both sides of the jamb, and move the door out of my way with a single kick.

No jolt, squeal; I don’t think she even notices that I just plowed my way through her door to join her… because she’s too far gone. Deep within, lost in some terrible place that has her rocking back and forth, arms wrapped around her knees, head down, whole body trembling.

Usually, my stance on living in Never Never Land would be — to each their own, just don’t try to take others with you, because that’s kidnapping — but I’ve got a whole different view on it when it comes to Presley. I live where she lives; no matter where that may be. I’d just as soon bring her back here, with me, though.

“Presley, Sugar,” I rush over, scooping her out of the water with one arm across her back, the other under her quivering knees, “Baby, oh my God, you’re like ice, and your sweet lil’ lips are blue. What were you doing, just sitting in freezing cold water? Why are you crying? Talk to me!” I should talk soothingly, obviously what she needs right now, but my mixed fear and anger have me loudly interrogating her instead. Not that it matters, I might as well be barking at the moon; she didn’t hear a word I said.

I hurry to lay her down gently in her bed, pulling the cover up and tucking it in tight around her, then run to the hall closet, searching up another one to add a second layer. I’ve got to get her body temperature up; quickly. When I return and see that she’s already shaking less, lips returning to a faint pink hue, and her eyes, up and on me, aren’t quite as vacantly glazed over, a tiny, yet reassuring wrinkle of relief eases through my tensed muscles. “D, did you read it all?” she asks in a hushed chatter.

I nod, spreading the second blanket over, and under her snugly. “I thought that’s what you wanted? Is that why you were crying, trying to give yourself hypothermia? If you didn’t really, I missed the bluff,” I sigh, shaking my head. “I’m sorry, I thought you were serious. Forget I read it, we’ll act like it never happened. You just relax, and warm up; I’m gonna grab a towel to dry off your hair.”

Before I can budge, she reaches out and snags my forearm. I look down where she’s desperately grasping me, then slowly, up and into her eyes. And the fright, pure vulnerability, and countless silent pleas I see therein steal a huge chunk of my soul I know I won’t ever get back. Don’t want it back. It’s hers.

“Sutton,” she whispers in a voice that’s not her own, fussing with her bottom lip as she scoots over. “Please, make it stop hurting. I need you to look at me the way you always have, the way you did before. Before you found out who I really am, what I am. I don’t want you to forget forever. I’m glad someone else finally knows. But can we pretend you don’t just for a little while? Just for tonight? For me. So I can pretend too?”

Damn. What wouldn’t I give to hear her ask for me in any other tone, for any other reason, with any other look in her eyes? But now, like this? It doesn’t feel right. It feels like… like I’d be taking advantage, and giving her yet another excuse to avoid things she needs to face head-on. “Presley, I-”

“Pity me? Worry about me? Well don’t, please. I’m begging you, Sutton, look at me the way only you do and hold me. Call me ‘Hot Shot,’ or ‘Sugar,’ and… give me a happy ending to fall asleep to, just for tonight.” She pulls back the covers I so carefully placed, her flawless form on bare display, and pats the open spot, my spot, beside her. “Please?”

If I had any suspicions whatsoever that this was a ploy, a diversion tactic, for her to dodge the bigger issues, I’d refuse. Okay, no, I probably wouldn’t, but I’d spend a good five seconds trying. But it’s not; the lonely agony she simply cannot mask in her voice is unmistakable, a real need and… I can’t not meet it for her. Never, never, will I deny my Presley anything she truly needs. So, I kick off my shoes, empty my pockets, and climb in bed beside her.

“Aren’t you glad you cleaned it off now?” She tries to tease, the shallow murmur falling short. “Thank you, by the way.”

I do laugh, more than glad that I did, serendipitously, de-funk the bed, since I’m now in it. “You’re welcome, Sugar. Come ‘ere.” I lay out my arm for her pillow. “Let me hold you.” She indulges me without pause, burrowing herself into the lil’ nook I made for her, only for her… but not close enough for my likin’, so I haul her in more so, anchoring her sweet curves against me.

There’s so much I want to say, ask, reassure her on, but I refrain; she’s relaxed, her breathing slow and even as she traces a fingertip along my neck in random patterns — I’d sooner cut out my tongue with a dull butter knife than disturb her rare moment of contentment. When you finally get ahold of your single most treasure, keep your hands, and mouth, closed. Tight.

And it was sound theory, despite being short-lived.

As if able to hear my thoughts, and set on disparaging them, she starts squirming around, dramatizing her little huffs and puffs of frustration. “Sutton…” It’s frumpy, yet too adorable to be considered a whine. “You’re not near as comfy as usual. Your jeans are scratchy. They’re chafing me. Take ‘em off. And your shirt. Please. Who sleeps fully clothed?”

A man who’s strong enough to admit his weakness… that’s who.

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