Page 94 of Heathens

She smiles.

“Okay..” She moves toward the bed and lies down flat on her back, arms spread out in preparation. “So, you gonna tie me up?”

It’s supposed to be a joke, but I can’t help the pang of regret that echoes in my chest. I don’t want to do this, so I’m gentle with her wrists, making sure not to tie the knots too tight.

“Thank you,” she breathes.

I smile at her and catch a flicker of warmth in her eyes.

“You’re welcome.”

Once she’s secured, I brush a few strands of hair away from her face.

“I’ll be back when you wake up with breakfast.”

“Real breakfast?”

“Would you believe me if I told you I could make pancakes from scratch?”

“Absolutely not.” Her eyes shine and another smile tugs at the corners of her mouth. “But I didn’t believe you’d kidnap me either.”

It’s been a while since I’ve felt shame like this. I lean down and kiss her forehead.

“Goodnight, Sofie.”

“You’re not sleeping here?” She asks as I put my hand on the door handle.

I turn to her and shake my head. She’s still fragile, processing this new future that I’ve already planned in my head.

“Not tonight.”

With that, I step into the hall, letting the door shut behind me. There’s no key. I never designed the bedroom with locks in mind. I always thought whoever was in there with me would be a willing participant, or dead long before anything like this could happen.

I’ve shifted the couch so that I can watch the bedroom door, my eyes flicking up to it every half-minute or so. I haven’t heard a sound in a few hours beyond her heartbeat. It varies between calm and erratic, but whenever I go to check on her, she’s asleep, her head turned to the side. Nightmares.

Whiskey burns my throat and the sound of rich classical music fills the room as I rifle through Sofie’s purse. She has a wallet with all of her ID cards in it, and punch cards for her inoculations.

“Sofie Fournier. Born July 25th, 1958 in Los Angeles, California.”

I toss the ID onto the coffee table and keep flipping through the wallet, finding a birth certificate. The ink has faded from years of being folded up. I take another sip of whiskey.

“Charles Jonathan Fournier. Born October 31st, 1977. Parents, Sofie and Samuel Fournier.”

No death certificate. Of course, there was no more government to hand them out. All of the bodies were burned or devoured by us.

By the worst of us.

There’s nothing else in her purse except for a gun and a tube of lipstick. Nothing else to know that I can’t just ask her, that she probably won’t tell me. My search of her purse has yielded no insight into who she is other than what she’s told me. I can’t shake this paranoia.

She’s not secretly a vampire, and she’s not secretly working for Rene. That’s a plus, I guess. I take the bullets out of her gun, hissing through my teeth the second they drop into my hand. They clatter onto the coffee table and I smirk as the smoke rises off my lightly charred skin. I place the gun in the drawer beside the couch, locking it up along with the formula, and slip the key into my pocket.

I love the fact that she’s clever. Sometimes, I’m even turned on by some of our sparring, but I miss when she trusted me. Maybe that’s what’s feeding my paranoia — that and the fact that I haven’t slept a goddamn wink since she’s been here. God knows I’ve tried, but this whole thing with Rene is eating at me, and this couch is a hell of a lot less comfortable when you’re not working off a wild bender. The floor is even worse, but I continue to resist the urge to head back to the bedroom and join her. It’s still hard to tell if she hates me or not, but I’m still leaning toward yes. I’d probably hate me too.

I’ll earn her trust, and I’ve already started. The clothes, the negotiations, the picture—

Fuck, I almost forgot.

I grab the phone and dial Theo’s number. There’s still a few hours until the sun goes down.

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