The Dark of You

by Shade, S. M.

  The footsteps retreat as slowly as they advanced. I can’t sit here and wonder. As quietly as possible, I slip out of bed and cross the room. My ear pressed to the bedroom door picks up no sounds.

  With my phone in hand, I inch open my door. Pale light illuminates the hall from the bathroom at the opposite end. Did I leave the bathroom light on? I don’t think it’s even been used since Thea and the guys left. No, it was out before. The hall was dark when I went to bed. I’m sure of it.

  My stomach knots painfully and ice slides down my spine when a spot on the floor catches my attention. It’s only a drop on the light hardwood but there’s no doubt what it is. Blood. My eyes follow it to another drop, then another. They lead down the hall toward the bathroom. Maybe I’m still asleep because this is quickly becoming a nightmare. Or a scene from one of my books.

  The sound of my breathing has never been so loud and obvious to me. One step at a time, I force myself to follow the crimson drops toward the light of the bathroom. My imagination does what it’s the best at and paints a thousand horrific pictures in my mind of what I’ll find.

  The bathroom door is ajar, letting a strip of bright light fall across me while I swallow hard and steel myself for whatever I’m about to come face to face with. My hand trembles as I reach out and push the door open.

  Reeve.

  Thank fuck.

  My relief is short lived. He’s covered in blood and holding his dripping hand over the sink. Without a word, he turns his head to regard me. The look in his eye is one I haven’t seen before. Uneasiness. His careful scrutiny makes it clear it’s not about his hand or the blood. He’s wary of how I’ll react. If I’ll be afraid of him. All I see is that he’s hurt and he needs help.

  “What happened?” He doesn’t resist when I grab his wrist and turn his hand to see where the blood is coming from, but I don’t get an answer. A deep cut slashes across his palm alongside his thumb, and another draws a line across the bottom of three fingers. Snatching a washcloth from the shelf, I press it to his palm.

  “It’s okay,” he says, as if he only has a scratch and not an open cut gushing into the sink.

  The acrid smell of blood in the tiny room is overwhelming. It’s soaked into his shirt and splashed down his jeans. “Where else are you hurt?”

  “I’m not.”

  “All this blood didn’t come from that cut.”

  “It’s not my blood.”

  His words put an end to mine for a moment while thoughts fly through my head. Not his blood. It’s so much. Someone’s seriously hurt. Or dead. What has he done? Still holding the washcloth to his hand, I look him in the eye. “Did you hurt someone?”

  His impassive expression never wavers, and he remains silent. “Reeve!” I snap. “There’s so much blood! Tell me! Did you kill somebody?”

  “Is that what you think? That I’m a killer?”

  “I don’t know what to think and you never fucking tell me anything. You show up here in the middle of the night like this, what am I supposed to think?”

  “If I’m a killer…” He moves closer to loom over me. “Then why aren’t you afraid?”

  Because I know you won’t hurt me. “Do I need to be afraid of you?”

  He shakes his head back and forth, his gaze locked on mine. “Never.”

  I’m not going to get any answers. Right now, we need to take care of his hand. “You need stitches, a hospital.”

  “I’m not going to a hospital.”

  Should’ve seen that coming. “The cut on your palm is deep. It won’t heal on its own.”

  “You can sew.”

  His suggestion makes me blink and take a step back. It’s not an outrageous request. Anyone who has grown up poor in America has learned a fair amount of pioneer medicine to treat common injuries or illnesses when we can’t afford a doctor.

  “Are you going to help me, Darcy?”

  Of course I am. I don’t know what happened or what he’s done, but he’s hurt. There will be time later to sort everything out. He was there when I needed him. Now he needs me. “Keep pressure on it while I get some supplies together.”

  Sewing isn’t one of my hobbies. The only thread I have is dry and brittle. It won’t work. Dental floss will have to do. Luckily, there’s a new tube of super glue in my junk drawer. It takes me a couple of minutes to gather what I need and when I return he’s rinsing his hand under the faucet.

