Does It Hurt? (80)

”It's about to storm, and we're supposed to get another tomorrow. How are we going to get him out?” I question, making sure to keep my voice quiet.

He shakes his head. “I haven’t figured that out yet. But we’re getting to that damn light.”

Pinching my lips, I nod and glance at the steps leading downstairs.

“Until then, I need to make nice with him.”

He gives me a sour look, as if I just shoved a lemon down his throat. Not very far off from its natural state. Enzo has a bad case of resting bitch face.

“That would only encourage him.”

“Yeah, encourage him to trust at least one of us,” I argue. “If he believes I might stay with him, he’s more likely to give me space. But if he thinks I’m not, he will cling harder.”

“I'm not leaving you alo—”

“You are because I asked you to,” I cut in. “Believe it or not, I haven't made it this far because I'm incapable, and he isn't the first creepy man I've dealt with.”

He studies me closely, an indecipherable emotion in his eye.

“I’ll trust you can handle yourself, Sawyer. But the second he takes it too far, or I feel you are in danger in any way, no more. I’m stepping in, and I’ll fucking kill the man. There won’t be any sneaking around then.”

My mouth parts in shock, and my eyes round.

He’s serious. Absolutely serious.

With one last heated glance, he warns, “I’ll be in the room.”

Did it get hot in here? I’ve begun to sweat, little beads forming along my hairline.

Attempting to shrug it off, I say, “You got it, dude.”

And then I take off toward the steps, needing air as much as I need fucking Jesus in my life.



God, this is so fucking uncomfortable.

When I came downstairs and asked Sylvester if he wanted to watch some TV, I was hoping I’d be able to distract myself with a soap opera, considering that's all Sylvester seems to watch.

But the storm outside has already begun to brew, and we don’t have any signal. So now we’re just sitting on the couch, watching a crackling fire while we both try to carry on a conversation.

He’s out of practice, I get it. But I think I’d rather stick my finger down my throat and blow chunks for funsies at this point.

“Did you hear the ghosts again last night?” I ask when another topic fizzles out.

“Meh,” he harrumphs, waving a hand. “I’ve grown used to the noises by now. I sleep like a baby.”

“It sounded like something was scratching at the floor above us,” I go on. “Like they were trying to claw their way out or something.”

His gaze darkens for a moment. Despite how tolerant Sylvester is of the ghosts, he doesn’t like speaking of them. Maybe because the spirits that live here are by his own hand.

“Sorry ’bout that,” he mutters. “I don’t think it’ll be too much of a problem for you after ’while.”

“You think I’ll get used to them?” I wonder.

“Something like that. I think they’re just restless. I’ll take care of ’em, don’t you worry,” he assures, patting my knee. I try not to tense under the weight of his calloused palm, but it’s nearly impossible. It feels as if slimy bugs are crawling up my spine.

“Relax,” he laughs boisterously. “Ya don’t need to fear me. I ain’t gonna hurt ya.”

I force a laugh, but I slide my knee out from beneath his hand anyway.

I may be trying to play nice, but that doesn’t mean I’m going to let him touch me. Sylvester is the type to push his luck. He’ll keep touching me until I tell him not to, and even then, he’ll push a little harder.

Enzo’s told him to get his hands off me before, yet, he still persists.

“Why you got a tattoo like that?” he asks, pointing out the two words Simon poked into my skin. Fuck You.

I look down, and unwittingly, a smile forms on my face as I brush my fingers across the black ink. I miss him. Probably more than I’ve ever missed anyone.

I’ve only met him twice, but he was my first real friend. My only friend.

My smile turns upside down. He probably thinks I disappeared on him willingly. And I’m sure he’d understand, but what if I never see him again? What if by the time I make it back, he’s disappeared himself?

Simon has said so once; he’s a wandering soul. Doesn’t stay in one place for long—like me. The thought of never seeing him again is enough to make the backs of my eyes burn.

“My friend did it for me,” I answer simply.

He harrumphs, sounding unimpressed. “Well, I’d like to ask you a question,” Sylvester starts, shifting uncomfortably. My heart drops, already knowing where this is going.

I clear my throat, my hands fidgeting with shit I didn't give them permission to. They move from my hair to my shirt, then back to my hair again, and somehow land on my bottom lip.

“Sup?” I squeak. I’m so bad at handling awkward situations.

“I wanted to formally invite you to stay here.” After a weird pause, he tacks on, “With me.”

I think I clear my throat again, but I’m not sure over the sound of my heart beating. I'm not even sure why I'm so damn nervous. All I have to say is no thanks. Easy.