Page 109 of Whiskey Throttle
It’s probably an odd thing to ask, but honestly, she looks as if she’s about to fall down. Still clutching my arms for strength. Dark bloodshot eyes slide to mine. Swollen eyelids, red and puffy surrounding them. Even upset, she’s beautiful. Broken, hurting, and completely open to me. She’s perfect.
“I . . . I haven’t slept much.”
It sounds like an apology.
Or an explanation for the silence these past few days. I understand and I don’t. I want to dive into us, all my pleading and upset messages and texts. But damn, after treading water in the deep seas of Dom’s carnage, that can wait for another time, and honestly, I’m beat to hell too.
She slips away, looking at a full tea cup, long since cold. A plate of cookies and a book are on the table next to her chair.
“We could just sit and . . .”
Her gaze returns to mine, appearing more lost and unsure of what to do next. I catch a glimpse of that woman who must have hidden behind the door of her bedroom all those years ago. Lost in the gloomy darkness, not knowing which way the murky water’s surface is.
“I think you need the privacy of your bedroom. The comfort of your bed.”
If her staff is as well instructed as mine, they will know not to be seen. Having heard enough to know what transpired. Moving about their daily tasks as invisible ghosts.
“Where is your bedroom?”
I take her hand, and she lets me. There’s no grip to it. No strength in her fingers. Just a quiet surrender as I guide her down the hall.
The silk of her blouse is damp against her spine. Her steps are slow. Staggered. As if she’s forgotten how to walk without performing or posing for others, for art lovers and patrons, gala supporters and fundraising titans.
“Back of the house.”
I don’t rush her.
There’s a gravity to this house now. A silence that isn’t peaceful, just empty. Like the air was sucked out with Dominic when he walked out the front door, and we’ve been breathing on borrowed time ever since.
Each step echoes against the polished wood floor. Past carefully curated art and untouched floral arrangements meant to impress no one in particular. I see it now. How lonely all of this looks. The clean lines. The perfect symmetry. The sterile beauty of her wealth.
A place built to protect the exterior of a woman who hasn’t felt safe in years. Her fingers twitch in mine, as if she wants to pull away but doesn’t. Not really. She’s just never been led before. Not without strings. Not without expectations.
Just as I expected, there is no one in sight. Tucked away in rooms and around corners, she will not see. Perfect. The only sound is the ticking of a clock somewhere. Our footsteps echo back to us.
We reach her bedroom. She stops at the threshold like she’s standing at the edge of a cliff. As if walking into this room means facing everything she’s locked behind its walls. I open the door for her anyway. The lights are low and the room smells faintly of roses. This isn’t the house that broke her. This is the house that saved her. Became her sanctuary.
It’s evident in the soft touches and light, cashmere-colored interior. Yet, everything is perfect. Military precision, as can only be expected from her. My grip on her hand tightens. Giving her an assured nod when she doesn’t move.
She follows, slightly behind, until I stop at her bed. Toss the million throw decorative pillows onto a couch at the foot of the bed. Some spill to the floor, eliciting a slight gasp. It’s perfect and messy.
“We’ll deal with that later.”
I reach past her and pull the coverlet back. Not like a man undressing a woman. Like a man preparing shelter. A quiet place to land after the war has ended. I expect her to perch on the edge or fuss about the pillows, but she doesn’t. She kicks off her heels and climbs in slowly. Curling onto her side in the middle of the mattress, almost in a fetal position if she were tucked in tighter.
She looks small. Weary. Her body knows this pose too well. Like she’s lain here too many nights like this, alone, lonely, and hoping that it will erase something that never fades.
“I don’t know what to say, Babs.”
She shoves the top of the covers down, reaches a hand to the mattress, and pats it.
“There’s. . . there is nothing to say,” she whispers, her gaze moving from me to the bedroom door still left open.
I cross the room in quick strides, close and lock it. They’ve heard enough. She deserves privacy to sleep, rest, or fall apart. I sit on the edge beside her. Not touching, just there. Her eyes close, but she doesn’t drift off. She’s still awake inside, circling the storm.
“I didn’t know,” I say softly, more to the air than to her. “I didn’t know how deep it went.”
She doesn’t respond, but her eyes open. A tear slips down her temple into the pillowcase.
