Shon pleaded for the third time, "Why can't I come over, Jeannie?"
Jeannie rode her wave of guilt. She'd created the mess between her and Shon and she blamed herself for letting their relationship go on far too long. "Shon, I like you ... but as a friend only."
Shon cursed his disapproval.
Ignoring it, Jeannie continued, "I like your company, but friends let each other have space now and then, right?"
"Jeannie, don't do this ..."
Sadness at the pain she was causing him, outran her guilt like racers in a relay.
"Look, Shon, I'll call you tomorrow, and we can talk more about it later, okay?"
Let me go, she thought.
He sighed and Jeannie said a prayer of thanks for the resignation in it.
"Yeah, okay. Sure."
"Goodnight, Shon."
"Goodnight, Jeannie."
Jeannie placed her phone on her bedroom dresser by the door. She then watched Thorne from a distance. Judging by how his tattooed chest rose and fell, he was fast asleep. She nervously played with the ties of her robe until the hardwood floor grew colder under her bare feet.
Should she join him? In bed?
I have nothing to fear, but I do.
The memory of being in such proximity to him, in such an intimate manner, would be extremely hard to erase from her mind. The mental picture alone would haunt her for years to come.
When Thorne stirred, Jeannie jumped back into the safety of the shadows.
Ugh! I'm as nervous as a cat around fireworks.
Jeannie sighed, admonishing herself further. Grow up, Jeannie. It's not as if Hawthorne will suddenly roll over and try to have his way with you.
She let out a choked giggle. The man was immobile from the pain pills she'd given him a little over an hour ago. He would be out till daybreak.
From her darkened doorway, Jeannie eyed her living room couch. The size of a loveseat, it was perfect for watching TV, but not comfortable enough for sleep.
She moved further into her bedroom, hesitating at the end of the bed.
She thought, I can sleep with him. I'll be fine. Besides, as big as he is, he doesn't even fill his side.
Jeannie laid her robe at the bottom of the king-sized bed, lost in thought.
Her blankets were in the closet, hidden under a pile of summer clothes. Jeannie winced at the thought of the monumental effort it would take to remove the coverings from their vacuum sealed bags. Lethargy lingered in her every bone. Her head drooped wearily on her shoulders. No, she was much too tired to manage all that.
Jeannie had fought most of the day to get information on how Thorne had received his injuries from a closed mouth Dalton and a shifty-eyed Quentin. After a lot of threats and glares, they'd finally admitted Thorne had gotten into a cage fight. But they refused to say with who, where or why. Since Thorne was doing better, she'd finally let the matter drop. Just like she would her debate.
And so, with a few more furtive looks at the man in question, Jeannie pulled back the sheets and slid beneath them, turning out the light seconds later.
It was two days before Christmas. Thorne wore his red flannel pajamas with the reindeer. He'd have to change before he went to bed as it was dirty from smears of cookie dough and icing.
"Thorne," his mommy said, with an exasperated sigh, "stop eating cookie dough. You'll make yourself sick."
Six-year-old Thorne lifted a sticky finger from the metal bow, popping it into his dough-smeared mouth. He picked up a freshly baked gingerbread cookie and bit off the head with relish.
"That's enough, Thorne," his mom said after his chubby hand reached for another one.
"Okay, Mommy," Thorne replied, cookie crumbs spraying from his mouth. "I will pretend this is one of the bad men. Watch me tear him apart." Under his mother's watchful eye, Thorne bit down on the arms and then the legs of the cookie man. He took his time with the torso, smearing the decorative red icing on his lips, making believe it was the blood of his enemy.
"Thorne!" His mother laughed, pushing her blond hair behind her ear, "You're a cookie's worst nightmare!"
Thorne gave her a gap-toothed smile full of joy.
"Come here, you little devil, so I can scrub you clean. After that," his mommy cajoled, "we can watch an old movie until it's bedtime."
Thorne leaped into his mother's outstretched arms. She kissed him on the forehead with a loud smack. Thorne giggled, rubbing at the spot.
"Did you rub my kiss off?" his mommy scolded him, her accent thick on the vowels.
Thorne laughed, knowing she was just teasing him. She growled and tickled his full tummy. He squealed and squirmed in her embrace. Shrill giggles burst at intervals from his throat and his love for his mommy filled his dark green eyes.
Tatiana Gable let the water run. When it was warm enough, she took a wet towel from the drawer and washed away the "blood" and "flesh" from around her son's mouth.
Thorne watched his mother with big eyes, his heart overflowing with his love for her.
The only time he'd felt anything other than happy was when his mommy talked about the bad men. His mommy told him the bad men had killed his father and if the bad men ever caught up to them, Thorne was to hide in the secret place.
His face clean, teeth brushed, and wearing icing-free pajamas, Thorne cuddled up to his mother. He placed his head in her lap and let out a contented sigh as his mother tunneled her fingers through his hair.
He tried to watch the movie, but his eyes grew heavy. Soon, the black and white images on the screen slowly blurred until all went black.
"Thorne? Thorne? Wake up, honey!"
"Mommy? Whaaass wrong?" he said sleepily, rubbing his eyes.
The apartment was pitch black. A few drops of rain tapped at the windows. The wind howled its fury outside.
A storm was approaching.
"Please, baby. You need to listen to Mommy. Go hide and don't come out until I call you." Tatiana held him tight, fighting back the tears in her eyes. "Go now, sweetie." Her chest heaved as she inhaled her son's sweet scent. "I love you, baby."
Thorne didn't hesitate. He ran to her closet, still full of towering boxes. They had just moved in a few days ago. He didn't even have a bed yet. Thorne widened the seamless square cut into the wall. He closed it shut with the thin rope attached to the other side.
Thunder crashed and roared as lightning illuminated the 3x3 box he was in. He squatted on the cold floor. With his knees pulled up to his chin, a steady stream of tears ran down his face. His heart beat at a record pace. When the storm abated, his pulse calmed down, and his fear finally gave way to deep exhaustion.
Thorne wasn't sure how long he slept. He only knew he was hungry. His cramped body felt stiff and the urge to stretch his limbs was overpowering.
He went to the door, and pulling on the rope, he widened it to a crack. Hearing nothing, Thorne inched out, stopping, starting, and listening in between.
Not a sound.
Standing, he cautiously peeked around the boxes. Thorne jumped back when he saw a flash of blue.
"What's that, Joe?"
"There're toys in this box. She had a kid, looks like."
"Ain't no kid here, Sam. We would've found 'em by now."
Thorne eased around the boxes again, gingerly putting one foot in front of the other so as not to make a sound.
WHAM!
The closet door smashed into the wall.
"Sweet Saint Nicholas," the policeman said, crossing himself. "I found him, Joe!"
Poor little boy, the policeman thought, he no longer had a mother, and it was close to Christmas, too. He went to grab Thorne, his large red hands, dotted with age spots, reached out to lift him up.
When they made contact, Thorne screamed.
"Hawthorne, wake up!" Jeannie's heart beat like a bird with a broken wing, wounded and disjointed. Thorne's scream had been so ... primal. She turned on the bedside lamp while shaking his shoulder, trying to rouse him out of his nightmare.
Thorne's eyes flew open, roaming wild in their sockets. He sprang up, rolling Jeannie beneath him. She instinctively covered her face that had changed into a mask of shock and terror.