City of the Lost (Rockton 1)

"And you wonder why I don't keep a gun under my pillow."

"Yeah." He rubs his jaw. "My mistake. I thought you saw me." A strained half smile. "Well, unless you did. I probably deserve that." The smile lingers another second. Then it falters. "Or did you think I was--?"

"I was just reacting to someone looming over me as I slept."

"You were having a bad dream," he says, and he waits, as if for me to explain.

I sit up and look around, blinking hard.

"I brought dinner," he says.

He takes a tray from the chair and brings it over and points out what he's gotten for me. Soup, because it's easy to eat if I'm not up to solid food. A sandwich if I am--peanut butter and jam, but he can get something different if he's chosen wrong. And pie. Brian at the bakery asked what he could make for me, and Dalton remembered we'd talked about apple pie. The rest of it is downstairs for later.

I don't want him to try this hard.

I want him to throw it off. So, yeah, it's been a shitty forty-eight hours, Butler, but what's past is past, so let's move on and I sure as hell hope you aren't planning to lounge in this bed tomorrow.

I want Dalton's snap and his growl and his swagger. Instead, I get apple pie and "Are you sure PB&J is okay? They were making shredded venison for tomorrow's sandwiches. I could get you some of that if you want."

"What I want is for you to stop apologizing."

"I'm not--"

"Yeah, Eric. You are."

He nods, settles onto the chair, and watches me eat. Then he stands abruptly and leaves without a word.

"Well, that's more like it," I mutter under my breath, as I dig into the pie.

Thirty seconds later, he's back with the tequila and a shot glass.

"I don't want--" I begin.

"Good, 'cause you can't have it with the drugs. This is for me."

He starts to open the bottle. Then he stops, sets it aside, and walks out again. I hear the distant click of the front door lock. Then the tramp of his boots as he goes to check the back door. He comes up and closes the bedroom one, too.

I say nothing. He pours a shot. Gulps it. Winces and shakes his head sharply, his eyes tearing at the corners.

"Fuck," he says.

"Yep, you really should stick to beer."

He shakes his head and pulls the chair over to the bed. Then he pours another shot.

"Umm," I say. "That's probably not a good--"

He downs it, and he's hacking after that, his eyes watering. His hand, still clutching the shot glass, trembles. He notices and puts it down fast.

"We need to talk," he says.

"That's usually best done sober."

"Not for this." He wipes his mouth and straightens. "Diana said I'm fucked up. She may be a bitch, but she's right. Everyone knows it. They think it's because I grew up here. That's only part of it."

He rubs the back of his neck. "You said I don't want to share my problems with you. You're right. I don't share this with anyone. Anyone. Because if they already treat me like a freak, this isn't going to help." He looks at the shot glass, his fingers still around it. "So I could just keep refusing to talk about it. Be the guy with the deep, dark secret."

He smacks the shot glass down. "Fuck it. I'm not that guy. I don't want to be that guy. Not with you. So this is your last chance. If you'd rather not hear it..."