Page 28 of Legendary

“It’s our thing.”

We have a thing?

“I figured we’d have a movie party. It’s time you actually watch The Shining.”

He brings in the tray, sets it on the bed, and falls back onto the mattress. Looking up at me expectantly, he pats the spot next to him.

I eye the spot where his hand is. We never talk about my nightly visits to his bed. Even though he always requests suites with two rooms, I’ve ended up sleeping in his arms ever since that first night with the handcuffs. It’s never until the lights are off and I’m almost crazy with the need for his comfort that I go to him. Each time, he just opens his arms and waits for me to find my place in them.

“Come on,” he says, sensing my awkward hesitation. “Sit and watch the movie with me. It will be easier to share the popcorn that way.”

Given the easy excuse, I settle in next to him, and he props the popcorn between us. As usual, being this near him sets my nerves afire. Each day of the road trip, I get needier for him, and not just for the comfort of his arms, but to know what his touch feels like when instead of soothing me, it aims to stir a raging fire in me only he can extinguish. It's impossible for so many reasons, but I can’t help the yearning.

The movie starts, and I try to block the enticing scent of Jeb next to me as we watch the opening scene. Though I remember the book well, I slowly get drawn into the movie version and get lost in the scary story.

Immersed in the scene of the haunted topiary, I absently grab a handful of popcorn only to bump against Jeb’s hand as he does the same. The slight touch runs a bolt of awareness through me, and I immediately release my handful of popcorn back into the bowl and jerk my hand back.

“Here,” Jeb says softly and puts a piece of popcorn in my mouth.

I look at him in surprise, but his gaze is laser-focused on my mouth. Awkwardly, I open my mouth and accept the bite of hot, buttery goodness. “I like feeding you,” he says, the deep notes in his voice curling around me. Then, he turns his attention back to the movie.

He continues to feed me. Popcorn, black licorice, chocolate-covered almonds, a sip of my pop held to me as I sip it through a straw. Each time he does, my heart beats double time, and my blood heats to boiling. I have trouble paying attention to the movie. If I hadn’t read the book, I would be totally lost.

The movie ends, and as the soundtrack plays and the credits roll, Jeb turns to me. “What did ya think?”

If I were being truthful, I’d have to admit that, due to Jeb’s proximity and his feeding me, I wasn’t a qualified critic. Instead, I fall back on my usual opinion. “The book was better.”

“Man, why do people always say that?” he asks, a note of frustration in his voice. “I don’t know how a bunch of tiny, crowded words on a page could be better than moving pictures.”

“Books and movies engage different parts of our brains. A movie is a more passive enjoyment, with the story being mostly dictated to you by the images on the screen. Books encourage our minds to supply the visuals, thus requiring an active participation in the storytelling experience.”

Jeb doesn’t seem too impressed with my answer. “Whatever,” he says. “Don’t tell meThe Fast and Furiousbooks are better than the movies.”

“If the books exist, I would hope that they are,” I comment, shuddering at the full day of movies I was made to watch. They all seemed to be just one endless car chase.

“Weren’t there any movies you enjoyed as a kid?”

I shrug. “My parents didn’t have a television in the house, and we were discouraged from frivolous pursuits like seeing movies.”

“Seriously?”

“It’s not a big deal. I was allowed to read anything I wanted, and since, like I already said, books are usually better than the movies, I didn’t suffer too much.” I smile at a remembered memory. “Though when my mother found Dario’s first graphic novel under my bed, she—”

I freeze. I’m talking about my past life. I’m telling Jeb a story about my mother. I don’t do that. Not ever. It hurts too much.

Pain floods through me. I’m usually better at blocking it out. I try to keep my memories locked up tight, only letting them escape into my nightmares.

“What happened?” Jeb prompts.

“It’s not important,” I say, tight-lipped. “Can you turn off the credits? I think it's best if we go to bed now.” I turn off the lights, so Jeb won’t see the tears that are starting to stream down my face, and instead of flinging myself into Jeb’s arms like every atom of my being is begging me to do, I grab my pillow and head for the other room.

“Eli, are you alright?” Jeb asks as I reach the door.

I want to tell him I’m not alright. I want to beg for him to make the pain go away, but I can’t because he’s the one to blame for the crack in the dam I’ve built around me to keep the pain away.

I have to end it now. Tonight. Before the crack gets any bigger and I crumble into nothing but a bunch of jagged-edged pieces.

“I’m fine,” I manage to choke out while choking back the sound of the tears in my voice. “But it's best if you go gold mining on your own tomorrow. I have too much work to do. I can’t keep spending all my time amusing you. I have more important things to do.”

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