Page 7 of Rarely Pure and Never Simple
Swearing in several languages came from the other side of the door. The knob rattled. Odd clicking, sliding sounds followed. Then the door opened and Emerson strode in.
"Aw, fuck. Why aren't you medicated? Or are you and you just couldn't get to it in time?"
Damien curled into a ball of shame on the bed, struggling for air.
"Great." Emerson let out a huff of breath. "It's bad. Got it.Doyou have meds?"
Damien shook his head.
"This happen a lot?"
Again, he managed a headshake with his head still buried in his arms. Water ran in the bathroom accompanied by muttering. "Fucking babysitting. She knows I hate it. Don't have time for this."
Emerson's boots stomped toward the bed. "You gonna try and rip my face off if I give you a cold washcloth?"
Damien managed to shake his head through his desperate gulps for air.
The bed dipped beside Damien, and he twitched when something cold touched his hand. His fingers closed convulsively around the washcloth, which he snatched and pressed to the back of his neck.
"Great. Guess you're not gonna die, anyway. At least you're packed. Bet you got the twitches getting your shit together. You want me to check the room? I've done murder scenes, you know. Don't miss a damn thing."
Again, Damien nodded. The room's spinning slowed. The high-pitched hum in his ears subsided. Emerson's heavy footfalls paced the room as he kept talking, letting Damien know as he cleared things one at a time—the dresser, the nightstand, the tub enclosure, the sink vanity.The bed, you have to check under the bed!
"Desk drawer. Clear, unless you carry a Gideon Bible with you?"
Another head shake, some of the tightness in his chest returning. Then Emerson's voice came from an odd angle, a bit strained as if he were bent over.
"Checking under the bed. Getting out my flashlight and checking with that just to be sure."
Good man.
Finally the bed dipped again as Emerson rejoined him. His voice still held a world of bitter snark as he asked, "How're we doing?"
"Better." Damien forced out the single word.
"Yeah, sure. How about you try to breathe for me? Slow count in. One. Two. Nope. Big fail. We'll do it again. One. Two. Three."
The deep voice soothed him despite its snide edge, slid over his wild-animal pounding heart and stroked it, gentled it. He counted along silently, his breaths shuddering and hitching at first. Slowly, slowly, he managed one full breath and then another.
"You good?"
Damien sat up, rubbing his aching chest. "Yes, thank you. Sorry."
"Yeah, you are." Emerson snorted as he rose from the bed. "Ready to get your ass in gear?"
"Yeah."I think so.The room stayed in one place as he stood. Encouraging.
"So where are we headed, Mr. GPS?"
Damien blinked up at him. This close to Emerson he had to tilt his head back. "To the airport."
"I know that, dumbass. We starting at the Western Academy?"
"Yes. We need to start at the source."
Emerson grunted and strode to the door where he'd left his own sizeable duffle. "Coming?"
His eyes held no pity or revulsion. The bitter sarcasm seemed to leave no room for either, and Damien could live with that. He shouldered his pack, picked up his satchel, and forced himself to put one foot in front of the other until the screaming, bleeding animal inside him quieted again.
