Does It Hurt?: Chapter 9

I hate him.

I loathe him.

If I could physically rip out every word that defines him as an asshole from the dictionary and shove it down his throat, I would.

But I’m also scared.

I’m trapped in a creepy lighthouse with a strange caretaker and a man who looks at me as if he’d prefer to see me between a shark’s teeth.

There’s no escaping this place—no escaping him. I’ve always been able to run. It’s what I’ve done my entire life. And now that I can’t, it feels like my body has been invaded by tiny needle-like parasites. I’m tempted to put my nails to my own flesh and start clawing my way out, but it wouldn’t get me any farther away from this place.

It’s late at night, and there’s as little artificial light as there is natural.

Shadows dance across Enzo’s and Sylvester’s faces, their features only visible beneath the orange glow emanating from the fireplace. There’s a lamp on the end table, but Sylvester doesn’t seem inclined to flip it on.

I yelp when Enzo suddenly grabs my other foot. He gives me a look, probably because I hurt his precious ears, then continues with cleaning my injuries, reigniting the flares of pain.

I’d rather stick my foot in the ocean and call it a day, but going outside in the dark sounds even more terrifying than the prospect of Enzo taking care of me. Just barely, though.

“When yer done with ’er, I’ll show you two to yer room,” Sylvester announces. My heart drops, the implication in his words sending ants crawling down my spine.

“We’ll have our own rooms, right?” I ask. Enzo stops cleaning, looking up at the old man, also waiting for a response.

“’Fraid not. Only one other room here.”

Oh, no. This day couldn’t have gotten any worse, yet somehow, it did.

“I can sleep on the couch,” Enzo offers.

“That ain’t gonna work for me, son. This is my home, and I don’t like nobody sleepin’ in my living space. Sometimes I like to stay up late and watch some television.” His tone is stern and brokering no room for argument.

“There’s only one bed?” I ask sullenly, already knowing the answer and hating it.

“That’s right,” he affirms. I must’ve been clinging onto some shred of hope because my heart withers into dust right then and there.

Either I’ll have to share a bed with a man who hates me, or one of us will sleep on the floor with the bugs.

I work to swallow. Knowing him, Enzo will force me to sleep on the floor while he takes the bed. He’s no gentleman, that’s for damn sure.

Enzo pushes my feet off his lap angrily and stands. The tension in the air thickens, and unsurprisingly, Sylvester doesn’t shy away from his glare. Awkwardly, I shuffle to my feet, the pain flaring in them again while I clear my throat.

“We’ll make it work, Syl. Thank you.”

Enzo turns his eyes to me, but I’m not as brave. Not that I ever plan to let the asshole know that. So despite the need for my spine to bend, I force it straight. It’s ingrained into the very marrow of my bones to shrink beneath the weight of a stare. If I allow them to look too long, they might see beneath the brittle mirage I’ve built around myself. They’ll see the cracks and the imperfections, and with one poke, they’ll find that it was nothing more than a clever illusion.

The man before me has already seen the ugly beneath the glimmering rainbow. Turns out, he was only looking into his own reflection.

I may carry ugliness inside of me, but he’s no fucking beauty queen, either.

Sylvester waves us toward the spiral staircase.

“I’d like fer you two to be in your room by nine o’clock every night, if ya don’t mind,” Sylvester says as he leads us toward the metal steps. “It’s about ten o’clock now, so I’ll get ya settled in quick.”

My brows plunge. I can’t remember the last time I’ve been given a bedtime. Certainly never when I was a grown adult. But despite Sylvester posing the request as polite, it goes without saying he wouldn’t care even if I did mind. Which I do.

Clearing my throat, I say, “Okay.”

I suppose a bedtime isn’t the worst thing to be bestowed upon me in the last twenty-four hours. I’m just grateful that I’m no longer submerged in the middle of the ocean, where ninety-five percent of it is left undiscovered—something I learned after my night with Enzo. That’s all I could think of as the wave wiped us out. It’s all that ran through my brain as the riptide sucked me under and then spat me out like spoiled food.

What’s lurking beneath the surface? Will it swallow me whole or eat me slowly?

I don’t know why the unknown creatures were haunting my thoughts more than the fact that I was surely going to drown before whatever creature could sink its teeth into me anyway. But then, somehow, my legs were kicking me toward the surface, and it was all I could do but hang onto a piece of driftwood from the boat. It said ‘ana‘ on it; the rest of the name lost at sea.

