Page 19

Samantha

“You take it.”

He says it so quickly, so dismissively, and in such a holier-than-thou way that it immediately sets my back up, even though I’m technically winning this argument before it even starts and definitely getting the best outcome. What has gotten into him? It’s like the second we get sentenced to be in closer proximity, those flashes of him I saw earlier that tell me he might be a decent person, or maybe even a good one, disappear behind a facade of a total asshole — or maybe that’s the real him?

“Just like that?” I say.

“Just like that.”

“Why?”

“Because I can sleep on the floor. You take the bed, I’ll take the hardwood, or the chair, and make do. I’ve slept in worse places, and as long as you don’t snore, we won’t have any problems.”

“I don’t snore,” I say, stiffening.

“You sure about that?”

“I never had any complaints,” I say. Something about that phrase makes his jaw tighten, as if the mere mention that I may have had boyfriends — which I have, though none particularly memorable, nor long term, because the dating scene in Boise isn’t the best and my personal life, not to mention my work, isn’t the easiest to adapt to serious relationships. “But don’t think you’re going to just brush aside the fact that you had the crap beaten out of you several times over the last few days and you had your club doctor, or whatever he is, tell you to take better care of yourself. You take the bed.”

“That was just Bishop being Bishop. He’s always an asshole.”

“Since when is someone telling you to take care of yourself when you’ve been hurt an assholish thing to say?”

“When it’s Bishop saying it. You’ve seen the guy, you’ve met him, you can’t say I’m wrong.”

“Why are you being so stubborn about this?”

He throws his hands wide, his voice taking on a strident tone. “Since you’re being such a bit—“ he stops himself, “such an annoying, nagging person about it.”

“Nice save there. Totally never would’ve figured you were going to call me a bitch.”

“I didn’t. That word did not leave my mouth.”

“Oh, sure,” I say. “Of course you didn’t call me a bitch.” I cross my arms and fix Diesel with a glare. "I'm not letting you sleep on the floor in your condition. You need a proper bed to rest and recover, not a hardwood floor."

"I don't need you mothering me," he growls. "I've had worse and survived just fine."

"Well, maybe it's time someone looked out for you for a change. Stop being such a stubborn ass and just take the damn bed."

"You're one to talk about being stubborn. I said I'm fine with the floor. End of discussion."

"No, not end of discussion." I throw my hands up in exasperation. "Why are you fighting me on this? Just let me do this small something nice for you. I promise I’ll resume hating you right after. Heck, I can keep hating you while doing something nice for you. See how multi-talented I am?"

"I don't need your pity or your charity.”

"It's not pity, you idiot. It's called caring about someone other than yourself. Maybe you should try it sometime."

Diesel lets out a harsh laugh. "Right, because you're such a saint. Get off your high horse, Samantha."

I bristle at the insult. "Screw you, Diesel. I'm just trying to help."

"I don't want your help." He storms over to the kitchenette and throws open the fridge door. "Fucking perfect. Goldie must’ve been the one in charge of stocking this fridge; it’s all health food and fucking kombucha. What the fuck even is this shit? There’s stringy shit floating in it. I can’t believe there’s not even a beer in this shithole."

He slams the fridge shut and the force rattles the entire unit. I watch him as, seething, he throws open cupboard door after cupboard door, muttering to himself phrases that make my ears turn hot. Finally, he lets out a triumphant laugh and holds high a bottle of bourbon.

"Well, well, what do we have here?" He unscrews the cap and takes a seat at the small table. "Looks like this place isn't a total loss after all."

He tips the bottle back and takes a long swig. I cringe as he wipes his mouth with the back of his hand, and after giving me a withering look, lets out a belch that I know he’s just doing to provoke me.

"Why don't you just go to sleep, Samantha? Leave me in peace to enjoy my drink."

"Diesel, this is ridiculous. You're hurt. You need to sleep in an actual bed."

He takes another defiant drink. "I'll sleep where I damn well please. And right now, that's going to be on the floor, as soon as I'm good and ready. A little medicine to dull the ache, and I'll be out like a light."

