Page 93 of Bloom: Part 1

“There’s a certain line you don’t fucking cross,” he said. “And this motherfucker has crossed way too many. In case it’s not clear, you don’t fuck with my men. I don’t care who you are.”

Bloom crumpled against me, his body going slack. The knife fell from his grip.

“You going to take care of him, or do I need to do it?” Crowe asked.

I tightened my hold on Bloom. He could pry the boy from me over my lifeless body. “I’ll take care of him.”

“Then go. Take him home. I’ll check up on him tomorrow.”

25

LOGAN

Something was wrong. My subconscious sensed it before I opened my eyes. I lay still. What had woken me up?

Water was running in the bathroom.

Bloom. He was no longer next to me. After the whole debacle at the clubhouse, he’d refused to speak. When I put him to bed, he still hadn’t said a word about what had gone down. I’d woken up several times during the night to him tossing and turning, groaning as if in pain, but each time I’d wrapped my arms around him and whispered into his ear until he settled back down and fell asleep. Worrying about Bloom and how the night’s event might affect him didn’t leave room for me to acknowledge someone was murdered before my eyes. Or that Bloom would have done it had I not stopped him. The other man’s blood had been on him, and I—the man who had sworn to save lives—helped him to wash away the evidence of him hurting another person.

What was he doing in the bathroom? It sounded like he was taking a shower. At this time of night? I searched around thenight table for my phone. It was just after three in the morning—definitely not the right time for a shower.

I clicked on the bedside lamp and tossed the comforter off me. I sat up and froze at the big wet spot in the center of the bed. Blood? No, the color was too yellow on the white fitted sheet. I touched it. Warm. The scent of ammonia hit my nostrils, and the air punched from out of my lungs.

The last time he’d thought he’d done something horrible while sleepwalking, he’d run away. What if he…? I jumped out of bed and ran to the bathroom, my heart pounding.

Please let him be all right.

I yanked back the door so hard it was a wonder the glass didn’t shatter. The showerhead spewed water onto Bloom, who was huddled in the corner. He scrubbed at his skin furiously, his fingers leaving angry red marks where they scraped against his pale flesh. His eyes were wide and unseeing, and his lips muttered unintelligible words.

“Bloom.” I stepped into the shower, heedless of my pajamas getting soaked, and yelped. The water was frigid, a biting cold that shot through me and stole my breath. How long had he been under the spray? I turned the knob, shutting off the water. He jerked up his head, but instead of coming toward me like he normally would, he shuffled back until his back hit the tiled wall. His eyes darted in a wild, panicked look, and his fingers flexed in and out of fists.

“Don’t.” He hung his head. “I’m sorry. I’m sorry. I’m sorry.”

“Hey, there’s nothing to apologize for.” I moved closer to him.

“No, don’t touch me. I’m filthy. Your house—you—everything is so clean, and I’m not. I’m filthy. I peed the bed.”

“Accidents happen. I am not mad at you.”

“Of course you’re mad. I’m dirty. Dirty—filthy.” He shook his head hard. “It’s November. It’s November. I can’t help it.”

“Listen to my voice, baby. You’re not dirty. You’re not filthy.” He flinched when I touched his shoulders. Goose bumps pebbled beneath my fingertips. The frantic words ceased from his lips but echoed in his wild eyes. He looked lost, adrift in a sea of shame and fear.

“You are not dirty,” I repeated. “You are not filthy. You had an accident when you weren’t conscious. Why would I be mad at you for that?”

“I wet the bed.”

“Would it make you feel better if I peed in it too?”

He blinked, and the cloudy haze in his eyes seemed to lift. “Logan?”

“That’s right. It’s me.”

I inched forward, careful not to startle him. His breathing was erratic, panic still in his eyes, but he didn’t back away. I placed my arms gently around his trembling form and pulled him into a soft embrace. He stiffened, then slowly melted against me, his head resting on my shoulder.

“I’m sorry.”

“Don’t apologize.”

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