THREE
What? Xander's head shot up and over to her. Stay with him? What the hell? Who asked to stay at their private investigator's office? He watched her, her face focused on her hands. Her thumb on her left hand was worriedly poking at the cuticle on her other hand. She was still drenched, still trembling slightly at the cold.
She was so small. And so scared. Could he really be the kind of beast to throw her out on the street when she asked for sanctuary? Especially knowing her stalker was of the violent variety. He wasn't going to stop. And it wasn't like he seemed to have some twisted stalker notion that they should be together and live happily ever after; he seemed like he wanted to hurt her. Which was a little odd. But his unpredictability truly meant danger for Ellie.
And if he turned her out with no place safe to go, what option did that leave her but to go back to her apartment? And probably be beaten or killed. He couldn't let that happen.
"I can sleep right there," she said, squirming in her chair, pointing to the worn leather sofa. Was he actually going to tell her no? Was she going to be thrown out on the street? He looked conflicted, leaning against the wall, a big hand running over his jaw.
The silence drug on and she felt her hope fizzle away. It had been a long shot. She knew that. But that didn't stop the disappointment from rising from her belly, up her throat, making her feel like she was choking on it. What other choices did she have? It was too soon to go back to her apartment and find her stash of money, her pre-packed 'get out of dodge' suitcase with a few changes of clothes, basic necessities, a new burner phone, and a few books. That was what she had been living on for years.
She could move again. She had done it plenty before. She could try to talk her landlord into bringing her up there under the pretense of a busted pipe, grab her stuff, and get out. She could grab the first train out of the city. Run.
Run. Run. Run. That was all her life was about: running. And she was tired of it. She wanted to be able to stay put. Even if that meant staying put on the couch of one dangerous-looking man in one hellhole of a neighborhood.
Xander sighed, watching her face. Hope was quickly replaced with disappointment, a quick flash of fear, and finally... resignation? Determination? Was she making a back-up plan? Whatever it was, he couldn't imagine it being a good alternative to staying with him. At least with him, no one would dare mess with her.
"The couch in the apartment is more comfortable," he heard himself saying as if from far away.
Ellie's face shot to his, her eyes wide, skeptical. Like maybe she thought she misheard him.
"I'm sorry... what?"
Xander turned to lock the front door, but found the lock already turned. Had she went and locked the door when he wasn't looking? He shrugged off the thought that was an unusually diligent behavior for someone who should be in shock, and walked back to grab his coffee cup. "My apartment," he said, moving toward the hallway and waving a hand out, "is through that door. It isn't much," he added, feeling almost self-conscious. What the hell was that? He had never given his living space much thought before. And he had brought plenty of women back there before without hesitation. "But the couch is more comfortable than that leather one. And you'll be behind another locked door."
He was asking her to stay in his home? With him? She looked up from under her lashes, suspicious. Why? Why not just make her stay on the couch in the office? Why would he want her in his personal space? Because if he had any ideas about them... hooking up or anything... he could squash that right now. She was not interested in that. No matter how sexy the man was. If there was one thing she had learned in her life, it was men were trouble.
"Relax, sweetheart," he said, smiling at her discomfort, "you're not my type. I was just thinking of your comfort. Take the office couch," he said, moving toward the door in the hallway.
Ellie jumped up out of her seat, grabbing her sweater and her coffee. Watching him walk away, she realized how much safer she would actually feel with him close by. He was a giant, hulking, intimidating figure who apparently owned at least one gun. Judging by the ease at which he handled it, she imagined he knew how to use it. Or any other weapon that crossed his path.
"No, wait, please," she said, coming up behind him. "I'm sorry. I'm just... not myself tonight."
"Normal," he said shrugging and opening the door to his apartment.
Ellie walked in behind him, looking around. Looking for escape. Because that was where her mind was trained to go. She had to find the exits, know the floor plan, know the layout of furniture. She had to close her eyes and count the steps so that even in the dark, she can find her way around. So no matter where she was, she have the home field advantage.
"Are those windows solid?" she asked, feeling anxiety bubble up. They didn't open. She couldn't slink through. Wasn't that like... illegal? Didn't you need two exits from every building?
"Yeah," Xander said, watching the near-hysteria on her face. Weird. Very weird. He walked over to one of the windows, tapping on it. "But it's real glass. Not that plastic glass shit they use now. You need to get out, you throw something at it and you're out."
Ellie nodded, looking over at the kitchen, the makeshift dining table, his bed. Where he would be sleeping... just a few feet away from her. The red couch looked worn, but plush and soft. And she wasn't about to complain. She had done more than her share of sleeping upright on trains, in train stations, on buses. An old couch was certainly better than that.
