He let out a feral growling sound and mumbled something incoherent.
I reached for him and he grabbed my wrist, hard. It was kind of crushing, actually.
“Tommy!” I cried out.
He growled. “Never. Fucking never.”
I cried out again.
His grip loosened. “Tia?”
“Yeah. You have a bad dream? You okay?”
He pulled me close. “Sorry, baby.”
“We need lamps.”
“Huh?”
“Lamps. You would’ve seen it was me…”
“The fuck you talking about?”
“You grabbed my arm and hurt me because you di-didn’t see it was me because this room has no lamps.”
He moved away and the light was then blinding me. He was standing by the doorway and had flicked the main switch on. This room was huge, luxurious, and clearly the lack of lamps was an oversight.
He moved to me and lifted my hands. He looked at my wrist. It was going to bruise, for sure. It felt sprained.
I didn’t want to make him feel worse.
“It’s okay.” I fought a wince.
He stormed out and was back a minute later, two lamps in his hands, cords dragging. “How many fuckin’ bedrooms in this joint? Every one of them but the master has lamps?” He slammed one, then the other on the floor on either side of the bed. He plugged one in on his side, then did the same over on my side. I sat there, wrist throbbing, but trying not to draw attention to it.
“Hurts?” he asked.
“It’ll be okay.”
“Don’t lie to me. Your face tells me. Don’t keep the truth from me just because you think it’ll make me feel shit. I deserve to feel shit.”
He stormed out again and then came back with a towel filled with ice. He sat beside me and put
it on my wrist, holding my hand on his lap.
He was just in his boxer briefs.
“The ice is gonna melt on you.”
“Don’t give a fuck.” He flexed his jaw muscles, holding the ice on my wrist.
“What are you dreaming of?” I whispered, hoping it wasn’t a mistake to ask again.
“All sorts of ugly shit.”
I leaned over and put my head against his arm as he continued holding the ice over my wrist.
He craned his neck to kiss the top of my head.