Beneath This Mask (Page 17)

She followed me into the room, and I set one glass on the nightstand. Charlie placed her bundle of clothes on the dresser. She laid out the T-shirt and boxers on the end of the bed.

“Thought you might want a drink to help you sleep,” I said.

“Thank you.” She took the glass and sipped. She surveyed the room, lingering on the artwork. “This isn’t your room.”

“No. Guestroom.”

She turned to face me. “Good to know my instincts aren’t completely off. Cezanne’s fruit doesn’t really seem like your style.” She gestured to the still life painting on the wall with her glass.

My eyes narrowed, and once again I was struck by the feeling that this woman was much more than she pretended to be. She drank the rest of her bourbon, and I cast about for something to say; I hit on the most pertinent fact.

“I called Jack and checked on Huck. He’s still doing fine.”

Her shoulders tensed for a beat before relaxing. “Thank you, again. I was going to ask you for his number so I could do that.”

“I’ll make sure you have it.” The silence stretched between us, heavy and awkward. “I guess I’ll let you get some sleep then. I’ll be down the hall if you need something.”

She watched as I pulled the door shut, but said nothing about my abrupt departure.

I walked down the hallway to my own room, wishing I wasn’t so fucked up that I couldn’t have a woman spend the night in my bed. Because that’s where I wanted Charlie, even if all I was doing was holding her close to take away some of her worry and replacing it with peace of mind. Not that she’d let me. Yet.

I sucked in a deep breath and exhaled slowly as I shut my door. In the morning, I’d make a call I’d been putting off for years. It was time.

The night was endless. Bouts of sleep interrupted by flashes of Huck’s collision with the street sweeper and everything that came after. Then my disordered mind would insert snippets of my parents and the angry faces of my father’s victims into my dreams, and I’d jolt awake. I was exhausted and staring at the blank white ceiling, trying to clear my thoughts, when I heard a shout followed by a loud groan.

Simon.

He sounded like he was in pain.

I threw back the covers, and dressed in his T-shirt and boxers, I padded down the hall to his bedroom. The door was closed.

“Simon?” I whispered. Another pained moan and garbled words. Fear gripped me. I didn’t think; I opened the door and slipped inside. A shaft of early morning light cutting through the open drapes highlighted his contorted face. He thrashed against the covers, hands clenching the sheets.

“No. Fuck. No.”

A nightmare. That was something I could understand. I crossed to the side of the bed, my only thought to wake him up and free him from whatever horrors were haunting his sleep. I shook his shoulder.

“Simon, wake up.” His hands released the sheets and grasped my shoulders, yanking me onto the bed and rolling us both until I was pinned beneath him. I cringed at the pain of his hold. His muscles were flexing and clenching. Fear bubbled up inside me.

“Simon.”

When he didn’t respond and his grip tightened, I acted on pure instinct—I reached up and slapped him across the face. His eyes snapped open, and he looked down at me, blinking and confused. I wiggled to get out from under him, and as he realized he was holding me down, his eyes went wide. His chest heaved with ragged breaths.

“Holy fuck. Charlie. What the hell are you doing in here?”

“Get off me,” I said.

Simon rolled and flopped onto his back.

His chest continued to rise and fall, and he buried his fingers into his hair. “Jesus, fuck. I can’t believe…” He glanced over at me, eyes wild. “Did I … did I hurt you?”

I didn’t respond, only rubbed my shoulders where he had grabbed me. “I’ll be fine.”

“Jesus. That means—fuck. I did hurt you.” He sat up and reached for me. Reflexively, I flinched. “My God. I’m so sorry. I’m—”

I sat up and slid off the bed, legs a little shaky. “It’s fine. I should’ve left you alone. It’s my own fault.”

Simon sprang off the mattress, scrubbing both hands over his face. “I’m so sorry. I…” He looked up at the ceiling, fists clenching. “I … fuck. I’ll take you home.”

I shook my head. “It’s okay.” I sidestepped toward the door. “I’m just going to go back to bed.”

“Charlie, wait. Let me explain—”

“You don’t owe me an explanation. It’s fine.”

He crossed the room, and I felt behind me for the door handle.

“Christ. You’re fucking terrified of me. Because I hurt you.”

I shook my head again. “It’s okay, Simon.”

“Fuck. Please, just let me explain.” He glanced at the clock. “It’s almost six, and I’m not going back to bed. If it’s okay with you, I’ll make some coffee and tell you what the fuck just happened.” He paused. “It’s about time I told someone.”

Well, that was cryptic.

He reached for a pair of USNA sweatpants and shoved his muscled legs into them. My eyes were riveted to him even as I told myself to look away and give him privacy to dress, but it was a losing battle. Although he’d scared the shit out of me, I was still drawn to him. Simon’s outward appearance screamed perfection, but the idea that maybe he wasn’t quite so perfect on the inside intrigued me even more.