Read Online No Shelter by Robert Swartwood - Free Book Online Page A
Authors: Robert Swartwood
Tags: Thrillers, Crime, Espionage, Mystery; Thriller & Suspense, Conspiracies, Terrorism, Thrillers & Suspense, Spies & Politics, Vigilante Justice, Assassinations, Pulp
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murmur this to him as Nova gets into the front of the Escalade, puts it in gear, spins the tires in the dirt as he does a wild one-eighty and sends us back down the drive toward the road. I hold Scooter close, Scooter who keeps wheezing and coughing up blood, and I tell him that everything will be okay, it will be okay, it will be okay, until at some point he stops wheezing and stops coughing up blood and the piece of bubblegum he was chewing falls from his lips to the floor.
Part II
Work Is Work
14
At 5:45 AM my alarm goes off. I’m already awake. I’ve been awake, just lying there on my bed, staring up at the ceiling or at the corners of my room or sometimes, when I felt courageous enough, at Josh sleeping beside me.
He snores, a heavy, steady breathing. Like a hiccup, I wait for him to stop, but somehow find relief after each throaty breath. Despite the sixty-eight degrees I have the thermostat set at, he’s been sweating throughout the night. I can smell him—an oddly pleasant scent. His still presence gives me a disturbing comfort.
I could have turned off the alarm but I let it buzz anyway, for Josh’s sake. He stirs, mumbles something in his sleep, and turns over on his side.
I turn the alarm off.
I watch Josh for a little while more, this man who is a boy and a friend but who isn’t my boyfriend. I’ve never asked him to stay the night—at least not the entire night—and it’s strange to have him in my bed this morning, snoring lightly, his body odor absorbing into my sheets.
The only man I’ve ever let sleep in my bed is Zane.
But no, I can’t think of Zane in the present tense. When I think of Zane it always has to be in the past tense, because Zane is gone, has been gone for two years now, never to return, having not been able to jump back from Death’s Door like I had managed all those times before. Zane my friend, my lover, someone who I actually found myself caring about, someone who I envisioned spending the rest of my life with.
I get out of bed, walk through my apartment to the kitchen. I turn on the coffee machine, open the fridge to look at what’s inside. Not much besides V8 and leftovers and milk that expired yesterday.
I shut the door, turn back around and look at my cluttered kitchen as if for the first time—dirty dishes in the sink, newspapers stacked on the table, nearly empty cereal and cracker boxes littering the counters—and my gaze falls on the cork board posted on the wall. Right in the corner amid pictures and Post-Its of scribbled notes, held in place by a sky blue tack, is a Bazooka Joe comic.
Without even looking I know it’s number twenty out of fifty, Scooter’s all-time favorite comic.
But no, I can’t think of Scooter in the present tense anymore either, and it’s this realization—what I’ve been trying to deal with for the past twenty-four hours—that finally brings it all home.
My vision starts to blur as one tear after another fills my eyes. Then all of a sudden comes a deluge, and my shoulders hitch, my legs go weak, and before I know it I’m on the ground, holding my side as I sob.
I sob for Scooter and I sob for Zane and I sob for Karen and I sob for Rosalina, wherever she is now. It’s been almost two years since I’ve cried and it feels strange at first, like I’m not doing it right, always having forced the tears back, no matter what, always telling myself I was strong enough to keep them away, that a woman like me shouldn’t cry, cannot cry, because crying shows weakness, vulnerability, helplessness.
It’s Scooter I have in my mind, the guy forever chomping his Bazooka Joe, but quite suddenly Scooter’s face fades and becomes Zane’s face. Zane who taught me how to love and care and understand the world, who made me feel like I had an actual purpose.
No, stop it. I can’t think of Zane. I can’t think of Scooter. I can’t think of any
Part II
Work Is Work
14
At 5:45 AM my alarm goes off. I’m already awake. I’ve been awake, just lying there on my bed, staring up at the ceiling or at the corners of my room or sometimes, when I felt courageous enough, at Josh sleeping beside me.
He snores, a heavy, steady breathing. Like a hiccup, I wait for him to stop, but somehow find relief after each throaty breath. Despite the sixty-eight degrees I have the thermostat set at, he’s been sweating throughout the night. I can smell him—an oddly pleasant scent. His still presence gives me a disturbing comfort.
I could have turned off the alarm but I let it buzz anyway, for Josh’s sake. He stirs, mumbles something in his sleep, and turns over on his side.
I turn the alarm off.
I watch Josh for a little while more, this man who is a boy and a friend but who isn’t my boyfriend. I’ve never asked him to stay the night—at least not the entire night—and it’s strange to have him in my bed this morning, snoring lightly, his body odor absorbing into my sheets.
The only man I’ve ever let sleep in my bed is Zane.
But no, I can’t think of Zane in the present tense. When I think of Zane it always has to be in the past tense, because Zane is gone, has been gone for two years now, never to return, having not been able to jump back from Death’s Door like I had managed all those times before. Zane my friend, my lover, someone who I actually found myself caring about, someone who I envisioned spending the rest of my life with.
I get out of bed, walk through my apartment to the kitchen. I turn on the coffee machine, open the fridge to look at what’s inside. Not much besides V8 and leftovers and milk that expired yesterday.
I shut the door, turn back around and look at my cluttered kitchen as if for the first time—dirty dishes in the sink, newspapers stacked on the table, nearly empty cereal and cracker boxes littering the counters—and my gaze falls on the cork board posted on the wall. Right in the corner amid pictures and Post-Its of scribbled notes, held in place by a sky blue tack, is a Bazooka Joe comic.
Without even looking I know it’s number twenty out of fifty, Scooter’s all-time favorite comic.
But no, I can’t think of Scooter in the present tense anymore either, and it’s this realization—what I’ve been trying to deal with for the past twenty-four hours—that finally brings it all home.
My vision starts to blur as one tear after another fills my eyes. Then all of a sudden comes a deluge, and my shoulders hitch, my legs go weak, and before I know it I’m on the ground, holding my side as I sob.
I sob for Scooter and I sob for Zane and I sob for Karen and I sob for Rosalina, wherever she is now. It’s been almost two years since I’ve cried and it feels strange at first, like I’m not doing it right, always having forced the tears back, no matter what, always telling myself I was strong enough to keep them away, that a woman like me shouldn’t cry, cannot cry, because crying shows weakness, vulnerability, helplessness.
It’s Scooter I have in my mind, the guy forever chomping his Bazooka Joe, but quite suddenly Scooter’s face fades and becomes Zane’s face. Zane who taught me how to love and care and understand the world, who made me feel like I had an actual purpose.
No, stop it. I can’t think of Zane. I can’t think of Scooter. I can’t think of any
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