He reached out with one thick arm and wrapped it around her, pulling gently until her head was pressed into his chest. She didn't like how it made her feel. She was modern, capable. It wasn't a source of pride or agitation, but she'd proven quite well to her own satisfaction that she didn't need anyone else to support her.
If she kept careful watch over her teachers' salary, she could make do by herself. Chris Broadmoor was many things. He was dangerous, he was a mystery. He was at the center of no less than a dozen separate rumors that were liable to bring a red tint to her face just to hear the stories that people thought he had fit himself into.
And the feeling of his chest against her head, the way he didn't yield a single inch to her, made her feel weak. Yet in the same bundle of emotion there was something else, a feeling that she could keep going. As if he were there just to keep her on an even keel.
The moment stretched on for what felt like a long time. It might have only been a few seconds.
"I need to go," he said, finally. "I can't stay here."
Why couldn't he, though, she thought. She didn't say it out loud, because she knew the answer without having to ask. He couldn't stay because he was who he was, and she was who she was. There would already be talk, but it would be that much worse if he made the mistake of thinking that they could be together, even just to keep her sane for a night.
"You're right," she said. The words came out of her mouth, but she didn't mean them.
He let his arm drop to his side, took a step back. She let out a breath she didn't know she'd been holding and felt as if she were deflating like a balloon.
"Good night." He said it tentatively. As if he were uncertain whether or not he should go. Uncertain or not, he put his hand on the hotel-room door and turned the knob. "I'll come by to check on Jamie in the morning, aight?"
She nodded. Words were failing her. She remained standing as he left the room, trying to keep the feeling of stability that she'd had when he held her. It slipped through her fingers, yet she scrabbled to regain in nonetheless. If only she could just have it back for a moment, an instant, she could keep going on.
She finally slumped back into the chair, her energy long-since gone. It was going to be a long night. Eventually, maybe, she would find a way to manage. She'd slip into a routine, and everything with Jamie would get figured out.
She let her eyes close. That would happen in the morning, or in a week or in a month. Right now, she just needed to rest. Her mind drifted, the shadows of sleep blotting out the edges of her thoughts until dreams started to overtake her.
A moment later, her eyes shot open as the sound of a scream ripped through the room. Jamie shot up, his hair matted to his head, and she bolted. He'd be alright—she'd make certain of it, with every part of her.
Sixteen
Chris leaned his back against the wall and waited for something to happen. When it didn't, he waited a little longer. Jim waked over real slow, finally. Maybe if there were someone in the bar, then there would have been an excuse for him to sit in the corner, perched where he could watch the entire place, and where he could see any trouble as it started brewing.
Today, though, was emptier than usual, and there wasn't much reason at all, except habit. Well, if it was going to stay empty, then they might as well at least talk.
"Hey," says the bouncer. He's burly, with a thick beard and a mean-looking face that might have looked intimidating to people who didn't know him.
Having tried to get Jim's help before with moving furniture around the bar told Chris what he needed to know about how intimidated to be by the guy, but he looked tough in the corner there, and most people didn't want to mess with him. That was his job, then—to look like someone that people didn't want to mess with. That being in mind, he was good at his job.
When Chris failed to answer him for a moment, Jim tried again. "You sleep alright?"
"Sure," Chris answered. "Yourself?"
He leaned over and turned a little with a smile. "Sure."
"What are you smilin' at?" Chris's eyes narrowed a little. Whatever was in the bouncer's head, he was about to be irritated, so he got a jump-start on it.
"Oh, nothing much."
"Out with it, James Donovan, or so help me—"
He slipped off the bar stool and turned. "What makes you think there's anything?"
"You couldn't hide your smile if someone paid you to. It's why I keep telling you that poker ain't your game."
"Oh, be fair, Chris."
"Then tell me what you're angling at, and maybe I will."
"Aight, then. What's the story with you and the lady?"
"No story," Chris answered. "Nothing to tell."