Pointed Gun

Not always the Bad Guy.

Syncear

AFTER FINALLY making it back to what appeared to be my temporary home, I climbed the stairs with Boston hot on my trail and silence. Neither one of us had spoken a single word since leaving the bat. Images of that man being laid out after upsetting Boston with his obsessive drink-buying still plagued my memory. And to say the least, it was a bit entertaining to watch him go out of his way to keep people out of mine.

Having anyone display the slightest bit of interest in little ole me clearly irritated Boston's soul, and caused him to reveal his rather humanly emotion.

Jealousy.

Nothing to be jealous about. I wasn't his and vice versa.

My dress, my heels, both creating a hurdle for me. Climbing stairs while inhabiting the feel of Boston's heat behind me was something else. At least I knew that if I missed a step or suddenly became a clumsy piece of crap, he would catch me. I hoped he would anyway.

I breathed a sigh. The change was hard. But walking up the stairs with these heels were even harder. Once again, thank you, Blair, for your breathtaking clothing advice.

As I intended to part ways with him at the top of the stairs to rid myself of my outing wear, he took me by the arm, holding me in place for a while. "Where are you going?"

I sighed, expecting nothing more than his questions. "I want to get out of this dress. Is that a crime?"

His jaw tightened. Registering my words as if there was a need for farther analysis. He nodded. "Alright. Don't take long."

I said nothing to acknowledge his request. I'm going to take as long as I need. I said to him in my head.

Yeah, until he used his key to reinstate his rules. You will do as I say when I say it. One rule that you will obey or else. How could I ever forget or else?

I continued back down the hall to the child's room with every thought still compacted in mind. I began my fight for survival there. How unsettling that sounded coming from my lips. My survival. I was still surviving just. . barely. I loosened those bolts, allowing everything else to crumble.

I stepped into the room and shut the door behind me. While Boston was home—and would be until the sun had set and I was tucked into bed,—feeling comfortable changing in the same room with him just wasn't there. I mean, why would it be? We weren't together or anywhere near it. And friends, well, that was questionable.

I knew nothing about him, and apparently, he knew every single follicle of hair in my head by name. A plan they talked about. Disgusted was how I felt. Being watched and tracked for God knows how long flopping the switch of my innocent world down.

I was blinded by his beauty to piece anything of importance together. That was my job. Maybe a promotion wasn't what I deserved after all.

Once more, I had to free myself from my sticky thoughts. Getting undressed and somewhat comfortable was what shined in my eyes. Peeling apart the things that cling to me to replace them with baggier problems, I decided to stay here for a little while longer.

The room held many hidden secrets that for the most part, I found a real interest in. After examining the picture of that family last night, I had reason to suspect that this room belonged to Boston or the other child that accompanied them in the photo. His reaction to me asking gave me an even richer reason to dissolve that theory.