Carnal Urges

14

9

Sloane

T

hirty minutes after Declan leaves, Kieran comes in, carrying a tray with food. He sets it on the coffee table and turns to leave.

“Kieran?”

He stops in his tracks. He doesn’t turn back to me. He simply exhales in dread.

“I just wanted to ask how you’re feeling.”

There’s a pause, then he says in his thick Irish accent, “Come again?”

“Your nose. You okay?”

He turns just enough to scowl at me over his shoulder. “Stop acting the maggot.”

Yikes. What a lovely visual. “I don’t know how that translates to English, but I’m guessing it’s not complimentary.”

“Yer bang on.”

“Um. Okay?”

“Not the full shilling, are ye, lass?”

Apparently, we’re going to run through the entire gamut of obscure Irish slang before I can get a yes or a no. I need to move this along. “Arnica cream will help with the bruising. And remember, ice is your friend.”

He stares at me like he’s trying to decide between shoving my hand down a garbage disposal or running me over with the SUV.

When I send him a winning smile, he grumbles under his breath and walks out.

I test the door after he slams it shut behind him, but it’s locked. No luck.

The tray he left is filled with an array of food that would appeal to any fifteen-year-old boy. There’s a can of Coke, a bag of peanut M&Ms, a bigger bag of beef jerky, a party-size bag of Lay’s potato chips, and a jar of ranch dip.

Now I understand Declan’s mood swings. He’s in full-on sugar crash within an hour of every meal.

There’s also—the horror—a bologna sandwich on white bread with a slice of that kind of American cheese that comes individually wrapped in plastic and will easily remain edible through the next ice age because of all the preservatives embedded in its shiny, nuclear orange skin.

I pick the bologna off the sandwich and sniff it. There’s not much to smell as it’s covered in a thick layer of mayo. I wipe all the mayo on one of the napkins that came with the tray, then take a nibble of the meat.

It’s so salty, my ankles are probably already swelling. How does this qualify as food?

I spit it out. Then I send Declan another text.

If you’re trying to poison me, it’s working.

He hasn’t answered any of my other texts, so I’m not expecting anything this time, either. But within seconds, a response comes through.

Finally, some good news.

I answer back, smiling. Oh, look, you found your sense of humor. Was your missing charm with it?

His answer comes zinging back so fast, I’m not sure how he managed to type it.

Please don’t interrupt me while I’m ignoring you.

That makes me laugh out loud.

Good one, geezer. How old are you, anyway?

Around other people—forty-two. Around you—it feels like forty-two hundred.

He’s older than he looks. Smiling at the phone, I murmur, “Ouch. Savage.”

I debate sending something back, but decide to let him have the last word. Maybe it will improve his disposition the next time I see him.

Probably not, but I’ll give it a shot.

In the cabinet under the sinks in his enormous bathroom, I find aspirin, Neosporin, hydrogen peroxide, and bandages. I down two of the aspirin with a gulp of water from the sink, then take a shower. After locking the bathroom door first, of course.

When I’m finished with the shower, I towel dry my hair, put on Declan’s briefs and dress shirt again, and sit on the toilet to attend to the soles of my feet. I disinfect them with the peroxide, dab on the antibacterial cream, and stick a bandage on a few of the worst cuts.

Then, with nothing left to do and no television to watch, I decide to try to get more sleep.

I’ve already rummaged through all his drawers. He keeps nothing personal in his personal space, which I find very interesting. No photos, no books, no jewelry, no notes. Not a single item in his bedroom could identify him as the occupant. Only his clothes, hanging meticulously in his closet and folded with such anal precision in the drawers, could identify the space as belonging to a male. All else is neutral.

Empty.

He could vanish without a trace at any moment, and no one would ever know he’d been here.

Which, perhaps, is the point.

But it makes me curious. About him and his life, about what would drive a man to be so absent in his own home. Maybe he’s got a bunch of family photos in the living room, but somehow, I doubt it.

Somehow, I doubt he has a family.

Other than the mafia, that is. Besides his brothers-in-arms, Declan seems very much like a lone wolf.

I don’t have much to go on, but I’ve always been intuitive about people. And if my intuition is right, the man keeping me under his roof has more than the normal number of secrets a man in his position would have.

I suspect his proverbial closet doesn’t just have skeletons. It has entire graveyards.

Pulling down a corner of the black silk duvet, I crawl under the sheets and snuggle down, getting comfy. After I’m motionless for a few minutes, the automatic lights dim. I drift off to sleep to the sound of my rumbling stomach.

Sometime later, I wake to the sound of breathing beside me.

Without even opening my eyes, I know it’s Declan. The peppermint-spice scent is a dead giveaway, as is the heat he’s generating. The man’s body temperature is set at permanent full blast.

After a moment, he says in a voice thick with fatigue, “The guest rooms are full. So is the sofa. And I can’t sleep sitting up in a chair.”

“I wasn’t going to suggest you should.”

We’re quiet for a while, until he says, “You didn’t eat your food.”