Love the Way You Lie (Stripped 1)

I don’t come out alive in most of them.

He shakes his head. “I’m not sure yet. And with Byron’s men in Tanglewood, we don’t have much time. So I need you to trust me. I need you to sit down and wait. I need you to let me pull the fucking glass out of your face.”

Then he’s stalking toward the hallway, presumably to get bandages or tweezers.

It’s a command, and I’ve been trained all my life to obey. Still, I remain standing. Could I make it back to the Tropicana from here? I know we’re close enough, but I haven’t explored enough to be sure of the way. Abruptly I sit on his couch, shaking. Clara.

Kip could help us. He has a gun. He used it to protect me.

I need you to trust me.

A clock points to four thirty. Still morning. Still night. I’m cutting it close getting back to her. If she’s even there, she’d be leaving soon. But then, maybe it’s better that way. If she’s safe now, she might stay that way. Better than me going back, leading those shooters right to our doorstep.

I ignore the pang in my chest at the thought of never seeing her again. Safe.

There is a book on the side table. I recognize it even though I’ve never seen it before. Rudyard Kipling’s book of stories, the ones Kip told me about. This book looks ancient, its pages well touched, both soft and brittle in the way old things sometimes are. I flip open the cover, feeling like I’m intrudi

ng on something private. This whole night has been intrusion—me, him, this book that is his namesake.

There’s something written in faded black ink on the first page. Not printed with the book but added after. It’s a poem.

The jungle is a scary place for those who wander in

It holds its secrets tightly furled, locking out the wind

Each leaf has a map, each river points the way

But the jungle is too good a host.

You really must stay.

So lay your body on the dirt,

And make not a sound.

Only when you rest you’ll find,

The key is underground.

I read the poem again, imagining walking into a forest. Being afraid and lost. It’s not a foreign feeling even though I’ve rarely left the city. The jungle is where I lived most of my life, in the mansion I wasn’t allowed to leave, where the trees are made of marble, where the leaves are gilded gold. I may have finally broken my way out, but sometimes I wonder if that’s an illusion. Maybe I’ll wake up and find myself back there, that my time at the Grand was all a bad dream.

Or maybe I’ll realize I died in that mansion, that freedom is just ghostly wishful thinking.

Kip comes back with tweezers and a bottle smelling of rubbing alcohol. He glances down at the book, a strange expression on his face.

“Did you write this?” I ask, gesturing to the poem.

He shakes his head. “My mother.”

“Oh.” I look again at the last line, the final escape from the jungle. Underground. She’s talking about death. “It’s pretty. And sad.”

“That was my mother. Pretty and sad.” He pours some of the rubbing alcohol on a cotton swab. “No more stalling now. I hate having to hurt you, but the sooner we start, the sooner we finish.”

It’s disturbing how like Byron he is… “Do what you have to do.”

He sits beside me and places my hand on his thigh. “When it hurts, squeeze.”

He feels like a denim-covered log in my hand. “I don’t think I’d be able to squeeze—oh shit, that hurts.”