“Hey,” Saint says, his hands gripping my shoulders, but I shake them lose and bat them out of the way.
“Don’t.” The one word has him taking a step back. I focus on the fact that every time I’ve told him no, or panicked, or yelled, he’s simply backed off and given me space to compose myself. “I’m sorry.” The words are almost a whisper.
Saint shakes his head. “Don’t be. You got nothing to be sorry for. I’m not sure I’m equipped to handle this right all the time, but I’ll give it my best fucking shot.”
I swallow deeply. My mouth is dry. I need a toothbrush.
“Let’s order that card,” he says, offering me his phone.
And I focus on that. Within minutes, I have a new card on its way. “It’ll be here in two business days.”
“Guess I have a roommate for four days, seeing it’s the weekend,” he says.
“If you’re sure it’s okay.” I can’t face anyone. Not yet. Not even the people I’m getting to know at the agency. Not when they’ll rush around me, and crowd me, and ask me questions I’m not ready to answer.
“It’s fine.” He slides a leather vest over his shoulders with the logo of the Iron Outlaws on the back. It’s a bit of a cliche. All skulls and flames.
But then, I don’t know many men who would have readied a gun and shot at the people holding me against my will. None would have let me stay with them as their roommate.
“Go get cleaned up so we can get you some clothes that actually fit.”
I look down at the clothes he loaned me to sleep in and smile. “I don’t know. Loose fit is in, right?”
“Shit, you don’t have shoes.”
I shrug. “It’ll look like a walk of shame. Just need some day-old mascara, and we’ll be good.”
Saint laughs. “Go do what you need to. We’ll take my truck.”
Once I’ve fixed my hair the best I can and rubbed some toothpaste over my teeth with my fingertips, I’m done.
I’ll shower when I get back here with clean clothes and underwear to wear.
“I forgot you were barefoot last night,” Saint says when I meet him in the hall.
I look down at my feet. “In the big scheme of things, losing my shoes seems like such a terrible thing to worry about, but they took my favorite red heels.”
He grins. “You’re a shoe girl?”
“Love them,” I admit.
When we get to Target, Saint asks my shoe size, and then he jogs into the store and comes out with a pair of white sneakers. “It was either do this or carry you,” he says as he slips them on my feet and ties the laces. “Sorry they aren’t red heels, but I figured with all the cuts and bruises on your feet they’d be more comfortable.”
I take the hand he offers to scramble out of the truck.
“People are staring,” I mutter as we walk into the store. I have to hold the waistband of the joggers up as surplus fabric pools by my ankles.
“It’s the cut,” Saint says. “Can’t decide if they’re scared of me, hate me, or wanna be me.”
“I’m pretty sure it’s the fact I look like I’m wearing a diaper.”
Saint tips his head back, looks down at my ass, then winks. “Definitely doesn’t look like a diaper.”
He’s a patient shopper. I buy practical cotton underwear in bright colors to lift my mood and a bra without underwire because my body still hurts. While I glance at the citrus-colored summer dresses on sale as we slide into fall, I grab a pair of yoga pants and a pair of soft jeans. I throw in a couple of T-shirts in a multipack and a zip-up sweater. I toss in some socks, then agonize over sleep attire. On my own, I settle for a tank and shorts. But I’m in Saint’s house. And the idea of feeling exposed still makes me feel ick.
I throw in a pair of plaid pajama bottoms and a long-sleeve T-shirt gloating about sweet dreams, then whip around the beauty department, grabbing the basics. And suddenly, I’m beat. I don’t know if it’s not sleeping, or not eating, or living in a constant state of fear.
Two boys are testing deodorant sprays. They’re laughing, talking about a date one of them has. As I move closer to grab a deodorant of my own, they spray one that smells like the man who said I was his. It’s sharp, harsh. My head starts to spin, my peripheral vison becoming blurred.