Sylvester’s wooden leg clangs loudly as we ascend the stairs. The metal groans beneath our combined weight, and suddenly my fear morphs from strange sea creatures to being impaled by twisted metal once it finally gives.

We come up to a skinny, short hallway. At the end is a small staircase consisting of only a few steps that lead to a door. There are two more doors, one on either side of the hallway.

“The room up the steps is mine. Yours is on the left.”

“What about the one on the right?” I ask.

“That would be the toilet, but I don’t like anyone creepin’ around my hallways at night, so there’s a bucket in the room if nature calls.”

I stop short, causing Enzo to collide into me.

He growls, but I’m too stunned to hardly care.

“I’m sorry, we can’t use the restroom?”

“Well, of course, ya can!” Sylvester bursts, his loud voice booming as he chortles at me. “Just not after nine o’clock,” he finishes as if what he’s saying is even remotely reasonable.

My mouth opens then closes, but Enzo’s frustration overturns my shock. He pushes me forward and spits, “Cammina.”

I glance over my shoulder at him, surprised that he has nothing to say about our restrictions. But then I snap it shut once again when I note his thunderous expression. Enzo may not be vocalizing the words, but his seething glare says it all. He’s not any happier about being confined to the room so strictly than I am.

Swallowing, I glue my teeth shut as Sylvester opens the door, walks in, flips on a small sconce hanging over the head of the bed, and presents the room to us. It’s barren, save for a rickety circular table and two chairs to our right, the wood weathered and splintering. The walls are all gray stone with a single bed shoved sideways in the left corner. A small square window is above it opposite the sconce, the beautiful night sky in perfect view.

Sylvester points toward the right corner of the room. “Right there is yer bucket. You can empty it in the morning,” he instructs, pointing to a white bin that looks like it’s been used before without being properly cleaned.

It takes effort to keep my cheeks from blowing out. There is no fucking way I’m using that. I’d sooner pry that window open, stick my ass out of it, and let nature take over.

Enzo and I keep silent, and the stagnancy in conversation grows awkward. Does he expect us to thank him for the lovely accommodations?

“Breakfast is at seven in the mornin’. You can come down then. After that, I’m sure we can find something to keep ya occupied.”

“Okay,” I say softly.

“You two have yerselves a good night.”

With that, he turns and hobbles out of the room, gently shutting the door behind him.

Right when I go to open my mouth, curious how he’d even know if we use the bathroom, I hear a soft click.

My teeth snap shut, and mine and Enzo’s gazes collide, both full of surprise.

“Did he…?”

Enzo is already charging toward the door and turning the doorknob. But it sticks.

“He fucking locked us in here,” he spits, jiggling the knob again with no luck. “Stronzo.”

A slimy feeling crawls down my spine and wraps around each bone until I’m encased in a deep, insidious feeling.

“Why does it feel like being imprisoned?” I ask aloud, mumbling the words as I wrap my arms tightly around myself.

“Because it fucking is,” he snarls, his accent strengthening with his anger. He slams his hand against the door before storming toward the bed.

His expression is enraged yet calculating as he sits on the edge of the bed, elbows on his spread knees and fingers linked. He stares at the wooden door, likely deciding when the best time would be to bust it open.

“Don’t do anything crazy,” I tell him. “We literally have nowhere else to go.”

He turns his blazing eyes to me, but again, I refuse to crumble beneath his fire.

“You’re right, we don’t have anywhere else to go. But I’m not the weaker man out of the two of us.”

My eyes bug from my head. “You have the audacity to punish me for my crimes, and here you are, planning to rob an old man of his home.”

The muscle in his jaw pulses, and he only glares as a response.

“Obviously, this situation is really fucked up, but it is your fault we got caught up in that storm to begin with. Don’t punish everyone else for your fucking mistake, Enzo.”

He stands abruptly and charges toward me. I blanch, stumbling back until I’m flattened against the door. His palms slam against the wood on either side of my head, consuming me in a raging storm as violent as the one that brought us to this place.

“You can steal an entire identity, but breaking out of a room is too far for you, baby? Are there any other unforgivable morals you want to share, or is it only okay when you’re the one ruining lives?”

Ouch.

“Be better than me, Enzo,” I bite out.

He chuckles without humor. “Not very difficult to do.”

I frown, his words like a sharp hook digging into my chest.