I throw my hands up. "You are without a doubt the most stubborn, stupid man I've ever met!"

Diesel raises the bottle in a mock toast. "Guilty as charged, sweetheart." He takes another swig, wincing as it goes down. “Glad you’re finally coming to terms with what every other woman on earth who has met me figured out within the first five minutes. You may not be the smartest, but you do get there in the end.”

Shaking my head, I cross my arms. "Fine. You know what? If you're going to sleep on the floor, then so am I. Two can play this game."

He barks out a harsh laugh that cuts off abruptly when he sees me stretch out on the decidedly uncomfortable hardwood; I’d rather be in the bed, but I refuse to let him win just as much as I refuse to let him hurt himself more by sleeping on the floor. Let him see how stupid this is, because apparently, the only way to get through to Diesel is to hammer him in the face with the right answer — and even that isn’t the most effective, as Moretti’s men learned in Boise.

“Stop that right fucking now,” he says. “You sure as hell are not sleeping on the floor.”

I let out a loud yawn and stretch a little. “I don’t know. I’m pretty comfortable right here.”

I’m not, really. This is awful.

“Fine. Whatever. Sleep there. See if I care.” Diesel goes quiet for a moment, takes a long drink of bourbon, and then sings under his breath, a song just loud enough and just off-key enough that falling asleep feels about as realistic as me returning to my old job — if I even still have a job after this unexplained disappearance — and finding out that my social worker’s salary has been raised to a million dollars.

Still, I try.

I shut my eyes.

Then, with a sigh, tossing and turning enough until I find a position that feels like it’ll only have me aching in half my body when I wake up, I do my best to relax and let sleep take me.

The Diesel sings a little louder.

I sigh again, try to recall some of the mediation and relaxation tips I learned from the first couple weeks of January a few years back when I went on a short-lived spirituality and yoga kick, and feel myself teeter on the blessed brink of sleep.

Almost there.

I can do it.

One more deep breath, and I release all those angry and stressful thoughts from the day, and slide on in to the peaceful embrace of sleep.

I’m there. I’m finally going to sleep. It’s going to be awful, ugly sleep that’ll leave me very upset when I wake up, but at least I’ll show Diesel how dumb he is…

Then Diesel begins to truly, deeply sing with all the ferocity of a man at Karaoke after polishing off an entire twelve-pack of beer. “And so I wake in the morning and I step outside, and I take a deep breath and I get real high, and I scream from the top of my lungs: what’s going on ?”

I roll over. Sit up. Glare. “Will you stop?"

“No. I like this song,” he says. “Though I might stop if you get up on the bed.”

"Are you seriously trying to blackmail me with 4 Non Blondes? Real mature. Since you're intent on keeping us both awake, how about sharing that bourbon?"

“It’s not my fault you hate a great song. And as for whether I’m planning on sharing the bourbon… No, not really."

"And why not? Afraid I'll drink you under the table?" I arch an eyebrow at him in challenge.

"No, nothing like that." He leans back and cradles the bottle to his chest.

"So, what is it?”

A smirk plays at the corner of his mouth. That damnable smirk that makes me want to crack the bottle of bourbon over his head. "Because you didn't say the magic word."

"Seriously? What are you? Five?"

"I'm a man of principle. And the principle is: no bourbon for rude roommates who don't use their manners."

That smirk grows.

I can't help it—I roll my eyes skyward. Of course he would make me beg. With an exaggerated sigh, I relent.

"Please."

Diesel chuckles, but he hands over the bottle.

I take it, and the glass is still warm from his grip. My mouth waters in anticipation even before I tip it back for a long drink. The bourbon burns going down, but it's a welcome warmth. After a swallow, I start to pass it back to him, think twice about it, and then take another long, greedy drink before giving it back. The second drink burns harder, and I fight to keep from coughing. I succeed. Mostly.

“Impressive,” he says. “This bourbon’s fucking awful, yet you’re taking it like a champ.”

