Dark Child (Wild Men 5)

I manage to free my arms but instead of sitting up, I lay my head back down, fucking exhausted. “That’s none of your goddamn business.”

“Did you or didn’t you, Merc?”

“Just two, all right?” My pillow’s all soaked with sweat. My sheets are clammy. I’m shivering with cold, and reaction from the images, from all the blood spreading—

I groan. Don’t think about it.

Erase.

He finally straightens, getting out of my personal space. With a guy as tall and imposing as JC, that’s a lot of space freed, almost the size of a small country. “They’re getting worse, aren’t they?”

“What? Who?” I blink.

“Your nightmares.”

Oh, that. “Nah.”

“You should see a therapist, Merc.”

“I’m good, thanks.”

“I’m not kidding. You didn’t hear yourself screaming.”

“Screaming?” Jesus on a pogo stick, as they say. “You serious?”

“Told you I’m not kidding. Something’s obviously bothering you, and I’m not talking about the mattress. Did something bad happen? Is your family okay?”

“Yeah, dude, they’re fine.” I finally manage to heave myself up to a sitting position and scrub my hand over the grit in my eyes. “Look, thanks for waking me up, and all that, but I’m okay.”

“And all that?” He sounds incredulous.

“You were probably up anyway. You said you don’t sleep much.”

“So you’re gonna pretend everything’s just fine?”

“Everything is fine,” I inform him. “Look, sorry if I scared the shit outta you, but hey, I’m really fine.”

He sniffs at the notion of being scared.

I mean… screaming. Me. What in the hell, right? What in the actual fuck?

And worse still, when he turns around to go, I almost shoot out of the bed to stop him, my heart trying to pound out of my mouth. “JC, wait.”

He gives a long-suffering sigh but throws a glance at me over his shoulder. “Get up and come have some coffee. I just made a fresh pot.”

It takes some doing, but I make it out of bed, take a leak, wash my face, and half-human, half-zombie, I follow the smell of coffee. It leads me to the kitchen where JC is pouring two mugs of the dark gold at the counter.

He acknowledges my terrifying appearance—hair sticking in all directions, mouth cracked, arms stretched in front of me, making creaking noises—with a nod.

“Sit,” he says. “And stop pretending to be one of the Walking Dead. Your performance leaves a lot to be desired.”

“Kick a man when he’s down, why don’t you?” I eye his tired face. “Will you tell me why you can’t sleep at night?”

“Why, will you? Are you in a sharing mood?”

“Come on, JC.” I run both hands through my hair. “We’re roommates. We have no secrets from each other.”

“Then tell me. What are your dreams about?” He pushes a hot mug of coffee in front of me, and I wrap my chilled fingers around it.