“You can hate me, but don’t put us in an even worse situation than you already have,” I respond finally, my voice hushed yet firm. “He’s opening his home to us, so it’s only fair we respect him.”

There’s only a minuscule amount of space between us, and it’s filled with crackling tension. He clenches his jaw but turns away, and it feels like he’s ripped himself out of a force field, blanketing us.

I inhale deeply, finally able to breathe, like my body had powered down and the on switch has been flipped again.

He prowls the room like a caged animal, his shoulders nearly hiked up to his ears.

Limbs shaking, I take the opportunity to switch out of my sandy clothes while he’s distracted.

Picking up the questionably clean clothes Sylvester gave me, I wrinkle my nose at the stale, musty smell emanating from the t-shirt and sweats, but it’s better than sleeping in salt-dried clothes covered in sand.

I switch out my attire with his, and the entire time, I attempt to keep myself covered as much as possible as if Enzo hasn’t seen me naked and spread open in ways that Jesus will surely crucify me for later. Though he’s now staring out the window, arms crossed, and brooding.

When I’m finished, I make sure to tuck my belongings in a small pile, already planning on washing them tomorrow. Surprisingly, his credit card survived the storm and is still lodged in the back pocket of my cutoff shorts. I plan to hide it under the mattress later when he’s not looking, but for now, I keep it rolled up between my clothing.

My selfish side and my moralistic side are clashing, both relieved and disappointed. Worse yet, I’m partly disappointed because the ocean didn’t take matters out of my hands and rid me of it, granting me an easy break from it.

“I’m taking the bed,” I announce after I’m done, forcing a grin and pouncing on the lumpy mattress.

“Absolutely not,” he snaps, his head whipping toward me.

“I am not sleeping on the floor,” I argue.

He thins his eyes. “You think I will?”

I cross my arms. “You’re seriously not going to be a gentleman?”

“That would imply there’s a lady in the room, and all I see is a fucking leech.”

My mouth falls, and it feels like he just drop-kicked me in the gut. That hurt, so I get angry.

“Fuck you,” I spit.

I fucking hate him.

“Already did, and it was the worst mistake of my life,” he retorts.

He gives me his back, undressing completely, and showing me his bare ass like he didn’t just stick a hot poker in my chest. It’s a great ass, but even that can’t distract me from the pain radiating beneath my rib cage.

The clothes are just as ill-fitting on him, and it’s safe to say we’ll both be reverting to our own as soon as they’re clean.

I’m surprised when he gets in the bed beside me. I didn’t exactly expect him to be virtuous, but I also didn’t expect him to willingly sleep next to me, either. But I’m stubborn and refuse to sleep on a dusty wooden floor that will give me arthritis within a single night.

Swallowing, I make another weak attempt, “I kick in my sleep. My foot might accidentally lodge itself up your ass.”

He arches a brow. “And if that happens, I will do so much worse, bella ladra.”

Tension simmers in the air between us, and if it weren’t for the lack of smoke, I’d think this place was on fire. It’s hot, and I can’t fucking breathe with him next to me.

“What does that even mean?” When he doesn’t immediately answer, I clarify, “Bella ladra. What does that mean?”

Bella is familiar, and I’m almost positive it means beautiful. And that alone is like sticking a blender in my already twisted headspace. But I don’t know what ladra means, or if it means something different with those two words together.

“It doesn’t matter. I’m tired. It’s been a long day, so either move to the floor or go to fucking sleep.”

Furrowing my brow, I plaster myself against the wall and tuck my legs under the threadbare navy-blue blanket.

I really don’t want to sleep next to him. Still, my stubbornness persists. And apparently, so does his.

Bastard.

He gets under the blanket and immediately rolls away, giving me his back again. Even though I have no interest in him pointing his face in my direction, his iciness accompanies the tension, turning my muscles into blocks of ice.

Whatever.

Getting comfortable—or attempting to—I close my eyes, praying that when I awake, I’ll be anywhere but here.

Something heavy smacks into the side of my head, knocking me out of the nightmare I was having and thrusting me into another.

I’m instantly reminded that I’m trapped on a near-abandoned island with two strangers. One of them hates me, and is currently deep in the clutches of a brain demon. That’s what my mom used to call nightmares when I was young, and I haven’t been able to think of them any other way.

I sit up, trying to figure out the best way to wake him, when a disturbing noise distracts me.

There’s something right outside our door.

