He brought me a bowl of buttered pecan ice cream—my favorite.
“You should have more than just scotch in your belly.”
I smile lightly; I can’t help it.
“What’s the second spoon for?”
“Me.” He takes a bite of my ice cream before I can jerk the bowl out of his reach.
That makes us both laugh. We both need a laugh, even if it doesn’t make sense.
“Here,” I say, reaching behind my shoulder to grab the bag of ice and toss it at him.
“What’s this for?”
“Your eye—it looks terrible. And if I know you, you didn’t ice it at all today. You might need your eye to be able to see and shit.”
“I think your shoulder needs it more.”
“Nope.” I grab the bottle of scotch. “This is all my shoulder needs.”
He doesn’t argue with me, probably because he feels guilty. He just puts the ice to his swollen eye.
Progress.
I smile to myself as I take a bite of the heavenly ice cream.
“I haven’t told you my story for the night,” I say after taking a few more bites.
“I’ll give you a pass for tonight, since you were shot and all.”
“You’re not getting out of story time with me that easily.”
“Story time with you? I thought I was the one torturing you by making you tell me stories.”
I put the spoon in my mouth and scrape the ice cream off with my teeth.
Langston stares at me like he’s entranced with my mouth, wishing he was my spoon right now.
“Nope, story time is about putting tiny little cuts into your heart every single night. I can’t kill you with one big blow, but I can kill you if I inflict enough scratches.”
“Okay, what story are you going to tell me tonight?” He leans back, resting his head on the headboard. He holds the ice to his eye, and I hold my spoon of ice cream up to his lips.
He hesitantly takes a bite. Now I’m the one who can’t stop staring at his lips.
“Liesel? Are you going to tell me a story or not? It’s been a long day, and I’d like to sleep at some point.” He says it like he’s irritated with me, but we both know it’s out of concern for me. He’s just looking out for me, making sure that I get sleep, which is the best thing for my shoulder.
Rest and time are the only things that will heal it now.
I lean back too, trying not to wince when my shoulder hits the headboard.
“I think we were twelve or thirteen; I can’t remember the exact year. That doesn’t really matter, anyway. You had just kissed Ruby.”
“Thirteen. I was thirteen.”
I hit his shoulder playfully. “Of course, you would remember how old you were when you kissed Ruby.”
“Wouldn’t you?”
I hem and haw. “Yea, probably. No more interrupting my story.”
He gestures to zipper his mouth shut.
I smile and get distracted by his adorable dimple.
No—focus.
“You and I rode our bikes together on the way home from school. I saw you kissing her earlier that day, and I teased you the whole way home.”
Langston’s face drops as he realizes the story I’m going to tell, but he’s not sure why I chose it.
“We got to your house, and I kept teasing you, even though I saw your father drinking beer in his chair. Even though I knew not to be loud. Even though I knew not to tease you about something your father wouldn’t approve.”
“Liesel,” Langston says in a warning tone.
I keep going.
“I knew what was going to happen, and I kept pushing, teasing. I was jealous that you kissed that girl. And I wanted to make you pay.”
Langston’s eyes close, as if remembering.
“Your father beat you, and it was my fault. I provoked him. I knew you got beat every time he was triggered, and I did nothing.”
I reach up and touch his face.
He opens his eyes.
When he looks at me, he knows why I told this story. Every time he gets hit, it reminds him of his father. And I’m still sorry for not saving him when we were kids.
“I’ll go sleep in the closet,” I say, moving to get up.
Langston grabs my wrist, stopping me.
“Liar.”
“What?”
“You’re a liar.”
I frown. “What part of that story was a lie? You lived that story with me. Every word was the truth.”
He removes the ice from his face and looks at me with both eyes.
“You did do something to stop him, Liesel.”
How does he know?
“You did something every time you could. You told my mother. You tried to calm him down or get him extra drunk so that he wouldn’t be able to hit me.”
He’s right. I did. I just never realized that Langston knew that.
“But that night—”
He puts a finger to my lips, getting me to stop.
“You took a beating for me.”
I freeze, and my eyes widen. How did he know?
He nods as if my reaction confirms it. He didn’t know for sure until this very moment.
Langston gets up out of bed and turns off the lights.
I feel him return a moment later.
He climbs into the bed, this time under the covers.
“Go to sleep, Liesel.”
This time he doesn’t give me a choice between the closet or his bed; he demands I sleep in his bed. For the first time since I slept next to him when we were kids, I want to share a bed with him.
30
Langston
“Please.”
The single word stirs me awake.
I’m a light sleeper. It’s one of the many reasons why I excel at security and protecting people—well, protecting everyone other than Liesel.
My eyes fly open and look to the woman lying on my shoulder.
Liesel Dunn.
Her head is snuggled up against my bare chest.
“Please,” she whimpers again.
“Shh, I got you,” I whisper into her ear, but I don’t think she’s actually awake. She’s just having a dream or, most likely, a nightmare.
I feel her forehead—it’s covered in sweat. Her body trembles in my arms. She feels like an addict in need of her next fix.
I’ve had my suspicions of what her demons actually are ever since she arrived. Holding her while she sleeps seems to confirm them.
“I need you, please,” Liesel whispers again, her hands start clawing at my chest.
“Liesel,” I say, freezing.
Her thigh drapes over mine, and she starts humping my leg, moving her body over mine like she’s desperate.
“Liesel, wake up.” I stroke her hair.
“Please, make me come. I need it.”
She tries again to rub herself against me. To feel something. To let go. But she can’t.
Suddenly, the dream shifts.
“Get off of me!”
She’s no longer begging for my body but begging me to let her go.
Her fists slam against my chest, over and over. Her body somehow heats to an even higher temperature. She has to be running a fever. She has to be having a nightmare.
“Let me go!” she yells.
Now I’m not sure if she’s awake or asleep, but I can’t let her go. If I let her go, she’ll run. She’ll hurt herself—her shoulder.