Page 77 of A Pawn in the Game
We drive in silence along the dark, mostly abandoned roads. My mind is in turmoil, but her mere presence settles me.
She’s the one to break the silence. “Can I tell you a story?”
I want you to tell me all your stories.“Yeah.”
“My parents used to tell me I was a fussy sleeper when I was a baby.” I sneak a peek at her. She stares out of the car, transfixed by the moving lights. “They couldn’t get me to sleep, so they used to load me into the car and drive me around the neighborhood until I fell asleep. It worked every time.” Her face pulls into a small smile. “I guess sleep and I have never been friends. But I absolutely loved driving. We used to take these long road trips across the country, and the journey was usually my favorite part. Just riding in the car. I would stare out the back window and try to absorb every detail of the place we passed through. I would make up extensive scenarios involving those places and the people that supposedly lived there.” Her gaze drops to her hands in her lap. “After my mom died, even entering a car became a trigger. It reminded me of her not being in it. My dad would tell me to sit in front, but the idea was repulsive. I couldn’t sit in her spot. Eventually, I stopped using them, opting for public transport. Over time, I stopped going further than my feet could take me. The ball that you took me to; it was my first time in a car in a very long time. Well, the first time when I wasn’t drugged.”
“I’m sorry. I didn’t know. I would never choose to make you feel less safe than you already feel.”
Her palm lands on my thigh. “It’s okay. I feel safe with you.”
The warmth of her palm bleeds into my skin, spreading around my insides. Her words are dangerous. She shouldn’t feel safe with me. Even so, the fact that she does feels like an honor, expanding my lungs.
I pull up into the garage, parking in my designated spot. Taking her hand, I lead her to my private elevator, where I put in the four-digit pin number. Her hand feels tiny in mine, almost fragile, reminding me of everything that’s at stake. The food I ordered is already inside, placed on the room service cart my doorman uses for such purposes. The contents of my stomach swish as we ride up, my nerves getting the best of me.
The elevator pings and a giant ball of golden fur rushes to her. “Alan!” she squeals, her eyes filling with tears. She makes her way to the floor, wrapping her arms around her dog.
Something lodges beneath my sternum.
“I can’t believe he’s here,” she whispers to herself. “I’ve missed you so, so much.” Alan’s tail flails like crazy, his happy wails filling the room.
Alan jumps from her lap and heads to me, greeting me with the same love he gave her. I greet him back, unable to look her in the eyes. Hades bumps his head into my legs, demanding attention, and my mouth widens into a smile.
“He was here the whole time?” she asks, her voice breaking.
“Yeah. I couldn’t have just left him on the streets. I-I didn’t know how to tell you.”
Still looking down, I don’t notice her approaching me until her arms wrap around me, her face burrowing itself deep into my chest.
“Thank you,” she says and heat flashes behind my eyes.
Finally, my arms wrap around her, too and I press a kiss on her hair. I feel almost dizzy with her scent, the tight grip of her hug and the emotions swirling through me.
Luckily, she doesn’t seem to notice my inner turmoil. Hades approaches her, sniffing with interest, and she breaks ourhug to give him some pets, too “And what’s the name of this cutie pie?” she asks, the rottweiler whining loudly for attention.
“Hades,” I respond, making her chuckle. The dog looks badass, has a badass name, but is as harmless as they come.
“Nice to meet you, Hades.”
She strokes his short fur as her eyes trail the space of my apartment with wonder, exploring every detail.
I try to see it from her perspective. What does it look like to someone else? It’s big, with massive windows overlooking the city and filled with black furniture, which is easier to wash blood off. The bar is full of expensive liquor I don’t drink because I prefer homemade rakia. It’s not completely bare, like her apartment, but the personal items are few and far between.
She approaches a shelf where I keep personal photos, reaching for the framed photo of Leon, Father, and I. The dogs follow her like shadows.
Her finger smooths over the dark frame. “Is this your dad?”
I clear my throat. “Yes.”
“You look just like him.” She shoots me a smile, and the air turns heavy.
Uncomfortable with another sudden burst of emotions, I point to the bag with the food I dropped on the white marble kitchen island. “You hungry?”
“I could eat.”
I bring the food to the coffee table, watching her get comfortable on the dark sectional. The dogs waste no time before settling into her lap. She cuddles them while watching me unpack everything. It takes a minute, considering how much food I’ve ordered.
“Wow, there’s a lot of food. Which one is mine?” She eyes the containers, and it’s obvious she’s hungrier than she let on.
