“Yeah. Kick back. Chill.” I laugh. “You’re wound tighter than a steel spring.”
Moving uncertainly, she puts her back against the headboard and stretches out her legs. Her posture is still tense, tight, and uncomfortable. I can see the strain of pain at the corners of her eyes and the set of her jaw.
“You hungry?” I ask.
She glances at me sidelong. “Y-yes.”
“It’s late so I doubt there are any actual restaurants open, but I can grab you some snacks from the vending machine.” I tuck my Glock into the back of my slacks and let my white T-shirt hang over it, then pull one of the room keycards from the envelope. “Your key is in that envelope. Don’t open the door for anyone, no matter what they say. Got it? I won’t knock—I’ll use my key. Anyone knocks, you hearanythingthat sets off your spidey sense, you lock yourself in the bathroom and lay down in the tub.”
She nods. “I understand.”
“You have any preferences?”
“Preferences?” Her nose and brow are wrinkled in confusion.
“From the vending machine. Chips, candy bar—what do you like?”
“I…I don’t know.”
“Well, you feel like something sweet or savory?”
“I don’t know.”
I suppress a sigh of irritation—it’s not her fault, after all. “You don’t know what you want? Not even a hint?”
She shrugs. “No. I don’t know.”
I crouch beside her bed. “Naomi. Look at me.”
Hesitantly, she lifts her gaze to mine. Her eyes are rife with fear. “Yes sir?”
I shake my head, chuckling. “You get to want things, Naomi. You get to have an opinion. You don’t need to be afraid anymore.”
She swallows hard, her throat bobbing frantically. “I’m scared of you.”
“I know.” I smile at her, going for reassuring; I’m not generally a reassuring sort of guy, nor do I smile all that much, so I’m not sure how successful I am. “What you need to know about me right now is that you don’t ever have to be afraid of me. I’ll never hurt you. I’ll never touch you in any way you don’t want and don’t allow, okay?”
She nods. “I’m afraid of…” she pauses, hunting for the right words, then gives a little laugh. “Everything, I suppose.”
“From what I saw of your father, I can understand that.”
She doesn’t meet my gaze. “Jerry is worse.”
“Jerry?”
She looks away. “My husband.”
“You’re married?”
She nods.
“You love him?”
Her gaze flicks to mine, and I see a little spark of fire. “No.” It’s hissed, vehement. There’s a spark of hate in that snarled syllable.
“He gonna come after you?”
“Yes.”
