Page 43 of Body Count

I knocked his hand away, and he stared at me, jaw slack.

“My Xanax?Are you out of your fucking mind?Where were you?Answer my question: where were you?”

“I went to a hotel.”

“You went to a hotel?”

“I went to a hotel.I stayed at a hotel.”He scratched his beard and looked away again.“I needed some space.I wanted to think.I’m—I’m not happy.And I needed to be away from you.To have some—I needed to think.”

I waited until the sound of his voice died and said, “What’s his name?”

“There’s no—”

“Don’t lie to me!What is his fucking name?”

“I was at a hotel.”

“What hotel?”

“I don’t know!”

“You don’t know!Jesus Christ, Darnell, what the fuck is going on with you right now?”

“I can’t think.You’re yelling at me, and I can’t think, and—” He clutched his chest, crumpling his shirt in one hand, and sucked in a gasping breath.His color was bad, and he slipped sideways until he was leaning over one arm of the chair, still pressing a hand to his chest.

He’d had a heart attack—what?A year ago?Two?

“I’m getting a nurse,” I said, fumbling with the bed controls.“It’s okay.You’re going to be okay.”

“No.”

“You’re having a heart attack—”

“No.No, it’s just—” He didn’t finish.After a few seconds he said, “No.I’m okay.I don’t know.I’m okay.”And then, in a firmer voice, “Don’t call a nurse.Please.”

So, I sat there with my dick in my hand, so to speak, while Darnell took long, slow breaths.His color got better.He sat up straight.He looked exhausted, though, and older now.For a time, he had his eyes closed, leaning his head back to rest against the wall.When he opened them, he was looking at me.

“We’re a fucking pair, aren’t we?”I said.

He chuckled softly.“Sorry about that.”

“Don’t be sorry.”

“I was at a hotel, Gray.I have the receipt, the charge on my credit card, all that.I just drove until I stopped somewhere.And then, today, I came home.”

Because I didn’t have anything better to say, I said, “I believe you.But those asshole detectives from the sheriff’s department are going to want proof.”

He nodded.The sunlight threaded through his hair added silver, and it was hard to tell what was the light and what was age.Or if living with me was just making him prematurely gray.An alarm started beeping, but it was a long way off, so the sound was small and, strangely, didn’t have any urgency.Then it stopped.Outside, the day already looked hard and hot, hammered by the sun, the parking lot full of reflected light.

“You’re not happy,” I said.

He closed his eyes again.

“I can move my stuff out whenever,” I said.“I’m on leave.”

He was very still.And then he said, “God, Gray.”

“I meant to tell you that.Peterson thinks I’m—I don’t know.Fucking everything up seems to be the short version.”

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