“I’m becoming an expert at dealing with awful things. Like you, for instance.”

I take another swig of the bourbon and grimace at the harsh taste. As I pass the bottle back to Diesel, my eyes catch on something I hadn't noticed before—a small, intricate tattoo just behind his ear. It's a date with a delicate rose branching from it, the fine lines stark against his skin. Out of all the tattoos visible on his body, this tiny tattoo — practically hidden — is the most detailed and ornate of all.

Why would a man who cares so much about body art hide his most beautiful piece where no one can see it?

"What's that tattoo? The one behind your ear?"

Diesel's hand flies up to cover the tattoo, his eyes hardening. "None of your damn business.”

"Come on, what is it? Something embarrassing? Or maybe it's something hard, like a date you don't want to forget?" I pause, and a thought strikes me. "Oh, is it a birthday? Your mom’s, maybe?"

“Mind your own business."

I can’t, and I won’t. Because after everything Diesel has done to irritate me in the last few minutes, he deserves a little of his own medicine. But maybe I need to take a different approach to get the answers I want.

"Look, we're stuck here together. Might as well talk about something. How about I tell you an embarrassing story about me first?"

Diesel doesn't respond, but he doesn't tell me to shut up either, so I forge ahead.

"When I first started as a social worker, I was so caught up in the job that I completely mixed up my friend's birthday. My best friend, too. We’d known each other since we were six years old. I organized this whole surprise dinner party, invited all our friends, the works. It was grand. So, the night of the party, we're all there waiting when my friend walks in, and she is completely confused. Shocked. Turns out her birthday was actually the next week. I felt like such an idiot in front of everyone." I laugh a little at the memory, shaking my head. "God, it was so mortifying. I wanted to crawl into a hole and die."

Diesel listens silently, his expression unreadable. After a long moment, he takes another deep swig of bourbon and passes the bottle back to me. "That must've been painful," he says gruffly. "But you missed the mark with your guess."

I take a drink; the liquor burns less now that I'm getting used to it. Or at least, sufficiently drunk to handle it. I don’t even mind that there’s an asterisk next to the word ‘Bourbon’ on the label, and the explanation of the asterisk on the back of the bottle says ‘For marketing only, and in no way constitutes a guarantee that this bottle’s contents fulfill the definition of being a true bourbon.’

"So what is it, then? If you don't mind me asking."

Diesel is quiet for so long, I think he's not going to answer. Then he sighs heavily, running a hand through his hair.

“Pass me the bottle again.”

I do.

He drinks. Breathes deep. Then drinks again.

When he finishes, he gives me this long look, as if he’s reading me’ as if my secrets and intentions are written all over me the same way his tattoos are inked into his skin. After a moment, he clears his throat.

“Do you really want to know?”

There’s something in his voice that I don’t expect — pain. Deep, heart-written pain that makes my own ache in sympathy. His words come hesitantly, so that every hair on the back of my neck stands up on end in alarm. Despite the bourbon burning in my belly, all the instincts I have as a social worker — as someone who aids and counsels people through some of the most difficult and challenging times of their lives — buzz with warning: this isn’t just any tattoo.

Do I really want to know?

My mind circles that question, and Diesel doesn’t push me. For the first time since we entered this little apartment that’s to be our prison, he’s quiet and respectful. That simple fact hits me like a thunderbolt of warning.

Then I look at him. Truly look at him.

And realize that, despite all the beatings and injuries he’s suffered in the past few days, mentioning his tattoo is the only time I’ve heard him sound wounded.

He’s in pain.

A pain that’s deep and still fresh, despite the fact his tattoo looks like it’s more than a year or two old.

My smile fades, my voice softens, and I extend my hand and place it gently on his arm. Diesel needs someone to talk to.

“I do. I really do.”

A silent moment that seems to stretch for an eternity lives and dies between us, a moment where I see something profound play out behind his eyes, something he’s kept hidden from everyone else — including himself.

Finally, he squeezes my hand.

“That date is the day my wife was murdered because of me.”