An eerie feeling cascades over me when the sound becomes more apparent. Chains. The clanging of metal chains, and them dragging slowly across the wooden floor. It reminds me of the sound of a dangerous prison inmate pacing back and forth.

My brow pinches, and uneasiness soaks the stale air. Whatever is outside feels sinister, its malevolence bleeding through the cracks in the door and reaching toward me, daring me to take its hand.

I inhale sharply, holding my breath as the dragging chains slowly fade. Just as I begin to relax, another heavy limb whips in my direction.

I yelp, just barely dodging the blow. From the flying limbs to the terrifying sound, my heart is pounding against my chest.

A low moan is building in the base of Enzo’s throat. It’s hard to see much, but the moonlight cutting through the window accentuates the pained look on his face.

“Enzo,” I call. My voice wobbles, still shaken by the creepy prisoner in the hallway.

He groans again, but I don’t dare touch him. I know enough about nightmares to know how easy it is to go into attack mode when you’re convinced that you’re still in the middle of it.

He thrashes his head to the side, imprisoned by his own mind.

“Enzo,” I call again, louder this time. When he still doesn’t wake, I gather enough bravery to nudge him.

I don’t remember him having nightmares the night I stayed with him, but to be fair, by the time we actually went to bed, we were both exhausted and knocked out cold. Even my demons remained in the darkness.

Still, his dreams keep him trapped. Instead of risking getting clobbered, I slip my hand into his and thread our fingers together.

I don’t know what I’m doing or why I’m doing it, but I can’t seem to convince myself to let go. Especially as his pumping chest slowly calms and his twisted features begin to gradually relax.

As his anxiety eases, mine heightens. The reality of my situation is sinking in now that I’m left alone with my thoughts.

Up until this moment, I was able to distract myself from what was happening, never allowing myself to dwell on the storm and how fucking traumatizing it was. How disorienting it was to wake in the middle of the ocean, the sun quickly setting, and Enzo floating nearby, head bleeding and knocked unconscious. I hadn’t let myself think about how he had just taunted sharks with my bloody lip, and seeing his injuries sent me into a tailspin, convinced the sharks were going to come back, intent on getting the meal they were previously denied.

He doesn’t know the terror that was coursing through my system as I swam to him instead of away from him, scared for my own life yet only thinking of his.

I’ll never tell him how relieved I was when I checked his pulse and felt how strong it was. Or how I immediately burst into tears when I saw a bright light in the distance, nor about how I swam the both of us there, only a piece of wood to keep us afloat. How exhausting it was. How many times I almost gave up, his weight too much for me, but my determination heavier. How much I cried. And how I refused to let him go.

How my heart cracked when he woke and looked so disappointed that I was alive.

Tears well in my eyes, and my chest tightens. The cracks yawn until a crater forms. A sob escapes, and I slap my free hand over my mouth, quickly looking to Enzo to make sure he’s still asleep. But once my stare lands on him, I can’t take my eyes away. His image blurs as rivers continue to fall down my cheeks.

For the first time in six years, I have nowhere to run. I’m well and truly trapped. The more this new reality sets in, the more the panic begins to take over.

God, what would Kev say now?

You’re smarter than this, pipsqueak, and now look at what you’ve done. I told you men were bad for you. That’s why you only need me.

I squeeze Enzo’s hand harder, now seeking comfort from the man with a frosted heart rather than giving it. He’s the last person I should be seeking anything from. But as much as I hate him for getting us into this situation—something that could’ve been avoided if he had only looked at the forecast—I hate myself more. Because at the end of the day, none of this would’ve happened if I wasn’t such a shit person and left him alone.

We’re in a terrible situation, but even though Sylvester makes my skin crawl, it’s better than being out in that cold, lonely ocean. It’s better than being dead.

At least, I think it is.

Enzo’s hand flexes, so I quickly pull from his grip before he catches me. Frantically wiping the tears from my cheeks, I manage to gather myself right as his eyes open.

“What are you doing?” he asks, voice raspy and causing my lower stomach to clench. Even half asleep, his tone is cold and hard, yet the most enticing sound I’ve ever heard.

Clearing my throat, I clip, “Couldn’t sleep.”

“You’re crying,” he observes.

“I’m not,” I lie.

He’s quiet for a beat, the silence arctic.

“I’m sure you’ve never had to be strong before, Sawyer, but now is the time to learn.”

Then, he turns over, and I close my eyes, gathering the strength I so greatly lack and holding the tears in while the cracks in my chest deepen.