  “Sit on the edge of the tub and put your hand here,” I instruct, laying a towel on the cabinet for him to rest it on.

  Without the blood obscuring his skin, it’s easier to see what I’m dealing with. The cuts on his fingers aren’t very deep. Enough for a stitch or two. “The glue will probably be enough for your fingers, but not your palm.” He watches while I pull out the dental floss and disinfect the needle before putting it aside. “Are you sure you want me to do this?”

  “I trust you.”

  The words curl around me, filling in spaces I didn’t know were empty. “Okay, let’s get the hard part over first. I’m sorry I don’t have anything to numb you, or for pain. This is going to hurt.”

  “I’ll be fine.”

  He barely flinches when I pull together the sides of his skin and begin stitching. It’s not pretty, and I imagine he’ll have a significant scar, but it does the job. Once I have it sewn, disinfected, and bandaged, it’s time for his fingers.

  It’s not the first time I’ve used super glue to close a cut. A tiny scar runs down the side of my foot from where I cut it on a piece of glass when I was sixteen. Considering I cleaned it out in a gas station bathroom and glued it shut, it turned out pretty well.

  The glue works, and I wrap a band-aid around each finger. It’s the best I can do.

  “I’m finished. Are you okay?”

  “I’m good.” His pale skin tells another story. Whether it’s from the blood loss, exhaustion, or whatever happened tonight, he’s struggling. It doesn’t help that he’s still sitting in blood soaked clothes.

  I reach behind him and turn on the shower to let the water get warm. He doesn’t resist when I pull his shirt off and start unbuckling his pants. Instead, he stands and allows me to undress him, then watches when I strip down as well.

  “Keep your hand out of the water,” I caution, motioning for him to get in. “I’ll help you.”

  He glances down at his cock that’s now fully at attention and pointing at me. “Not with that,” I snort. “You need to get cleaned up and sleep.”

  “Are you giving orders again, Darcy?”

  “You said you trusted me. So get your ass in the shower and let me take care of you tonight.”

  After trying to stare me down for a few seconds, he complies. The water runs pink off of him for the first minute, a stark contrast to the shiny white tub. He puts his hand on the shower wall, out of reach of the water, and keeps it there while I soap up a washcloth.

  Washing blood off of someone shouldn’t feel so intimate. In this small space with him, his presence is overpowering. I run the cloth over every inch of his skin as if I’m trying to wash away whatever happened along with the blood. “Lean your head down,” I tell him, and he acquiesces, letting me shampoo his hair.

  After he rinses all the soap, his free hand brushes a lock of hair behind my ear. He looks into my eyes and for a moment, I think he’s going to speak. Instead, he plants a kiss on my lips unlike any other he’s given me. Soft and gentle. In that moment, standing naked and wet with blood still staining the porcelain between our feet, I know. I’m falling for him. Not just sexually or as some distraction from life. It’s not the novelty of what we’ve been doing. It’s him, pure and simple.

  Before my emotions can overwhelm me and make me blurt out something stupid, I reach around him and turn off the water. He follows me when I step out, and takes the towel I hand him. After drying off, he tosses it into the hamper, and I realize he doesn’t have any other clothes with him, but that’s something we can figure out in the morning.

&n
bsp; “Let’s go to bed.”

  With a tired nod, he accompanies me back to my bedroom, and we crawl into bed. A million questions swirl in my mind while I lie there, wrapped around a man who may have committed some horrible crime tonight before showing up here. It could’ve just been a fight, I try to tell myself, but I don’t believe it. Not just because of the amount of blood, but because of the cuts.

  They’re familiar. Very similar slices decorated my hand years ago, though not as deep.

  Of course, I wasn’t strong enough to stab someone as hard as he probably did.

  Chapter Eleven

  Reeve’s gone when I wake. My sleep was unusually deep, and I didn’t even hear him leave or feel him kiss me goodbye like he usually does. Lying in bed, I trace my finger over the slight scar on my hand. It isn’t nearly as bad as his will be. I didn’t need stitches, just kept my hand wrapped up. The similar ones that crossed my fingers aren’t even visible anymore.

