Page 48 of Little Nightmare

It happened too fast. The onslaught of emotions that attacked from all sides, all angles. I sat there as pain ran through my chest only to come back around and slice through again, moving up toward my brain to remind me yet again.

He’s gone.

"I’m your bodyguard.” He used to say that whenever he knew I felt guilty about being needy.

Except the last two weeks when things got really physical between us, then it was just this…crazy passion that seemed to never go away. It was like he’d somehow silenced his pretty words with his body, with our bodies. I had to admit that I missed those words before he died. It would have been easier, I think, had I had more memories of him those last few days, of his gentle kisses rather than his passionate ones.

Of holding his hand not hiding from my dad or drugging two made men so I could sneak him into my room.

It had been fun and out of character for him.

In the end, I trusted him.

In the end, he failed to keep his promise to stay alive.

"Right.” I finally squeezed the word I needed out of my mouth and into the tense air. “You’re my bodyguard, so you’ll need to be there anyway. Just try not to freak out over all the pregnant women and screaming children.”

He shrugged. “We’re Italian. I’m used to women yelling. In fact, there is nothing more terrifying than a quiet kitchen.”

I laughed, some of the sorrow dissipating. “I feel that.”

"Thought so.” He winced, not quite masking it with another shrug. “And maybe it’s the drugs speaking, but I’ll let you in on a little secret.”

"Oh? Careful, you’re going to use your allotted word count for the day.”

"Shhhhh…” His grin was dopey, sexy, and cute. I shoved the thought away. Anyone could be cute with happy drugs. “I think I’ll be okay, I put some words in a savings account for special moments like this.” He held up his hand. “Shhhh, I’ll make a quick withdrawal.”

“I didn’t say anything,” I whispered.

He held a hand to his mouth again. “Shhh, ah yes, please, I just need to take out a stack of apologies followed by a few compliments and…” His eyes narrowed at me. “Double the compliments, they carry more truth than apologies, and I’d like to add in something really special.”

“What’s that?”

He gave me a stern look. “Can’t you see I’m on the phone with the bank?”

He actually made a phone motion with his hand. Did he even realize he was doing it? No clue. The drugs must have really, really kicked in. “Sorry, go ahead, I’ll wait my turn.”

He cleared his throat. “Thank you.” After another not needed deep breath he added. “Yeah, she’s really pretty.”

I smiled and wagged my finger at him. “Isn’t that pre-spending compliments?”

"I won’t tell if you won’t.”

I pretend-zipped my lips.

He “hung” up the phone and shrugged. “Alright, I have more words which means I can talk all I want and they’rereally burning a hole in my pocket, so the second thing? I love big families. I always wanted kids, on account of I was raised without any siblings and had a father who’d rather sell drugs and prostitutes than spend time with me. The one and only memory I really truly have of him is when I woke up on a Saturday morning to the smell of waffles.”

"That’s a nice memory.” I patted his leg.

His eyes focused in on my hand and the way it was touching his thigh through the blanket. “I didn’t tell you the rest.” He licked his bottom lip then held it captive with his white teeth biting down until his skin matched. “I was a play, like a sitting duck. A cute kid that disarmed the woman waiting for a meeting. She took one look at me and figured it was safe. I mean there was a kid, a waffle, he even lied and said it was my birthday. He told her to invite her friends. Six arrived that day. Seven left to be sold on the black market for top price, all because of my blue eyes and a waffle. I still can’t eat them.”

The lump in my throat grew until it was nearly impossible to swallow the grief. “When I’m sad you tell me to get angry. Should we go burn down a Waffle House? I mean, we’ll of course make sure insurance takes care of things and get all the innocent people out.”

He smirked. “No. I just have a very strict waffle rule.”

"You don’t eat them?”

"I never have, and I promised myself that the only time I ever would—would be with someone I trusted with my life, someone who saw every ugly part of me, lied, and told me my scars were my best feature. To me, a waffle represents everything I want to forget—and every burden I have to share—and all I have to give.”

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