Dreams of 18(32)

He did say that, right?

So much of what happened last night feels surreal. It feels like the dreams that I don’t see anymore.

But no, it happened.

He did find me a room and I did sleep in a bed like the dead. Then I woke up, took a shower, and as soon as I got out, I heard his voice.

And now, I’m out the door before I’ve thought my game plan through.

I’m not sure what I’m going to say to him or how I’m going to break the bad news that I’m not leaving yet, but I have to see him.

I climb down the stairs, walk down the hallway and reach its mouth to find that Mr. Edwards is alone, leaning against the bar, and that Billy has left.

Maybe he’s heard my clumsy, rapid footsteps because he turns around and faces me.

He has a plaid shirt on today as well, the sleeves folded up to his elbows, one of which is propped on the wooden bar. His fingers are clutched around a bottle. A bottle of Jack Daniels, and I’m reminded of the boozy smell of his truck.

Is he drinking first thing in the morning?

As if to answer my unspoken question, he picks up the bottle and takes a huge gulp of it, without breaking our stare.

“What’s with the cap and sunglasses?” he asks, as if we’re just chatting, as if he’s not intent on kicking me out of his town and as if I don’t plan on foiling his attempts, at least for a little while.

I put my disguise on when I heard Billy’s voice but as it turns out, I don’t need it. Even so, I don’t take it off as I approach him and the bar. Reaching it, I prop my own elbow on it and lean a few feet away from him.

“It’s my new look,” I answer.

At least that much is the truth.

“Yeah? Being a gigantic pain in the ass stopped working for you?”

I swallow, looking away from his searching eyes and at the bottle he’s currently strangling with his fingers.

“Yes. As a matter-of-fact, it did. I needed a change.”

“So what are you supposed to be now? A hungover teenage princess?”

No. It’s my crutch against the world.

But it’s okay if he thinks something else entirely.

It’s okay.

I lift my chin, even though I’m dying a little inside because I’m hiding things from him, lying to him. “I prefer diva, but princess works too.”

His eyes narrow for a second before he takes another gulp of his whiskey, studying me.

“Uh, thanks for… booking the room for me. I would’ve thanked you last night but you just left,” I begin. “Although, I’m not very sure how you even knew where I was going to be.”

Which is only occurring to me right now.

It’s a mystery, right?

How did he know where I was going to be? How did he know that I’d fall asleep in my car?

Thoughts flick through my brain one by one for about five more seconds, when abruptly, he moves and they run away.

He takes another sip of his Jack Daniels, this one the biggest, and I hear the glug of the liquid going down and his Adam’s apple sliding down with it. Then he thumps the bottle on the counter, wipes his mouth with the back of his hand and takes a step toward me.

“So you found your way back,” he murmurs, completely ignoring my question.

Although even I don’t remember what I was wondering about in the face of this giant, bearded man advancing on me.

Automatically, I start moving back. “It wasn’t hard. I had my phone. GPS is a wonderful thing.”

All the while, I’m feeling this reluctant thrill go through my body. A stupid thrill.

A thick thrill that we’re alone. The bar is closed. The windows are barred and draped. I don’t hear anything other than our moving steps and our breaths.

“Next time I’ll take away your phone,” he whispers.

“Next time I won’t get in your truck.”

All the while, I’m wondering why I’m not afraid of being alone with him. I never was actually; not that night either when he himself warned me about little girls getting kidnapped. This little girl was hardly afraid or even shy.

Although now I have all the reasons to be afraid and shy and cautious.

The man hates me. Hates me.

He left me on the side of the road last night and now he’s trying to run me over with his body.

Yes, I’m moving back as he walks toward me but it’s not with fear.

I’m dancing to his tune. I’m matching him step for step. I’m keeping the rhythm of his feet like his prowl is a dark music of some kind.

“And next time too, you won’t have a choice. Like you didn’t last night.”

I swallow.

I lick my lips.

I breathe heavily.

It feels like I’ve been trudging through desert. The driest and hottest desert on the planet, so scorched by the sun that my skin is cracked and my tongue is parched.

“Take ’em off,” he orders, referring to my disguise, like he did yesterday.

And I realize I didn’t take it off because I wanted him to say it. I wanted him to command me first, make me feel all tiny and dominated. So like last night, I do it in a flash.

God, I’m crazy.

I do it so fast and I do it in a way that says I can’t wait to be fragile and vulnerable in front of him, that I feed him the bullshit line, “You can’t tell me what to do.”