Say It Ain't So (SWAT Generation 2.0 9)

“Sammy. Well, Samuel Adams, but everyone calls me Sammy,” I muttered into her neck. “And there’s a tree in my kitchen.”

There was a long moment of silence as that registered.

“There’s a tree in your kitchen?” she asked, sounding confused.

“Yes,” I said.

“A real one?” she confirmed.

“I assume it’s real,” I admitted. “But I didn’t actually touch it to find out. I tried to call someone, but my phone isn’t working. Can I use yours?”

She maneuvered her body until she was out from under me, and then she pushed me to the side so that I was mostly on the couch.

“I can call my parents,” she said. “But they’ve already reported several trees down in the area. And I’m not sure how much help they’d be right now.”

I agreed.

Several trees down meant they were likely over roadways.

But goddamn, I was so tired right then that I decided that maybe this could wait until the morning.

***

“Come on,” I heard said.

I opened my eyes to see that I was sitting up.

“Where?” I wondered.

“To the bedroom,” she answered.

She.

Hastings.

“I’m not sure that’s the best idea,” I admitted. “We barely know each other.”

She started to snort. Then snorted again. And again.

Her laughter was cute, that was for sure.

And if I could feel my face, I definitely would’ve told her that.

“Your face still works just fine,” she said. “And thank you. My sister tells me that I sound like a rabid pig when I laugh.”

“I don’t think you do,” I admitted. “My face is working? What am I doing right now?”

“You’re glaring at me,” she said.

“How do you know? I can’t see your face,” I countered.

“The lights are out, and I guessed,” she said as she helped me stand. “Now help me get you to the bedroom. I can’t get you there myself. You’re really fuckin’ big.”

“I can walk.” I paused. “For a little bit anyway. My legs feel like I’ve cemented them into concrete bricks, though. Like each one weighs fifty pounds.”

A light flickered on, and then I could see as she handed me the flashlight. “That’s a really great flashlight.”

It was very bright. So bright, in fact, that it hurt my eyes.

“It’s supposedly the most powerful flashlight in the world.” She paused. “At least, that was what the packaging said when I bought it at Lowe’s.”

“Well, it might very well be.” I stopped. “You have great floors. They’re really soft.”

“I put socks on you,” she said. “I had to take your shoes off. They were wet. And you were freezing.”

“What color are they?” I asked, keeping my eyes straight ahead.

“Umm, blue,” she answered. “Does it matter?”

“I always think that girl stuff is softer,” I answered. “Boys’ shit is always so rough. I like soft things against my skin. Like your hands. And your hair.”

I found myself lifting my hand to run my fingers through said hair.

She laughed and allowed me to continue what I was doing, but I did notice that she had stiffened slightly.

I petted her hair even more.

“What’s with the ‘pew pew pew’ that I heard you say earlier?” I asked curiously.

“Pew, pew, pew.” She sighed. “It’s a phrase that I say a lot. Even when my medication is working wonderfully and I’m not having a high anxiety day.”

“Hmm,” I said. “I say fuck a lot.”

She snorted out a laugh and then came to a stop at the end of the hall.

My eyes took in the room in front of me.

“Your room is black,” I croaked.

Hastings glanced around her room. The bed frame was black. The sheets were black. The walls were black. The fucking ceiling was black. Hell, she even had a blackout curtain over the window.

“I don’t sleep well at night,” she murmured softly. “And black makes me happy. Plus, if I don’t sleep well, then it makes my Tourette’s worse. Worse. Worse.”

I looked at her to see her face flushing.

So the repeating words was a thing that had to do with Tourette’s. While I was trying to fall asleep earlier, waiting for the meds to kick in, I’d done some research on her condition.

I was honestly surprised she was able to do as well as she did.

It could’ve been a whole lot worse according to the articles I’d read on the internet.

In high anxiety situations, situations that she couldn’t control, like the one she’d found herself in earlier? Those were the worst kind of situations she could be in when it came to her Tourette’s. Even if it was controlled by meds, anxiety fucked with her control. Meaning the girl could’ve been cursing the druggie even louder than she was.

Or hell, even hitting him.

Yeah, it was best for me not to think about it.

“I like it,” I admitted. “I think it’d be kind of nice to be in a place like this when I sleep. The blinking light on the smoke detector drives me fuckin’ insane. This looks heavenly.”