My hands slide around Daniel and I hug him as he strokes my back. It occurs to me that I’m practically in his lap. I want to pull away and take another shower, but a different thought flickers in my mind; this time, when I press my cheek against his neck, it’s to hide the fact that my tears are drying up.
Daniel has weapons.
I move my hands to his waist, still weeping and sniffing, and delicately try to feel for his gun. There’s one taken apart on the table nearby, but Daniel seems like the type that would have one at the ready at all times. He must have another one on him. It’s become my goal to find it.
So I sniffle and burrow against him, noticing the tent rising at the front of his pants. He’s trying to be comforting, but his body is responding all the same. I pretend not to notice it, even as I let my breast brush against his chest. “I’m sorry,” I say in a wobbly voice. “I don’t know what’s wrong with me.”
He gives a brief chuckle. “You kidding me?” His fingers stroke my damp cheek and I do my best not to recoil from his touch. All touches seem to lead to rough, horrible sex lately. “You’ve been through hell and came out the other side. I think you’re allowed a cry-fest. Try not to slobber on me too much.”
I like Daniel’s humor. A watery laugh escapes my throat, even as my hand grazes something hard tucked into his belt that can only be a gun. Yes!
Before I can grab it from him, though, his hand covers mine, preventing me. “Cry all you want, sweetheart, but the weapons stay with me.”
I jerk away from him, wiping my eyes. The time for cuddling is past. “You have to give me credit for trying.”
Daniel laughs again and shakes his head in admiration. “I do.” He gets to his feet, adjusts himself surreptitiously, and then gestures at the kitchen. “I’ll clean that up, and then I’ll head out and grab you a change of clothes…”
“No!” I yelp again, and I grab at his trousers. The old panic returns, and I don’t care that I’m clinging to the front of his pants and my mouth is pretty much level with his crotch. I look up at him, pleading. “Don’t leave. I don’t want to be left. I don’t need new clothes. These are fine.” Shit. I’m babbling, but I can’t help myself. “Give me a pair of pants and I’ll be fine. I promise.”
He stares down at me for a long moment, and then scrubs a hand over his face and nods. “Okay. You can borrow some of my stuff and we’ll go in the morning. Together.”
Relief courses through me. “Yes. That sounds good. Thank you.”
Even though I protest, Daniel won’t let me help him clean up in the kitchen. Instead, he gets me another plate of food and another glass of milk, and makes me sit on the sofa and eat every bite while he sweeps up glass and mops the floor. He chats the entire time, too. It’s clear Daniel doesn’t like silence much. He talks about the weather, and how different food is here in Brazil, and the upcoming World Cup. They’re harmless, simple topics—like a conversation you might have with a cab driver. I listen but don’t offer additional commentary. I haven’t seen most of Brazil, after all. I’ve been chained in a whorehouse.
But I like to hear talking other than “open your mouth, slut,” so I appreciate it. His normal conversation makes me feel a little more normal, too.
When I yawn and curl up on the end of the sofa, all food eaten, he pauses and comes to my side. “Come on. Time for bed.”
I stiffen but get to my feet. Here it is. Here’s where I have to pay to earn my keep. “I’m ready.”
We head to the bedroom, and the pasta I ate feels like lead in my stomach. I can do this. I can.
Daniel moves ahead of me and pulls down the blankets on one side of the bed. “The windows are nailed shut, so I wouldn’t recommend escaping through them. Plus, this neighborhood is kind of shit. Again, wouldn’t recommend escape.”
He offers me a pillow and I clutch it to my chest, waiting. Is this for my knees? So I don’t get more bruises while I service him? “All right.”
Then he walks past me, back to the door of the bedroom. “I’ll be in the living room. If you get scared or need anything, you shout. Okay?”
And then he closes the door.
He doesn’t want sex with me after all. At least, not tonight. He’s giving me this bedroom. I’m shocked . . . and then my mind starts racing. I can push the bed against the door and barricade myself in. Or there’s a heavy, scratched-up bureau against one wall that I could use to barricade the door if the bed is too bulky. I can wall myself into this room and be completely, utterly safe.
But . . . what if he tries to go out again?
What if he leaves me?
The familiar panic surges, and I’m close to throwing up the food I’ve eaten. I yank the door back open and run into the living room, startling him. He’d sat back down to work on cleaning his guns but stands up.
“What’s wrong?”
I can’t explain the sheer relief I feel at the sight of him. I wring my hands and try to think of a probable excuse as to why I don’t want him in the bedroom with me . . . but I don’t want him out of my sight, either. “I . . . um, I’m scared.”
“Of the dark?” he teases, all smiles again. “You want a nightlight?”
“Very funny, asshole,” I say, but I’m cracking a faint smile myself. I glance over at the couch. “Can I . . . um, can I sleep here?” I point at it.