“You’re going to fall asleep on me again, aren’t you?” Bridgett said with a bit of a giggle.
I grunted but didn’t open my eyes. A moment later, I felt her fingers against my jaw.
“Really?” she asked quietly. “You’re going to spend all that money and not even fuck me? Twice now?”
I opened my eyes half way and looked up at her.
“What do you care?” I mumbled. I was starting to feel the warm cover of sleep moving over my body, and making sounds wasn’t helping at all. I needed the rest, and she was going to pepper me with questions.
“It doesn’t make sense,” she said.
I ignored her, figuring that was the best way to get her to shut up. I tucked my head into the pillow and subsequently against her arm as well before I closed my eyes again.
“You paid for me all night last time for a blow job and this time for a tit fuck? Do you really have that much money to throw away? I mean, I figure if you’re Moretti’s killer then–”
I rolled quickly, covered her body with mine, and placed my hand over her mouth. I felt her fingers grip into my arms, but she wasn’t even close to matching my strength and remained immobilized. Completely awake now – unfortunately – I stared down into her eyes with as much menace as I could muster.
“Some things aren’t discussed,” I said slowly and quietly.
I raised an eyebrow and waited for her to acknowledge what I said. When she nodded quickly, I released her mouth, but the damage was already done. A single tear fell from the corner of her eye. Part of me wanted to apologize, but she had to know she couldn’t just open up her mouth and talk about that kind of shit – it didn’t matter where we were. Next time we’d be in a bar or someplace, and she’d end up getting us both killed.
Pushing off of her, I landed on my back against the mattress. The ceiling needed to be painted, and I spent a moment wondering if I should put on a fresh coat of your basic ceiling white or maybe try something at little more interesting.
“I’m sorry,” I heard from beside me. “If you want to…to just sleep or whatever, that’s cool.”
Swallowing down whatever tetchiness was still left in me, I nodded and looked at her. Though her eyes were dry now, I knew I had scared her, and that’s not what I really wanted to do. She needed to remember what kind of life she was leading and what kind of people ended up around her because of it. She was young, but she couldn’t afford to be stupid. If she did, she’d die young, too.
“I…I sleep better with someone here,” I finally admitted. “I’m not seeing anyone, so…”
I let my voice trail off in hopes that the whole conversation would go away, but Bridgett was the most inquisitive of streetwalkers.
“You have nightmares?” she asked.
“Sometimes.”
“Bad ones?”
My eyes narrowed at her slightly. I didn’t want to go in this direction, and I also didn’t want to have to throw her out. I nodded once without speaking, but she still didn’t take the hint.
“What about?”
“For fuck’s sakes,” I growled. I resisted the urge to get up and drag her ass back to the street corner but only
just barely. “Look, I’m tired, okay? I haven’t slept in two days because I have shitty dreams, and the last time you were here, I slept really well, okay? Now can you just shut up for a few hours, or do I have to drag your ass back to your pimp and find a new whore?”
My heart was starting to pound faster, and if this kept up, I wasn’t going to be able to sleep no matter who was here. Thankfully, Bridgett finally understood and lay her head down beside mine.
There was just no reason to go into the details.
Chapter 3 – Conjured Plan
“So tell me what brings you here, Evan.”
I leaned back against the back of the chair and closed my eyes for a minute. Mark Duncan, the military counselor assigned to me after I was discharged and moved to Illinois, seemed to be a patient man. Though we had only spoken once before – the same month I relocated to Chicago – he understood it took a while for me to get going.
He was a short guy with dark hair and glasses. He must have loved what he did because he didn’t make enough money to get glasses that actually fit, and the little marks on the side of his face where the frames bore into his skin were red. There were papers all over his desk, and his bookshelf was disorganized to the point of annoying me. There was a picture of a young woman, but it was an old picture. Her hairstyle and clothing screamed the nineties. There weren’t any other pictures of her, and I figured she must be an ex since she was too old to be his daughter.
There weren’t any family-type pictures, though he was prime age to be married with a couple of kids. There were other pictures on his desk and on the window sill behind his chair, but they consisted of what looked to be a build site for a new house and a huge group of people holding tools. There were also pictures of groups of kids holding banners that showcased various walk-a-thons and similar functions.