"Here," Xander said, walking over and pulling the sweater out of her hand. "I'll take this and hang it up."
"Thanks," Ellie mumbled, not wanting to sit down and get everything wet. She sipped at her coffee, watching Xander walk around, finding a hanger and hanging the sopping wet material on the curtain rod next to the kitchen. He walked slowly, but deliberately, with what she could only describe as a swagger. Like cowboys in old west movies walked.
She moved over toward the dining table, picking up one of the many newspapers he had sitting there. The page was opened to an article on New Jersey heroin. She glanced it over, knowing the story. Until she found a picture. Then her stomach twisted in an awful grip. Of course they suspected him. It was him. The picture was a surveillance picture of him walking out of a restaurant, his ear pressed to his cell phone, one of his henchmen at his side. He looked cool, collected, intimidating, commanding.
"You look like you've seen a ghost," Xander commented, coming toward her holding a blanket and pillow.
Ellie jumped back slightly at his words, dropping the paper like it had burned her. "Oh. No. It's this... overdose story," she covered, "they were so young."
"Drugs," he shrugged, walking over and placing the bedding on the couch. "A bad economy in which even grads can't get a job breeds an air of hopelessness. Kids turn to anything that makes them feel anything else. It's not a problem that is going anywhere anytime soon."
"You sound like an expert in the field," she said, watching his back as he spread the blanket on the couch, draping it up on the back cushion so she could just pull it down on herself when she laid down.
"You live in this neighborhood," he said, straightening and turning, finding her watching him, "you get to know a lot about drugs." He walked toward a closet next to his bed, reaching in and quickly closing the door. Like he was hiding something. "Here," he said, holding out an big blue sweatshirt and a pair of men's blue and white plaid pajama pants. "These are going to swim on you, but they're dry."
Ellie walked closer, taking the clothes between her hands, holding them away from her wet body. "Thank you," she said, genuinely meaning it, "is there somewhere I can..."
"Oh," Xander said, shaking his head as if trying to clear his train of thought. "Yeah. Right outside this door," he said, opening the door to the hall and pointing to another door, "is the bathroom. There are towels in the cabinet if you want to take a shower."
Ellie opened the door, feeling around for the light switch. "Thanks." She offered him a weak smile, slipping behind the door and closing it. There was no lock. What was wrong with people and not having locks on their bathrooms? The bathroom, like everything in the building, was dated. The bathtub, sink, and toilet were all identical shades of blue-green. The floor was tiled in inch-wide white tile, faded with time, some of the squares broken. The walls were covered in larger white tiles, interrupted by the occasional square of four blue-green tiles. It was awful, Ellie decided, shaking her head. What did he have against a little updating?
She reached in the shower and turned the water on hot, quickly stripping out of her clothes, and moving the curtain out of the way to step in. She sunk into the heat for a long time, closing her eyes, and trying to go over the events of the night, trying to find what she did wrong. She messed up somewhere along the line. Not because he found her. He always found her. But he had caught her off-guard. She hadn't been prepared enough. There hadn't been anything but her cup of tea to throw at him. And that just so happened to be carelessly left there that morning. There should have been a vase, a bat, a frying pan. There should have been something placed within arms-reach of everywhere in her apartment to grab. She should have been carrying mace, homemade pepper spray... something that she could have assaulted him with from a distance so she could run.
She was getting sloppy. And it was going to get her killed.
She dried and stepped out of the shower, looking around for a second, trying to figure out what felt wrong. Something was out of place. Then she looked down at the floor, a puddle where he clothes should have been. But weren't.
She looked over at the door with wide eyes. He had actually come in while she was naked in the shower and taken her clothes. She took a deep breath, trying not to get agitated, despite what she decided was a gross invasion of privacy. He seemed like a good guy. She didn't need to be suspicious of everyone.
The drawstring on the pants had to be pulled almost completely out and tied tightly. They still slung down low on her hips, but they would do. She looked down at her side in the mirror, seeing the deep blue, purple, and yellow bruises smattering across her skin. It was worse than she had thought. The shock and adrenaline had masked the pain somewhat and it was growing now, sharp and impossible to ignore.
She threw on the sweatshirt, opening the door and calling out. "Hey... do you happen to have a few elastic bandages?"
A minute later, Xander walked into the doorway, leaning against the jamb causally. "What for?" he asked, looking down at her. He tried to ignore the fact that she smelled like him and that she was naked underneath his clothes.
