Page 9 of Road Rash

Burk drops his head and moves away.

“What are we doing here? I’m tired.”

“You’re sleepin’ here.”

His tone makes me quickly decide not to argue. I lean against him as we ascend the steps. He forgoes the tour, forgoes the living room and the sofa completely to help me down the hallway to a back bedroom. A flat-screen sits on an old walnut veneered dresser with some of the veneer chipping off at the corners, across from a large bed. Two nightstands flank each side. There’re photos, one on each stand. And there’s a hamper in the corner full of jeans and T-shirts.

Is this… “Is this your room?” I ask.

“Can’t be by yourself. Not leavin’ you in anyone else's care.”

“Okay but, I can stay in your guest room. This is your space.” Rather than argue with me, he peels the fluffy denim comforter down revealing navy sheets. Then he sits me down on the bed to walk over to the closet. The closet looks deep from what I can tell. He steps inside a bit and comes out with my nightshirt. “What are my clothes doing in your closet?” I ask.

He simply orders me, “arms up.”

I lift my arms to allow him to pull my shirt up over my head leaving me momentarily in my pale pink bra. He never even glances down, or if he does, I never catch him. He quickly pulls my short sleeve yellow and white raglan-style sleep shirt over my head. I push my arms through the sleeves. Then he’s kind enough to help me out of the plastered-on jeans I’d worn the last time I’d gone to work.

“You want to sleep with your bra on or off?” he asks. I can’t sleep in this bra. It’s expensive, bought to push up the girls for greater tips.

“Off,” I answer. He unhooks it at the back through the nightshirt. I run my hand up the sleeve and pull first one strap down and then the other. Then I pull it out through the sleeve handing it off to him. He hangs it over the edge of his hamper before walking back over to help me under the covers.

“Hungry?” he asks.

“Don’t you want to shower? Get to work?”

“Hungry?” he asks again.

“Come on, Old Man, you can’t—”

“Name’s Dane.”

“What?”

“Dane. My name’s Dane. I want you callin’ me that.”

“Why? Everyone calls you Old Man.”

“You’re not everyone.”

I’m not everyone. My head hurts, I can’t remember large chunks of a night my friends were shot, and yet I find myself smiling. “Yes, I could eat,” I admit.

“Right.” He bends down to press another soft kiss to my lips. I take the opportunity to kiss him back. It might be soft on my end, too, but I need him to know that anything he’s feeling for me, it’s reciprocal. As he leaves the bedroom, he pulls his phone from his pocket. The last thing I hear is him telling someone, “She’s home. Need you to cover for the next few days…”

About a half-hour later he shows back in the room carrying a tray that appears to hold a bowl of soup. He sets the tray on my lap after I sit up, adjusting myself in order not to spill it. It’s soup alright. A delicious smelling bowl of chicken noodle with homemade noodles and thick chunks of carrot and celery, along with meaty pieces of chicken. There’s also a hot yeast roll topped with melting butter on a plate off to the side.

“You made soup?” I ask, totally dumbfounded.

“Asked Cath to make it.” Cath… she and her husband Spud, well Spud isn’t his actual name. I think it’s really Earl but everyone has called him Spud since the first time I met him. No one ever gave me a reason but I suspect it’s because he looks similar to a russet potato. That’s mean. I shouldn’t say such things, but it’s the truth. Anyway, Cath and Spud live on the property next over from Old Man—er—I guess I’m supposed to call him Dane now. It’s going to take time to get used to. Not because I don’t like it. It’s actually quite a sexy name. But when you’ve been used to addressing someone one way for a decade and then they change it up on you, that takes some adjustment.

But I’ll do just about anything he asks of me.

Spud and Cath own the one gas station in town. That takes up a lot of their time. But Cath loves to garden and makes artisanal breads as a hobby. They’re in their late forties. Their kid moved away to bigger, brighter pastures a few years ago. These people have become like family to me over the years.

Cath makes great soup. While I eat, Dane showers. Then he joins me with a tray of his own. “Mind if I turn on the tube?” he asks. It’s funny that he still refers to the TV as the tube when I don’t think these flatscreens even have tubes any longer.

“It’s fine. Just… would you mind keeping the volume low?”

He smiles, picking up the remote flicking through the shows the streaming service recommends based on his viewing history until he clicks on some old war movie. At least it’s not sports. But with a full belly and all, I feel myself begin to drift off. It’s inevitable and thus, I don’t try to fight it.

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