Page 25 of In You

Mistrust

Tamryn

"Tamryn, please talk to me," Caleb says, but I don't bother responding.

I sniff, sinking deeper into the covers and press my lips to Tink's head. It's a week after visiting my mom and I'm just…sad.

"Sweetheart, I know you're having a hard time, but you can't stay locked in here." His voice sounds resigned. "You missed your therapy appointment with Sarah this morning…"

"I don't want to talk to anyone," I call. My voice trembles, betraying my emotions.

"Okay, sweetheart, but you gotta eat. I have some soup here for you. I'm coming in."

I stay quiet, squeezing my eyes shut at the snick of the lock and the sound of his bare feet on the floor. I hear him lay the tray on the nightstand, and then a shuffling. I flinch as a hand settles on my hair. My eyes open and stare directly into his deep brown eyes.

"Don't touch me," I whisper, feeling my lips tremble.

Despite my objection, his hand strokes down my hair over and over. To my chagrin the tears come, flowing down my face to soak the pillow underneath my cheeks.

"What's going on with you, honey?" he says in a quiet voice. "Talk to me. You're going to have to let it out, because I won't let you bed rot."

My eyes flicker between his and I sit with all the knowledge I have of him, but it still doesn't make me feel better. Today is a hard day. I can't exactly put my thumb on as to why, but I'm off today.

"I want to go home."

He strokes my hair again. "This is your home, Tamryn." He tilts his head and takes a calm breath. "And besides, you don't have anywhere else to go."

I let out a weak sound of defeat, his words echoing in my head.

"I don't trust you." My voice cracks, and I pull Tink even closer into me.

Caleb nods and then reaches for the bowl.

I roll my lips when he dips the spoon in.

"Well, I'm going to have to earn your trust then.

" His eyes flick up from the bowl to meet mine, and he holds the spoon to my lips, waiting patiently.

Seeing Tink inching closer, I open my mouth so he can slide the soup in before she can lick it, and I hum in pleasure as the taste floods my tongue.

It's potato bacon soup, a favorite. One my mom would make for me when I'm sick.

He couldn't have known that. There's no way.

More tears spill out and I shake, feeling a sharp pain of longing for my mom. And it hits me that what I'm feeling is grief. The grief I didn't get to experience while I was with Calvin.

"I wanna…" I trail off, feeling shy, and scared to trust how sweet he's being with me. "I wanna tell you, but I'm scared that you'll be mad."

Caleb exercises what could only be described as endless patience as he works to feed me another bite, his eyes turning warm. "I won't be mad. Talk to me."

"I miss my mom."

He averts his eyes from mine, and then takes his sweet time loading the spoon for another bite. "Grief is a natural part of life. I'm not surprised." His voice is clipped, and something stirs inside me, wanting to reach out and caress his hair.

I don't though.

Why would I reach out and touch him? He's keeping me here with him so I don't betray his identity.

He feeds me a slightly bigger bite, and I take my time before swallowing. "That's…That's all I wanna say about it," I say quietly, seeing that he's uncomfortable, but he's sticking with me through it despite whatever is bothering him. "I hope that's okay…"

Caleb feeds me spoonful after spoonful, and the bowl's almost gone before he finally speaks up.

"I know a thing or two about mistrust," he says, looking sad. My eyes widen at the sudden depressed and introspective look on his face, wondering what he means.

Leaning over, he places the bowl back on the tray and then puts an arm on the bed, his eyes roaming my face contemplatively. He clears his throat softly, and it's interesting to see his eyes harden just a bit as he seemingly firms his resolve.

"Now you're fed, so, here's our next step; you're going to get in the shower, and you're going to take your time and pamper yourself and get out of this room for a little while. I'll wash your sheets while you're busy doing that. Trust me when I say you'll feel much, much better."

I inhale a shaky breath, realizing I do feel better now that I have a bit of food in my stomach.

"Okay."

He treats me to a charming smile that makes my stomach somersault, and then leaves me to my privacy. And though I really want to lay in bed and cry all day, I do everything he says, and am thankful that I'm able to take time for myself, because for so long I haven't been able to.

Later that evening he leaves with Ringo to go do his thing outside, and I stay inside, curled up on the couch with a blanket, hot chocolate, and Tink.

I'm switching aimlessly through the streaming services trying to find something to watch, but nothing's catching my eye.

It's all too lovey-dovey, too scary, too humorous.

I'm in a mood. My feelings all over the place.

I'd give my pinky toe to be able to just throw on my jacket and get in a car for a long drive. Craving introspection that won't come because there's so many holes and gaps in my memory that I know all it'd do is piss me off.

I look down at my arm in its cast, blinking, trying yet again to remember the circumstances on how I broke my hand. A flash of something flits across the edges of my memory, but I grumble, shaking my head and tilting it back on against the couch on a sigh. "This sucks monkey balls, Tink."

I put the remote down in favor of petting her, and who knows how long we stay like that. The front door closing has me rolling my head over to eye Caleb, who's pulling off his jacket. I'm so fucking jealous he's got use of both arms. It's not fair.

"Why're you always sucking on something?" I ask with a slight attitude in my voice, scrunching my face up when he comes through the threshold with what looks like honeysuckle in his mouth.

He frowns, and then pulls it out of his mouth, looking at it like he's seeing it for the first time before tossing it into the fireplace. "I'm not?"

I scoff. "Yeah you are. You can't go long without something in your mouth. A toothpick, cigarettes… that," I emphasize, gesturing at the honeysuckle burning to nothing in the fire. "You got some on your lip."

Caleb brings a hand up, keeping his eyes on me while he wipes it off. I want to laugh, but honestly, I don't trust him enough to let my guard down much.

