Page 76 of Smooth Sailing

The early sun dimly lighting the room, he saw her lying with her back to him in the middle of the big bed. The white covers were pulled up to her shoulder. Her dark and golden hair was bunched up in a holder at the top of her head and was stark on the white pillowcase. The big, square, pale-blue velvet pillows he’d seen on her bed when it was made were stacked on the floor, the pale-blue velvet comforter folded along the end of the bed.

The walls were also pale blue, but her bed had a padded headboard and was a linen color.

He’d now spent three nights with visions of banging her in that bed, another reason why sleep didn’t come easy.

The nightstands were white, and they looked classy old-fashioned, like the stuff they had in France way back when. The lamps on them had crystal bases. And there was a big, white, 3D flower mounted above the arch of her headboard and some shelves in an inset on a wall covered in white frames with black and white pictures in them. That was pretty much it for decoration.

He’d been wanting to look at those pictures, look at her life and who mattered to her enough to have displayed in her bedroom.

He hadn’t.

He also didn’t spend a lot of time standing there, staring at her sleeping, because he wasn’t a skeeve.

Though he did note she had a ceiling fan, which was on, the white noise droning, and it reminded him that he slept with a fan at home, so maybe if she had one he could set up in the living room, it might help him find sleep on the couch.

And if she didn’t have one, he’d go out and buy one.

He went to the bathroom, took a piss, washed his hands, brushed his teeth, splashed water on his face and toweled off.

Then he stared at the towel, which was a cool, sky-blue color.

He turned his head and saw the two towels hanging side by side on the back of the door, one white, hers, the other, blue.

His.

We don’t have to paint it, Ma.

My beautiful boy is turning into a man. He needs a man’s room. We’re painting it.

Yet another memory of his mom came unbidden, and with it the reminder that he and his ma painted his bedroom blue when he was fifteen. She didn’t ask the landlord. “It’s not hurting anything,” she’d said. She just gave him that, even though he knew she probably lost her deposit because of it when they moved out.

It was the nicest space he’d ever had, to this day.

Until now, temporarily moved into Diana’s sweet crib, having a thick blue towel and a sink of his own.

Back in Denver, he had a little house he’d bought because he could, and he needed a place to crash. He’d moved in because it was his. And other than that, he didn’t do dick with it unless something broke that he had to fix.

“Fuckin’ shit,” Hugger muttered, not real hip on all this shit crashing into his brain when he had to keep sharp.

More indication he needed some good sleep. A solid three-hour nap. Rest his body and mind, clear his head.

He’d normally go for a workout to do this, but he didn’t want to leave Diana and Suzette, and a workout would only fatigue him more, and that he didn’t need.

He was going to have to find some time to get that nap in, but he didn’t know how.

He headed out, going quiet, closing the door fully when he left Diana’s room, and he went direct to the coffeepot. He made coffee, and while he was waiting for it to brew, he rested his ass against the counter and moved his mind to going over what happened the day before.

When he and Diana got back to her complex after meeting up with Mace, she’d grabbed his hand in the elevator bay before either of them hit the button, and declared, “Before we go up there, we need to figure this out.”

This time, he did not pull his hand from hers.

No, he curled his fingers around and held on.

He thought about it, he knew he was doing it, he knew he shouldn’t do it because of what it would communicate, and he’d already communicated a lot with his touch that morning.

He held on anyway.

“Figure what out?” he asked.

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