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It’s been maybe an hour a half since the phone guttered out. Mira’s sitting in front of me now, her back pushed into me and my arms wrapped around her, and I’m fighting a hard-on. I feel like an asshole for being turned on when she’s both terrified and injured, but it’s like we’re in a sensory deprivation chamber, and all of my senses are focused onher. I feel the soft curve of her ass, the dip of her hip, the tickle of her hair. I smell her spicy perfume and the toothpaste she used this morning. I hear her voice, soft but a bit throaty, as she tells me about her father’s band. I’ve been trying to keep her talking to prevent her from falling into the fear and getting lost in it. To keep myself from doing something I shouldn’t.
“Has your dad’s band ever played at your bar?” I ask. She’s already told me about opening the bar—about the years she spent saving money and planning while managing other people’s bars and restaurants, about securing the loans and managing to pay them off in record time. Despite myself, I pull her a little closer. It’s helping me too, being anchored to her. Feeling her against me—alive and safe, or safe enough, given the situation.
“Yes,” she says, laughing softly, her body shaking a little with it. Everything she does is big—laughing, smiling, calling out for Pumpkin like a damn hamster could save us from this clusterfuck of a situation. At first that made her an intimidating person to be around, but I like it. She’s genuine in a way most people are not, which is helpful to a person who has a tendency to be too literal.
Logic suggests we won’t be in here much longer. Most of the people in this building are rich. Rich people are used to getting what they want, so if they call for the elevator and it doesn’t come, they’ll complain. The matter will be investigated, and we’ll be saved. The fact that the light guttered out suggests there might be a problem with the power in the building, which might distract everyone for a while. Still, management will get to us eventually.
I haven’t told Mira, but I suspect the elevator shaft and doors are thick enough that her screams aren’t being heard. I won’t take that bit of hope from her, even if I’d prefer not to hear Big Mike’s and Pumpkin’s names screamed at what sounds like a hundred decibels.
“How’d it go?” I ask.
“I asked him to play cover songs, and he covered the Beatles’ ‘Revolution’ as a bluegrass song. It was pretty sweet, actually. They aired it as a live track on the River.”
“The River?”
“Do you never get out?” she asks, some amusement in her voice. “It’s a radio station that plays local bands.”
“Oh,” I say. “I listen to podcasts while I’m working. I’ve gotten really into a few true crime ones.”
“You’ll have to tell me which ones you like,” she says. “I’ve been told I’m supposed to stay off my feet.”
“Okay,” I agree. “My favorite one isThe Murderer Next Door. Maybe we can listen to it together while I’m working.”
One of the things I did while she was gone was move my desk into my bedroom, wedging it in there, but maybe I can move it back out. Or work on my laptop in my favorite armchair. Sure, the bright as fuck SAD lamp is out there now, but maybe I can wear sunglasses. Right now, in this moment, I can’t imagine choosing to be away from Mira, for any reason.
“Sounds ominous,” she comments.
“We don’t have any next-door neighbors,” I point out. Our unit is the only one on the floor.”
“Well, in that case, I’d like that.” She’s quiet for a second, then asks, “How come you’ve never come by the bar with your friends?”
“Would you have noticed if I had?” I ask with some amusement. Because we’d only had a single one-on-one conversation before she moved in with me, right after Burke told me she needed a place to stay. It was as dry as toast without butter, mostly because I don’t know how to talk to people I don’t know—a problem, because in order to get to know someone you have to go through the motions of meaningless small talk.
“You haven’t,” she says seriously.
“No. I told you, I have a thing about noise. Crowded places too. I’ve never gotten diagnosed, but Ruthie thinks I might be on the autism spectrum. I’ve done some research on it, and it feels right.”
I feel her looking back at me again, and I have a stupid urge to trace her cheek, to weave my hand into that soft black hair that’s been teasing my face and draw her in for a kiss.
“If you say you’ve done some research on it, I’m guessing you’ve done a lot.”
I smile at that, even if I’m just smiling into the darkness. “Sure. Some self-testing too.”
“If I do something that bothers you,” she says, “you have to tell me. I’m not always the best at picking up on hints.”
“Me neither. But I’ve been pretty good about telling you things, haven’t I?”
She laughs a little. “Now, maybe. Not in the beginning.”
“It only took me about an hour or two to be brutally honest with you.”
“Thank you for that,” she says softly. “And thank you for telling me about this. I’m guessing you don’t tell everyone.”
“No,” I admit. “I guess I think most things aren’t anyone else’s business.”
I only realize I’ve been tracing circles on her upper thigh when the dress rides up slightly, and the texture I’m touching changes from her soft dress to her softer skin.
It’s…mesmerizing. Her breathing hitches and she layers her hand on top of mine, the soft touch sending a powerful punch of need straight where it doesn’t need to go.