  Chances are I’ll never know exactly what happened last night, but I’m confident of one thing. He stabbed someone, and his hand slipped forward over the blade. Stabbed doesn’t mean dead—I know that from personal experience—but…there was so much blood.

  The real question that needs answered isn’t who he hurt or if he killed somebody. No, the only thing I need to decide is if I can accept this. I’m not afraid of Reeve, not in the slightest, but can I continue with someone who grows more volatile every time we’re together?

  Isn’t that why you want him?

  The thought comes unbidden, but it’s not incorrect. I’m not blind to the fact that part of the reason I’m so affected by him is because he’s unpredictable and dangerous. Unapologetically so. I’ve never had a lot of use for others. Most people just rob you of solitude without replacing it with anything of value.

  It isn’t like that with Reeve. He makes me feel alive. He makes me want to take risks and say to hell with any consequences. The awful truth is clear. No matter who he is or what he’s done, I’m not giving him up. Why should I walk away my days when I could dance along the sharp edges of life with him?

  His words from before play in my ears. “I’ll always bleed for you.”

  The vow wraps around my heart, and I know I feel the same. I’m already bleeding for him, letting out so many parts of myself. Releasing my beliefs about morality, my ideas of right and wrong. What difference does any of it make? The world is cruel and unfair. It doesn’t care what kind of person you are, whether you do good or evil. We’re all going to end the same.

  He’s burning the world I’ve always known, and I’ll roll in the embers with him.

  The buzzing of my phone pulls me out of my thoughts, and I glance over at it to see I have a text from my agent. She’s given up on calling. Instead, she asks that I check my email and get back to her on a time sensitive opportunity. It’s been weeks since I’ve bothered to check my email or get in touch with anyone connected with my professional life. The questions about how writing is going when I can’t write a damned word are too hard to face.

  My email account is stuffed, but it doesn’t take me long to find her message and read through it, along with the attached document. It’s an unexpected opportunity. No doubt one most authors would give up an organ for, but I’m not sure how I feel about it.

  One of my bestselling books, a fictional account of a real life family annihilator, has gained the attention of a studio that would like to make it into a movie. Lucrative isn’t a strong enough word for the amount of money this would bring in, but the truth is, I don’t need it. There’s only so much you can spend in a lifetime and with no family to pass it on to, why bother? Still, at a time when I’m struggling to feel like I can call myself a writer, I’ll admit, it’s flattering.

  There’s someone I need to check with first.

  I shoot a text back to my agent letting her know I’ve seen the offer and will think about it. Then I send an email to a man I haven’t heard from in five years. If I expected a response at all, I figured it would be days away, but I’m surprised a few minutes later when my phone buzzes and shows his name as I’m getting dressed.

  Nash Fullman. One of the few people to have gone through a similar childhood horror.

  “Nash, hi, thanks for getting back to me so fast.”

  “No problem. You have something you wanted to talk to me about?”

  It strikes me that I need to see his face when he answers my question. I need to know for sure he’d be okay with this. “I do, actually, would you be willing to meet? Just for a coffee or something so we can talk?”

  His hesitation is understandable. “Can you tell me what it’s about?”

  “An opportunity has come up for Midnight Terror. I’d like to talk to you about it and see how you feel. There’s no pressure. If you’d rather not, it’s completely okay.”

  “Oh, um…it’s fine. We can meet up. You just caught me off guard. Did you have a time in mind?”

  He lives nearly four hours away from me, but what else do I have to do? “Are you available around five today?”

  “Sure, but why don’t we meet at a park near my house? I’ll text you the address.”

  “Sounds good. I’ll see you there.”

  My plan now is to clean up the blood from last night, grab a bite to eat, and start toward Nash’s town. I’ll take a bag with me in case I don’t feel like making the drive back, but it shouldn’t be a problem. I’m up until all hours anyway.