I'm having a hard time trusting anyone right now. Even Sarah. He notices it too.

"You've been crying again," he says in a low tone, turning his eyes from mine to walk to the opposite couch and then sits, spreading his knees. I purse my lips, hating that I'm attracted to him despite the fact that he's keeping me here.

"I seasoned some chicken," I say dismissively, feeling my face impassive. "It's baking in the oven."

He cuts his eyes to me. "You know you don't have to cook. I'm more than capable, and I never expect you to. Especially with your arm like that."

I scoff, petting Tink. "Don't worry about it, I've been cooking for a while with my arm hurting a lot worse than this." Also, if I cook, there's less of a chance he'll be able to poison me. I briefly wonder why he isn't worried I'll poison him.

He takes a sip, then groans appreciatively. "Thanks for cooking. It smells really good in here, by the way."

I say nothing. I'm not going to thank him for complimenting me on a skill I only have because Calvin forced me to learn how to cook. The memory stings. He gets up, walking over to the little drinks cabinet by the fireplace and pours himself a scotch, then half turns to me.

"You want something?"

"No." I feel my nose scrunch. "I don't drink."

He shifts his weight in his seat as a strange look crosses his face, and his eyes narrow as they slide from mine. "I'll refresh your hot cocoa then."

Abandoning his scotch, he picks up my mug off the end table and disappears into the kitchen.

After a moment I hear the electric kettle ping, and him moving around in there.

I tense, pushing back into the couch when he comes a bit too fast with it.

I know he can't help it but he's a large, intimidating man, and no matter how gentle he's been with me I know from experience that people can flip on you at the drop of a dime.

My heart skips a beat, and I hold up my hand. "Stop," I say in a shaky voice. My heart patters weakly in my chest, and I feel myself go warm, suddenly afraid.

This man is a lot bigger than me. Bigger than Calvin was.

He turns and very slowly places my mug back on the end table.

And then, as if I didn't just have a miniature freak out, he slowly walks back to his seat and lowers himself into it with a relieved sigh, kicking off his shoes and scooting them over to the side of the couch.

"Shit, it feels good to take my shoes off," he says conversationally, taking a sip of his scotch.

My pounding heart goes back to normal, and I lean forward, snatching up my mug and pulling the cover up to my chest. "You don't have to talk to me, you know," I snap, averting my eyes from him as I take a sip.

I look inside, pleasure filling me at the sight of the mini marshmallows floating at the surface.

"You live here with me. You think I'm not going to talk to you?

" he asks in a light tone. A playful grin tips his mouth up on one side, and he arches a brow as he takes a drink and pulls up his leg to rest his ankle on his knee.

I tighten my lips at the sight of his bare feet, and how obviously at ease and relaxed he is in his space.

He drapes an arm over the back of the couch and just watches me.

My mind races back to Calvin again.

Fuck, I hate that, but I can't but help draw comparisons between the two men.

Calvin and I never relaxed at home, and he always had on shoes.

Stuffy, and presenting as polished and put together even in his own home.

We never had days where we relaxed on the couch having a drink and talking.

Not that I can remember, anyways. He didn't want a companion, he wanted a dutiful housewife.

"Don't you fucking go to work?" I say irritably.

"I kill people for a living, Tam," he replies as he stares at me. "It's not exactly a nine-to-five job."

I make a soft sound in my throat. "Fucking just my luck. Stuck with another psychopath."

His brow arches. "Is that what you think of me?"

Caleb sits calm, cool, and collected as I drag my eyes across the features in his face. "You're a kidnapper," I say quietly. "And a killer. You being a psychopath is about the only assessment I can come up with that makes sense."

He looks at me with amusement, holding his cup to his lips. "Are you always so judgmental?" he asks curiously, taking a sip.

I half-laugh. "No. I'm only judgmental against men who are kidnappers and killers, Caleb."

He grunts on an amused chuckle, taking another sip of his drink. "Now that is something I don't want to be. I don't want you here, Tam. Not like this, anyways. I'd rather you be out there healthy, happy, and living life."

I snort. "Yeah, meee too." I take another drink and then cradle the mug to my chest. "So, how do you go about becoming a serial killer anyway?"

His dark eyes seem to go a shade darker as he just stares at me, not blinking. I hold his eye contact, letting him know I'm serious. "I started when I was about twenty-four years old, when I got out of the army."

My brow arches. "You served?"

He gives me a nod, his expression sober. I narrow my eyes tightly, trying to see what's happening behind his.

"I did."

"In what? The army?"

He nods.

I tip my chin up, assessing him with a little look, probably judgmentally just like he accused me of being. "And how does a soldier turn killer?"

"I only kill the ones who deserve to die, Tamryn. No more, no less."

I nod, looking towards the fireplace. "Does it fuck you up? Deep inside?"

He's quiet for a second, having another moment of introspection. One thing I've noticed is Caleb doesn't make brash decisions, he seems to give everything a lot of thought, weighing the pros and cons of even the words he lets come out of his mouth.

"I pay a lot in order to do the kind of work I do."

"Oh yeah?" I frown, trying to imagine anyone who chooses to exact revenge and justice the way he does having to pay anything.

To take a life means you lose a bit of your soul.

Wondering if his mind runs the same thread, I hold Tink a little closer as I muster up the courage to ask him. "And what do you pay?"

His hawk-like eyes slide to mine and hold my eye contact for a lot longer than I thought I'd be capable of, but after a tense second where he seems to do a lot of contemplating, his eyes go back to his drink. "The price."

I leave it at that, because obviously he doesn't trust me enough to elaborate either. And honestly, it doesn't bother me that much because I understand without him having to explain it in great detail, because I had a price to pay too.

We all do.