Page 41 of Rooke
“Did he have an accent?”
“No. He just sounded slow. Like he was really out of it. That’s all.”
Rooke inhales deeply. His eyes travel across my body, surveying the damage, and I suddenly feel very vulnerable. I can’t decipher the look on his face. “Are you mad at me?” I whisper.
Something breaks in him. He glances away, like he can’t possibly bear to look at me anymore. “Why the fuck would you think that?” he says.
“Because…you’re looking at me like I’m broken. You’re looking at me like you’re disgusted.”
“Iamdisgusted.”
My heart plummets in my chest, my lungs aching painfully.
“I’m disgusted with myself. That I didn’t get to you in time. I should have stopped this.”
“How were you supposed to know?” He’s crazy if he thinks for a second that he’s responsible for any of this. Last night was the first real time I allowed him in, to connect with me. Does he think he should be following me around, protecting me from unknown assailants twenty-four hours a day, seven days a week? That’s just ridiculous.
He grinds his teeth together, pressing his lips into an unhappy, angry line. He still won’t look at me. “No one should have dared fucking touch you, Sasha. No one should have been allowed to fuck with you. There are consequences to an act like this. Dire, awful consequences. I’m going to make sure this guy pays for what he’s done to you. I can’t leave him fucking breathing. Iwon’t.”
“Rooke, please—” I try to sit up, to reach out to him, to stop him from leaving, but it’s too late. A wall of pain comes crashing down on me and I sink back into the bed, gasping at the shock of it. Rooke hovers in the doorway, his head hanging low.
“Rest, Sasha. I’ll be back for you. You don’t need to worry about that.”
TWENTY-ONE
ASSHOLE, BUT NOT A CUNT
SASHA
“I’m never leaving you alone again. Never. Not tonight. Not this week. You’re stuck with me, sunshine.” Ali takes my keys out of my hand (newly equipped with a fresh can of pepper spray) and opens the front door to my house, taking my coat and the overnight bag she brought to the hospital for me, then ushering me inside. I follow her, mute, because I don’t have anything to say. She’s been rambling ever since we left the hospital, and I don’t have the energy to engage.
I get it. She feels bad. She shouldn’t, though. When I dialed her back at the museum, the call did connect. Shedidpick up, and shedidhear what was going on. She called the cops, and alerted them to the fact that I was being assaulted, but somehow she seems to think that she didn’t do enough. It was ten forty when the EMTs drove me across the city to the hospital. It’s not as if the police were the ones who saved me, but who’s to say that guy in the ski mask wouldn’t have chased after me and recaptured if me if the cops weren’t thick on the street? Who’s to say he wouldn’t have killed me dead for hitting him in the head with that dull metal hook?
I can’t believe he’s not dead. I just can’t process the information. I can’t believe any of it really. It’s been three days since it all happened, and I can’t wrap my head around any of it at all. I haven’t seen or heard anything from Rooke. Luckily, I haven’t seen or heard anything on the newsaboutRooke either. I’m taking that as a win.
Ali tosses my keys into the dish on the stand in the hall and ushers me into the kitchen. I sit down heavily at the counter, watching her as she hurries around the room in a flurry of activity. “What do you want, coffee or tea? I can make us some lunch, too. Oh, wait.” She peers into the fridge, frowning. “Maybe not. I can call for something though. Some Thai food? Or maybe a pizza?” She’d normally give me shit for not having any food in the fridge but I guess she’s giving me a hall pass in light of recent events.
“I’m not hungry, Ali. Honestly, I just want to take a nap. I feel…” I grasp for a word,anyword, that could possibly describe what I’m feeling right now. It’s like I’m snatching at thin air.
“I know. You must be exhausted by this whole thing.” Ali smiles sympathetically, and I want to scream at her to get out. She won’t, though. It won’t matter how many times I tell her I need some time to myself, that I’m sick of being fussed over, poked and prodded and asked if I’m all right. She will ignore these comments and refuse to leave, no matter what, so there’s really no point in saying them. I grind my teeth together, breathing slowly down my nose.
“I’m going to go lie down for a while. Maybe I could eat something later on.”
Ali nods. She turns and starts rifling in the cupboard under the sink. “No problem, babe. I’ll just do some cleaning or something. Do you have any laundry that needs folding?”
I may not keep much in the way of perishable goods in my refrigerator, but my place is always clean and neat as a pin. And I hardly have a pile of crumpled laundry that needs taking care of, either. If it makes her happy to run a duster over my shelves, though, I’m okay with it. Anything for a moment to sit alone in my room by myself so I can gather my thoughts. My injured knee spasms as I slowly climb the stairs. My ribs sing with pain every time I take a breath.
My physical hurts all seem to melt away the moment I close my bedroom door behind me. This is the first time I have been alone since I managed to run around the side of the museum. Nurses, doctors, friends—I’ve been surrounded by people twenty-four seven since Tuesday, and now that I’m shut inside a room on my own I feel like I can finally let go.
I climb into bed, planning on crying myself to sleep, but the moment I release my desperate hold on my emotions, allowing everything to wash over me, I’m numb. There are no tears. There’s no fear or worry. There is only a cold, heavy sensation pressing down on me, weighting me to the bed.
I pass out.
I wake up a long time later, sweating, panicked and afraid. My attacker from the museum plagues my dreams every time I sleep. He holds his hands around my throat; he uses his fists to hurt me; he throws me down stairwells, and he smashes my head against marble floors. It takes a while to calm my frantic heartbeat. I’m safe now. He’s gone, and I’m safe. I tell myself this over and over, and eventually I manage to catch my breath.
A large chunk of time has passed. It was morning when we got home and when I look out of the window now I can see that the light is fading in the sky, already dusk. Downstairs, I can hear talking, muffled and unintelligible. The television? Maybe the radio? As I listen, I can make out the steady rise and fall of Ali’s voice, though, along with the odd word here and there, and I know that she has to be talking to someone.
“I’m sorry. She’s just not...maybe in a couple of days…No, she hasn’t said…”
