“In the end, there wasn’t much I wanted to do. I just … wanted to disappear. And so I looked around for some jobs, and being a deputy here in Colton County was one of them, and guys I knew joked that being a black man in Texas wasn’t the best idea, but the county was the first one to call me back and hire me, and so …”
He shrugs and looks at me for the first time since he started telling his story.
“Here I am.”
I reach out, squeeze his hand.
“Thank you.”
“For what?”
“Telling me that.”
He shrugs, and smiles.
“Your turn.”
I smile back.
“Not tonight. Later. Maybe when you buy me that cup of coffee.”
“Wait”—his face all at once serious—“I thought you were buying me coffee.”
At first I smile, and then I laugh, and it feels good because I don’t remember the last time I laughed like this, a genuine, pure laugh.
I squeeze Erik’s hand again, and I pull him toward me. He’s stronger than me, but he lets me pull him, falling back down onto the bed so he’s on his side, his head on the pillow, staring back at me.
I whisper, “Stay.”
He watches me for another moment, and then he leans forward, kisses me on the lips. It’s not a short kiss, and it’s not a long kiss, but it’s a kiss I don’t think I’ll ever forget. Because he doesn’t say anything afterward, and neither do I. He just lies there, and so do I, and for the first time I don’t think about my past life or the people I’ve killed or even the two men I killed tonight. All I think about is Erik, being alone with him in this bed, and it’s enough to make me feel something I haven’t felt in a very long time.
Safe.
Eighteen
The light trickling in from the part in the curtain has changed.
It’s pouring in now, the light much stronger, the sun having started to rise an hour or so ago.
I’ve just opened my eyes and find Erik still lying beside me in bed. I’m not sure whether or not this should surprise me. I can’t remember the last time I woke up with somebody in my bed.
Erik’s still asleep. Lying on his side, facing me. Snoring quietly.
Part of me wants to lean over, wake him with a kiss, but another part wants to let him sleep. He’s working later today and needs all the rest he can get. Me, I’m probably going to head to work too, but that will be much later tonight. I’ll need to give Reggie a call, tell him I’m feeling better. Hope that he isn’t pissed and decides to fire me.
I slip out of bed, completely naked. After all, I’d answered the door last night in only my towel. It sounds sexier than it really is. If I’d known where the night would eventually lead, I would have spent a few extra minutes in the shower to shave my legs.
As I’m dressing, Erik yawns as he stirs awake.
“What time is it?”
I pull a T-shirt over my head, and glance at his watch on the nightstand.
“Almost eight o’clock.”
His head still on the pillow, he squints up at me.
“Do you have any coffee?”
I don’t. I don’t even have a coffee maker or one of those Keurig machines, but for some reason I think that’ll make me seem weird—normal adults at least have a coffee maker, right?—and so I shrug.
“Maybe. Let me check.”
Yawning, he murmurs something about giving him five more minutes and turns himself over so his back is to me.
I leave him to his five minutes and head for the kitchen. I don’t bother checking the fridge or cabinets. I’ve got almost nothing to eat or drink, and I’m not sure yet how I’ll explain it to Erik.
Maybe inviting him in last night was a mistake. Instead of looping my finger on his belt and pulling him forward, I should have pressed my hand against his chest and pushed him back toward his apartment. He hadn’t asked many questions last night, but he will eventually. Especially if this becomes more serious. If we do end up getting a cup of coffee. Last night, I had been so sure that was what I wanted—an actual relationship, somebody to care for, to love—but now I’m not so sure. Because I won’t be able to be completely honest with him. I’ll always be keeping secrets. And you can’t have a solid relationship without trust, right? I’m pretty sure I once saw that on a Dr. Phil episode.
The silence in the kitchen is deeper than normal. Typically I hear my neighbor’s TV. But this morning the TV’s off, and so the silence is thick, and beyond the silence—somewhere outside—I can just make out a few car doors shutting.
I cross over to the window, peek out through the slit in the curtain.
The first thing that catches my eye is the red flashing lights. A second later I take in the three police cars parked out on the street, men in Kevlar vests quickly dispersing as they move into position.
By one of the cars, surrounded by a handful of cops, Sheriff Gilbert—a man I’ve never met, have only seen pictures of in the local newspaper—motions at the apartment building.
Points right at my window.
I step away, suddenly holding my breath. Did they see me? I don’t think so. Even if they did, it doesn’t matter anyway. What matters is that there isn’t much time.
I close my eyes, focus on the silence.
The soft patter of boots on the macadam outside nearing the building. The men being as quiet as they can, but my ears are attuned to certain noises, like the flick of somebody undoing the safety on his pistol. Soon they’ll enter through the door downstairs, start to creep up the steps.
There’s only one exit from the second floor, excluding going out the window. The stairwell will be tightly
