Page 85 of Guilty Minds
“You have insomnia. Why are you in bed?”
“Just to let my body relax.” I sigh. I don’t sleep, and it’s taking a toll on me. A significant one, seeing as I’ve been up for less and less hours between crashing, and I’m only thirty-one. At this rate, my body would give up on me way faster than I anticipated.
“Okay,” she answers quietly and yawns.
She’s asleep a moment later. A soft snore tickles the skin of my chest, and I find that I like the sound. In fact, I like a lot of things that happened today.
ChapterTwenty-Four
JUSTIN
I open my eyes to an empty bed and the smell of bacon and coffee.
It’s bright beyond the windows, and when we went to bed, it was dark. I feel good—refreshed. A good roll in the hay can do that.
I give my body a good, long stretch and look around. Yesterday, I was too preoccupied, but today, I can check everything out. The way she lives. I like it. I’ve been talking shit about her trailer, but it’s super nice. Fifty times better than my apartment. She made it a home. Her bedroom is small, but very her. The furniture is clearly worn, and all the pieces are from different sets, but they all coordinate nicely.
My stomach growls, and I finally get out of bed, stretching one more time.
I find my pants halfway to the kitchen on the chair. Kayla’s flipping pancakes at a two-burner stove. She’s wearing tiny, white shorts, showing off her amazing legs, and a loose black shirt with more holes than material. There’s a colorful lion on her right thigh, and her hair is piled up on top of her head in a super messy bun that she didn’t spend any time perfecting. She is barefoot, with one foot tapping to the song she’s listening to in her headphones.
I step closer and admire the view. From here, I notice a few light bruises on her thighs, clearly from my hands. I should feel bad, but I don’t. I like my mark on her.
What the fuck is wrong with me? Mark on a woman? Who am I?
She notices me and takes her headphones out. “Morning.”
"Morning." My voice is raspy, as if I spent the whole night singing at a rock concert.
“Sleep well?” She asks, licking batter from her finger.
“I don’t sleep.” I announce stubbornly.
“Well, you did. All night.” She points the spatula she’s holding at the bed.
“Right.” I yawn. “I just closed my eyes for a second to chill.”
“Yeah, you did, and opened them many hours later.” She points at the clock on the wall.
“Ten thirty?” I yelp. “How—”
She shrugs as if it’s not a huge deal and keeps fixing breakfast.
Like it's not a big deal that I haven't slept like a normal human being in six and half years. Since the night my sister was assaulted, eaten by guilt every single night. And today, I did.
Did yesterday’s extra-curricular activities exhaust me so much that I just crashed? But it's not like I haven't had wild sex before, the kind that exhausts your bones and liquefies your limbs. I have, and yet I didn't sleep then. To be fair, sex yesterday wasn't just wild. It was good, and it was different. I usually end up leaving someone’s place or making sure the woman leaves my place after we’re done. I’m very clear about that from the beginning. I don’t need people running around, talking about my problems.
“Did I really sleep?” I scratch the back of my head, looking around, lost, like a puppy. Why did such a simple thing like that throw me off balance?
“Yeah,” she says, taking a sip of her coffee, "I woke up at eight, and you were still out."
“Okay.” Is all I say. That’s all Icansay, so I go to her and grab the mug from her hands.
“Hey!” She wants to pull the cup back, but I take a hefty sip from it and wince.
"That shit has so much sugar in it; I think I got a cavity from just a sip."
“Good. Then you can give it back.” She takes the mug back and points at the coffee maker. “Get yourself your black coffee; it'll match your soul.”