  An empty hallway greets me when I step out of my bedroom. The drops of blood that led to the bathroom last night are nowhere to be seen. Even the bathroom where the worst of it was shows no sign of what went on here. Reeve’s bloody clothes are gone too. He must’ve cleaned up before he left.

  It’s good that I have something to do today, something else to think about. Instead of making breakfast, I decide to just get on the road and stop at a drive-thru. It’s an overcast, warm day, not a bad day for a long drive. It’s still a novelty to drive without anxiety grabbing me, but there’s no nervousness today. After stopping for a coffee and breakfast sandwich, I pull onto the highway, crank up one of my favorite playlists, and enjoy myself.

  The park where Nash asked to meet isn’t hard to find. He responds to my text that I’ve arrived to let me know he’s in the picnic area alongside the playground. We’ve only met once, briefly, over five years ago, but the first thing I notice is he seems a bit different. There’s a light in his eyes that wasn’t there the last time I saw him.

  “Nash, hey. Thanks for meeting with me. How have you been?”

  With a smile, he gestures for me to sit down across from him at the picnic table. “I’m doing fine. How about you?”

  Just fucking a stranger who may have killed someone yesterday. Same old.

  “I’m good.”

  “Daddy!” A screech turns our attention to the slide where a small boy sits at the top, waving at Nash. “Watch me!”

  We both watch as he slides down, falls into the dirt on his butt at the bottom and bursts into giggles. A woman standing nearby shakes her head and laughs when he leaps to his feet to do it again.

  “Your wife?” I ask, unaware he had gotten married.

  “Yes, Gail, and that’s my son, Ben.”

  “They’re beautiful.” Maybe this isn’t such a good idea. He’s built a life, a family. The last thing I should do is draw attention to it.

  “It’s been hard, with the economy in the dumpster and everything, but they’re worth it. What did you come to talk to me about?”

  Right. Time to get to the point. “I’ve had an offer to make Midnight Terror into a movie. Theater release, not streaming.”

  He runs a hand over his lips. “Did you accept?”

  “I haven’t responded. I won’t agree to anything without your approval.”

  “That’s why you’re here. To ask for my stamp of approval?”

  “Not exactly. I’m not sure if I want to do it either. I want to know how you feel about it. You know the b
ooks never mention your name and set the story as fiction, but that won’t hold up with a movie. One Google search will bring up what inspired it. Your story.”

  He nods, but remains silent, thinking.

  “You know I went through a similar thing. But I’ve always kept who I am a secret, hid behind a pen name, to escape from that past. If you’re trying to do the same, I won’t ruin that by bringing attention to you. I’ll turn it down and it won’t be a big loss to me. I just want to get your honest feelings about it.”

  Nash lost his family to a killer. A family annihilator. At six years old, he hid in a cabinet and listened as the man killed his parents and two sisters.

  “Has it worked for you?” he asks. “Hiding from it?”

  It’s not a question I expected, but my answer is honest. “In some ways. It’s still made me who I am. Can’t run from that. But not having people around me know and treat me differently because of it has been an improvement.”

  He sighs, and rubs his chin. “I’ve gone the other direction, I suppose. For the last few years, I’ve been accepting speaking engagements about recovering from childhood trauma. People know my name, but I’d rather they associate it with healing and strength.”

  “That’s an amazing way to deal with it.” So much braver than mine.

  “I’ve thought of trying to write a book as well, a personal account. God help the editor that would have to clean up my writing, but I think people would be interested.”

  “They definitely would. I’d be happy to set you up with my agent or publisher if you’d like.” They’d jump all over this opportunity.

  A smile spreads across his face. “That’d be great. When it comes to your movie, do what you like. Maybe it’ll help push my book,” he chuckles. His son’s giggles fill the air, and he smiles over at him. “I don’t mean to be rude and cut things short, but if that was all you needed to talk about, I’d like to spend some time with my family. Working two jobs, I don’t get enough of it.”