Cilla doesn’t sleep peacefully. It’s three in the morning and I’m watching her. She keeps throwing the covers off, muttering angry words, then quiet whispers. It’s not those that make me keep vigil, though. It’s when she curls up. When she tucks her face into her arms. When she begins to cry.

Every time I touch her, she jumps, and I think I’ve woken her but I haven’t. She’s too drunk to wake up. Trapped in whatever nightmare world the whiskey and the past have created for her. She only settles into a calm sleep when the sun begins to rise. And only after speaking the words that give me pause: “I’ll take the pounds of flesh, Jones.”

Pounds of flesh.

“What the hell happened to you, Cilla?” I ask, drawing her to me, wrapping an arm around her and listening to her breathe against my chest.

The next time I open my eyes is when Cilla stirs awake. I watch her roll onto her back. Mascara is smeared across her face and left its trace on the white pillowcase. She blinks, touches her forehead, groans and closes her eyes again, turning onto her side.

I smile. “Headache?”

Her eyes are wide when she shifts again, looking at me, looking around the room. Remembering.

“I feel like I’m going to die.”

I get up, walk toward the bathroom. “You won’t die, but you’ll have less incentive to drink a half bottle of whisky after this morning.” I open the medicine cabinet, get two aspirin and fill a cup with water before returning to the bedroom.

She looks me over. I’m wearing a pair of boxer briefs. She sits up, peeking beneath the blankets, drawing them up to cover herself.

“I took off your clothes.”

“I see that.”

“Don’t worry, I didn’t fuck you while you were passed out.”

She blushes, eyes the pills. “What are they?”

“Aspirin.”

She takes them, sets them on her tongue, takes two sips of water and gives me the glass back.

“Why on earth did you think it was a good idea to drink that much?”

She shakes her head, closes her eyes. I can see she’s hurting. I take a deep breath in. “It might help if you eat something.”

“I don’t think I can keep anything down.”

“Just lay back down then. Sleep a little longer.”

She nods. “I have to pee.”

I push the covers back and offer my hand. She grabs the edge of the comforter to try to cover herself and slides off the bed, almost falling until I catch her.

“I’ve seen you naked already, remember?” I walk her into the bathroom, lift the lid of the toilet and sit her down.

“Can you go away?”

“No.”

“You like humiliating me?”

“In this case, I don’t want you to fall over and crack your head open on my bathroom floor.”

At that, she lowers her lashes, obviously agreeing it’s a possibility but not wanting to give me the satisfaction of admitting it. A moment later, she pees. It’s a quiet trickle. I wait for her to wipe, then help her stand and flush the toilet. She washes her hands, pushes the hair from her face as she looks at her reflection.

“I look like I feel.”

“No, I’m guessing you feel a lot worse. Come on.”

She lets me take her back to bed. Once she’s in, I tuck the comforter up to her chin.

“Why did you have the gun pointing at me?”

She shrugs. “It’s not what you think. I wasn’t pointing at you. I didn’t know you were coming up just then.”

“Why did you pick it up at all? I mean, I understand you would go through my things even though I told you not to. It’s your nature to be…difficult.”

“I’m not—”

“Have you ever even handled a gun before?”

“No. I’ve never touched one. I just saw it and…” she trails off.

“What? And what?” I watch her and she me, and I know she’s trying to decide if she’s going to tell me or not. “You said some strange things last night, Cilla.”

“I was drunk. Drunk people say strange things.”

“No, not then. In your sleep. You said, and I quote, ‘I’ll take the pounds of flesh, Jones’. What does that mean?”

She quickly shifts her gaze, her cheeks reddening. She knows exactly what I’m talking about.

“You said your brother’s name. Several times.”

“I have to sleep.” She rolls onto her side, facing away from me.

“What happened? What do you have to free yourselves from?”

She burrows deeper into the comforter. I wait for her answer, and it takes her a long time to talk. I think I hear her sniffle, but I don’t push it.

“Thank you for taking care of me. You didn’t have to do that, I guess.”

She’s not going to tell me. Not now.

“You took care of me the other night.” I mean when I walked in after my middle of the night trip to the barn. I mean when she wouldn’t leave me alone when I told her to. Because the last thing I wanted that night was to be alone.

I walk out of the bedroom and close the door behind me.

* * *

It’s late afternoon when I hear the coffee machine go on. I get up from my desk, walk out of the study to find Cilla in the kitchen. She has the makings of a sandwich on the counter and is nibbling on a piece of bread. Her hair’s wet from a shower and she’s wrapped in a bathrobe. I remember she doesn’t actually have any clothes here.

“I’ll send someone out to pick up some clothes.”

“I have a closet full of clothes in my apartment. It’s only about twenty minutes from her.”

“That’s fine.” I approach the counter.

She looks at me, confused. “Does that mean I can go there?”

“It means I’ll send someone.”

“What do you think I’m going to do? Run? Call for help?”

“I just like to keep you close.”

“Why?”

“Because.”

“Do you fuck the strippers?”

I’m taken aback. “What?”

“The girl from last night. I watched you with her. Saw how you looked at her—”

“How did I look at her?”

She turns her stubborn chin up, sucks in her cheeks. “I saw you order a bottle of champagne,” she says before busying herself with making her sandwich.

I walk around the counter, take her arms, make her face me. “Are you jealous?”

She gives me an incredulous look. Like nothing could be further from the truth. But the flush of her cheeks gives her away and I grin.

“You’re jealous.”

“No, of course I’m not.”

“Yes, you are.”

She straightens and looks at me, suddenly angry, probably because I’m onto her. “I just think you should be using condoms with me if you’re going to fuck your strippers.”

I laugh outright, release her and take the slice of cheese off her bread. I stick it in my mouth. “I’m not fucking anyone else.”

“I saw how—”

“I’m not fucking anyone else, Cilla. Don’t be jealous, it’s not becoming.” I open the fridge, grab the juice.

“What does that even mean?”

I turn to face her, find her standing with her hands on her hips.

“Which part?” I take the lid off the carton and drink straight from it.

“You know what? Piss off.” She turns her back on me, puts another slice of bread on her sandwich and picks it up like she’s going to walk way.

I grab her arm and spin her around.

“You don’t get to tell me to piss off. And you don’t get to walk away.”

“Let me go.”

I don’t. “I told you I’m not fucking anyone else.”

“I don’t care if you are.”

I take the sandwich from her hand and bite into it, then set it on the counter and release her. When she makes to scoot away, I trap her with a hand on either side.

“I think you do care,” I say in a low voice.

She stares up at me, not denying it. “I want something from you,” she says instead.

This is a turn I didn’t expect. “What do you want?”

“Two things, actually.”

My eyebrows go up.

“I want to see Jones.”

I expect this one but I have a feeling it’s the second thing that’s going to throw me. “And?”

She searches my eyes, caution in hers, the battle of whether or not to trust me.

“And I want you to help me get my pound of flesh.”