Page 6 of Tower (Post-Apocalyptic Fairy Tales #1)

I spend most of the day unpacking my clothes and trying to make room for them. Levi said I could move any of his stuff I wanted, and he appeared to mean it. He obviously isn’t overly concerned with his surroundings. The room isn’t dirty or gross, but it’s bare. Stark.

I clear out two dresser drawers for my stuff and manage to fit everything else in half the big closet.

It’s ridiculous for me to have so many clothes in this situation. A lot of the folks here probably wear the same two sets of clothes every single day. Laundry is a lot of work, so it’s silly to change clothes so often that there’s a huge load to wash.

But I’ve got them, and there’s no reason to throw them out. Maybe Becca will want something. We must wear roughly the same size.

When my clothes are sorted, I find places for the little trinkets and cozy elements I brought from my bedroom at home.

I add a soft throw blanket to the bed. I put some books on a side table in the sitting area.

I set a framed photo of me with my parents on my nightstand.

I display my mother’s small collection of crystal butterflies on the empty dresser top.

She had one when I was a little, and I started to give her more as Christmas or birthday presents. She displayed them on glass shelves my dad installed near the window by her favorite chair. They’re what my mother left behind when she died that mean most to me.

If Levi doesn’t want them there, I’ll move them. But it’s an empty, unused space, so hopefully he won’t mind.

Jen brings by my sandwich for lunch like she did yesterday, so I only leave the room once to go to the bathroom. Otherwise, I get everything sorted, stowing my luggage and the tubs we used to pack my stuff on the closet floor.

After that, I lay on the bed to rest. I cry a little, but then I go to sleep.

I’m awakened by a pounding on the door.

Confused and groggy, I roll out of bed and head for the door. After unbarring it, I swing it open to reveal a scowling Levi.

“I’m sorry,” I mumble, trying to figure out what time of day it is.

“For what?” He pushes his way into the room. “Just next time ask who it is before you open the door. It might not’ve been me.” He gives me a sharp once-over. “Are you sick?”

“No. I was sleeping. Sorry.”

“For what?” he asks again. He sits down in the bigger armchair with a soft groan, rubbing his face like he’s trying to wake himself up.

“For napping.” I stand and fidget, smoothing down my hair and tugging at the hem of my shorts.

“Why do I give a fuck about that? You worked all morning, didn’t you?”

“Yeah.”

“So you’re fine. Safer for you stay up here anyway.” He slouches down in the chair so he can lean his head against the back of it and close his eyes.

He’s tired. He needs a nap even more than I did.

“Okay.” Awkward and uncertain, I perch on the edge of the bed. I have no idea what he’s even doing up here. “Did you… did you want…”

When I don’t finish, he peers at me beneath his eyelids.

I gesture back toward the bed, my face heating up. “Sex.”

He makes an odd, breathy sound. His shoulders shake a couple of times before he leans over to take off his shoes and socks. “You know I’m not your age, right? And I’ve been on the road nine hours today. How much energy do you imagine I’ve got right now for fuckin’?”

“Is it already that late? Is it time for dinner?”

He rubs his bare feet against the old carpet. “Got another hour or so.”

I’m understanding now. He’s up here to rest until dinner.

Perfectly reasonable. “Oh, okay. I won’t bother you then. Should I go down to help with the food?”

“No. You already worked more than enough for the day.”

“What do you mean?”

“Your idea was a good one. Don’t know how long it’ll last, but the guys are actin’ like I stormed a castle single-handed.

Think it’d be better if you’re seen as special.

You won’t get no regular work duties. You can just do stuff for me—like you did at breakfast. You can help out extra sometimes if you want, but you’re basically queen now, so they need to treat you like that. ”

I’m flushing hotter than ever. I swallow over a tension in my throat. “Oh. Okay. I don’t feel special.”

He snorts. “Tell me about it.”

I’m not positive, but I think he’s referring to himself and not to me with that last comment. He doesn’t feel special any more than I do.

But these are our roles now, so we have to live them out.

He’s still rubbing his feet against the carpet, and I realize it’s because his feet must be sore. “Do you want me to give you a foot rub?”

His eyes pop open all the way. “What?”

“A foot rub. It looks like your feet are sore or something. You just told me my only responsibility is to do stuff for you. I can give you a foot rub.” I gulp, already regretting the spontaneous suggestion. “If you want.”

“Can’t promise they’re gonna smell too good. Been a long day.”

“I’ll hold my breath.” I keep my tone dry so he knows I’m not serious.

I get up to grab some lotion I brought with me since that will make it easier to rub his feet and potentially help with any smell.

While I’m back at the old sink counter, I also wet down a thin hand towel with the pitcher of water someone brought up this morning.

I’m ridiculously nervous and wishing I hadn’t volunteered when I walk over and kneel on the floor near his feet.

He watches me through half-closed lids as I use the wet towel on both his feet to clean them.

They do, in fact, smell like feet, but they’re not that bad.

His toenails are clean and trimmed, and he obviously takes care of basic hygiene.

When I’ve cleaned them, I squirt lotion on my hands and start with his left foot.

I’m not any sort of expert at massage, but the basic strategy is simple. I move from the ball of his foot to the arch and then the heel and ankle, kneading and pulling and searching for knots.

After the first minute, he closes his eyes and relaxes his head back again. His breathing slows down. His body relaxes. I’ve moved back up the foot to the toes, paying attention to each one, when he breathes out, “Shit, that’s good.”

I really don’t know what’s wrong with me. What’s happened to me? I’m hit with another one of those surges of embarrassing pride. Pleasure.

By the time I’ve worked halfway down his second foot, he’s asleep. I continue until I’ve massaged the whole foot, and then I gently set it back down, collecting the lotion and hand towel and his dirty socks.

I find clean socks in a drawer and set them next to his shoes. Then I go to the old vanity area of the motel room—where the useless sink is still positioned—and stare at myself in the mirror.

I look generally pretty with rumpled hair, pink cheeks, and wide blue eyes. But there’s something about my appearance or my expression that I hardly recognize. Like I’m looking at a stranger.

Who just massaged the king’s feet.