Page 66 of Redemption
Somehow, during my hormonal rampage and eagerness to remedy my menstruation situation earlier, I neglected to notice what had already occupied the room. The wispy, silky threads cascading from the ceiling, the hauntingly familiar, ghost-like coating taking over the bed. And then the almost tentative, creeping sensation currently crawling up my shoulder and continuing up my—
“Oh my God, what was that!”
I swat at my shoulder and then at my hair, shaking out the strands like a maniac to rid myself of the creepy crawly that’s probably trying to lay its eggs on me.
I can’t help it, I scream—any normal human being would—and then start racing around the room like a deranged chicken with its head cut off only to be stopped by the hard, unyielding wall that is Darius’ chest.
“Whoa, it’s ok. I’ve got you.” He instantly shoots his hands into my hair, digging his fingernails into my roots and ridding me of any potential infestation. When he confirms I’m good, I take a huge step back outside the door, leaving him alone in the room of doom.
He doesn’t bat an eye at my eager exit, however, just turns around and begins cleaning up the room. Starting from the top, he takes a broom and dusts off the webs hanging from the ceiling, then from the walls, and finally the floor. Satisfied with that, he heads for the bed, carefully lifting and folding the quilt so as not to disturb its newly acquired inhabitants before walking past me and chucking it out the front door.
Where it belongs!
Seemingly unperturbed, he reenters the room, armed once again with his trusty broom and dustpan, determined to see the task through to completion. I’m relieved and thankful,but I can’t help myself as I ask, “I thought you were afraid of spiders.”
His eyes turn up to meet mine, a grin forming on his lips while an unsteady breath escapes them, “I am.”
“So, what the hell are you doing? Why not just shut the door and barricade it? We’ll burn the house down before we leave so no one else has to be traumatized by the little bastards in the future.”
With a simple shrug, he replies, “Because you need a place to sleep, and it’s certainly not going to be on that couch out there. Not if I have anything to say about it.” He, then, yelps in the highest pitch I think I’ve ever heard from him while leaping at least three feet in the air. His hands lift to his face, his palms fervently smacking at his cheeks before finally announcing, “Wuff, that was a fuzzy bastard. Good fucking riddance.” He slaps his hands together and rubs them back and forth aggressively, as if he’s trying to rid himself of the feeling, and I find myself mimicking the gesture, phantom creepies crawling all over me in response.
I have to give it to him, however; he’s thorough, leaving absolutely no piece of furniture unturned as he methodically cleans and scrubs down the entire room, even replacing the bedsheets with fresh ones he found in the hall closet. A twinge of compassion runs through my chest for the man I used to know. His selflessness and thoughtfulness know no bounds, even after all these years, and I can’t help but take a deeper look at him. The man who still seems to be the same at his core. At the man I fell in love with all those years ago.
About an hour later, and seemingly satisfied with his completed task, he lifts an open palm in my direction, gesturing for me to enter. I give a quiet, “Thank you,” for his hard work anddedication, but when I move to step into the room, he leaves, silently returning to the living room and to the dusty piece of furniture we were sitting on earlier, his steps slow and dejected the entire way. He throws himself onto the couch, dust pluming all around him as he settles in. From the look on his face, it’s almost like he wants to throw his head back and drape his arm over his eyes—I certainly wouldn’t blame him. But, instead, he stays hunched over, his feet still planted firmly on the ground.
I turn and walk back down the hallway, scoffing lightly in his direction. “Youaregoing to sleep at some point, too, right?”
In a slow rotation, he turns his gaze to me, lifting a single eyebrow. “Someone needs to keep watch.” He says it as if the explanation should have been obvious, as well as the decision as to which one of us was going to handle the burden.
“You can’t tell me you’re not exhausted too. I mean, look at you! You’re one sheep away from passing out.” A cramp hits me out of nowhere. The sharp bolt of lightning shooting through my belly and around to my back almost draws a gasping groan out of me. Almost. My body wants to double over in agony, practically insists on it, but I force myself to stay upright and endure the pain. I try to hide it, try to mask the symptoms, but just as he always used to, he sees it. The tiny, almost microscopic flinch of my abdomen. The slight grinding of my jaw. The strain in my eyes as I internally demand the insufferable groan traveling up my throat to not make another move. But he sees it. He always did. Always treated me even more like a princess on those days—buying me chocolate, brushing my hair, and getting every type of ice cream imaginable on the off chance I’d actually want to try the blue cotton candy flavor. I never did try it. Never had the taste for cotton candy. But he got it just the same, along with several other flavors every month.
A rush of tears clouds my vision, but I force those little wet bitches back and take a deep breath. The mournful sigh he releases is loud in the darkness, his longing stare adding to the mountain of distance between us, but he doesn’t say what I’m sure he wants to. Doesn’t ask if I’m ok or what he can do to make it better. He just turns down his gaze and runs his fingertips along the edge of the couch.
“I’ll be fine. Please... Go and get some rest, Mi Al—Alessandra.” He says my name as if it burns his tongue. Like I’m forcing him to swallow poison by saying it instead of calling me what he so clearly wants to. But, as he said, that’s not his place.
Not anymore.
He’s become my past, while Jax, Cole, and Hawk have become both my present and future. The feelings I have for Darius Cruz are complicated and twisted. Confusing to the point that I don’t know if I’m still mad at him for what he’s done in the past or elated that he’s simply still here and no longer give a damn. After everything I’ve been through and everything he’s revealed, my old grudge doesn’t seem as strong as before. But, regardless of any lingering feelings I may or may not still have about my ex-fiancé, time has created a fractured rift between us.
And in that time, I’ve moved on.
Without him.
I stand taller in my resolve as he takes out a small knife from his side pocket and lifts it to his fingernails, cleaning the undersides as he gives a slight but final nod in the direction of the bedroom.
“Fine. Suit yourself. But we’re going after my guys in the morning.” I point my finger in the direction of the front door, putting my proverbial foot down. They need me, whether theywant to admit it or wish to see me help them, and I’m going to get them out of that culty hellscape if it’s the last thing I do.
“Your guys?” he asks suddenly, stopping me in my tracks just as I reach the bedroom door. “Who are they, anyways?”
I lower my eyes, unsure of how to explain this to Darius of all people. “They’re... my guys,” I say plainly. Easy. Sufficient. That’s all he needs to know. Unfortunately, that doesn’t seem to be enough for him.
“Yeah, but what does that mean? Like, are youwithone of them?”
“You could say that...,” I respond, knowing I’m beating around all kinds of bushes in my explanation, but seriously, how can I explain in simple terms that I’m consensually shacking up with three guys and loving every second of it?
Darius lifts a curious eyebrow, however, seeing right through me, as always. “Care to elaborate?”
“Well, he either sounds jealous or protective. Maybe both. I like it. Please continue,”Me-two states with an approving wave of her hand from the corner of the room.