Ellie saw the patient look on his face that suggested he wasn't going to get her anything until he knew why. She took a shallow breath, grabbing the hem of the sweatshirt and pulling it upward, holding it against the skin right underneath her breasts.
She heard him exhale a breath, the sound hissing out of his mouth. He pushed off the door frame and came closer, towering over her, his head looking downward. His hand came up slowly and he looked up at her, like he was asking permission.
"I just want to check your ribs," he explained, waiting.
She gave him a tight nod of her head and his hands went to her skin, gentle, whisper-light at first, testing her pain tolerance. She closed her eyes, half against the pain, half trying to ignore the rush of an almost foreign sensation through her body. It worked its way from his touch to deep in her belly then moving downward. Her eyes flew open, looking at herself in the mirror, realizing with absolute clarity that it was desire. She looked down at the top of his head, his black hair shiny and soft-looking.
Her heart started to beat a little faster in her chest and she pushed her thighs tightly together. What the hell? She couldn't seriously be into her private investigator. She shook her head. She was just overly tired, worked up from the events of the night.
His fingers started to press into her skin then, pushing away the wave of desire and making her gasp. He looked up at her apologetically, but his fingers kept pressing, moving across her skin. She closed her eyes, feeling tears welling up, and trying to fight them off.
His hand fell from her a few seconds later. He reached behind her and opened the closet, pulling out a bunch of still-sealed elastic bandages. "I don't think they're broken," he said, his voice softer than it had been before. "They're just really badly bruised and they're going to hurt for a while, but we are going to wrap you anyway just in case," he said, sounding almost sorry, like he had been the one to kick her. "Alright, hands up," he instructed, waiting for her to cross both her hands across her chest, holding her shirt in place, protecting her breasts from view. "This isn't going to feel great," he warned her, starting to wrap, pulling the bandages tight around her belly. He wrapped her with two bandages quickly, efficiently. He nodded, reaching for the hem of her sweatshirt and pulling it down. "Okay. You're all set," he said, stepping away, his voice sounding airy.
"Th... thanks," she said, looking over at him as he backed out into the hallway, like he needed to get away from her.
"Don't mention it," he said, quickly moving back into the apartment.
Jesus. He paced the floor next to the kitchen for a moment, running a hand over his face. He hadn't expected that when she had called him in. Not the sprawling, painful marks all over her side. She must have been kicked, hard, over and over in her side for the bruises to be that widespread and deeply-colored.
He didn't remember her saying she was kicked. He would check back on his notes, but he was pretty sure that wasn't part of her story. Which wasn't completely unusual. Plenty of people didn't recall their traumas with a lot of clarity. He was impressed she remembered as much as she did. He heard her move into the room, quietly walking over to her couch and sitting down.
He glanced at the clock, realizing it was well after three in the morning. He needed to get some sleep. In the morning, he needed to take a trip to her apartment to see if there was anything he could find out. Then he needed to see if he could catch that cheating husband in the act if he wanted a paycheck.
Turning, he flicked off the main light, leaving only a small glow from the one on his nightstand. He moved toward his bed, kicking off his shoes and pulling off his shirt. He was about to reach for his jean zipper when he thought better of it. He certainly couldn't sleep naked with her in the room. He sighed, getting into bed and sitting up. He reached for the remote for the stereo. "Do you sleep better with or without noise?" he asked.
"Whatever works better for you," she answered automatically, slowly moving into a lying position, ignoring the shooting in her side.
"Doesn't matter to me," he said, waiting.
She paused for a moment. "I sleep better in the quiet," she said. It was another lie. She slept restlessly no matter what. But she had taken up the habit of sleeping in silence a long time ago. As light a sleeper as she had learned to be, any kind of noise would wake her up immediately. Just in case it wasn't a car outside, or a passerby, or the building settling. In case it was him.
"Quiet it is," he said, putting down the remote.
She was silent for a long time, so long he had figured she had already fallen asleep. But then suddenly, her voice, quiet and sweet, asked, "Did you lock the door?"
"No," he said. She didn't say anything further, but the silence felt pregnant, expectant. He got up, rolling his eyes, and walked to the door, locking it. Despite not needing to. Despite the fact that no one in the neighborhood would dare to break in. Not the addicts. Not the dealers. Not the gang members. No one. He could leave the door wide open and the stash of cash in his desk would never get disturbed. No one would dare. But she had had a hell of a night. And she needed the comfort of a locked door. It would have been a stupid thing to deny her.
He climbed in bed, knowing sleep wouldn't be coming, but going through the motions anyway.