Greg cleared his throat. “Thirsty?”

“Okay.”

We returned to the kitchen. Dishes crowded the sink, the countertop could use a scrubbing. Greg made a disparaging sound in the back of his throat, so I was guessing the roommates made the mess. He left it, however, opening the vintage fridge to retrieve one Gatorade and one Diet Coke. He handed me the Diet Coke, opened the Gatorade for himself.

“Got any rum?” I joked, taking the first cold sip.

He regarded me for a second, then reached above the fridge and pulled down a bottle of Captain Morgan. He handed it to me, like a dare. How badly did I want to self-destruct?

After a minute, I handed the bottle back, untouched. He replaced it on top of the fridge. I finished my Coke. He finished his Gatorade. Then we were back to our staring contest.

“I’ll take the couch,” he said. “You can have the bedroom. AC should’ve cooled it by now. I’ll get you some clean sheets.”

“Brought me all the way here to sleep alone?” I asked.

He replied calmly, “I’m not your father, Danielle. I won’t fuck you.”

I hit him. Hard, before either of us expected it. He took the blow squarely in the jaw. I heard my knuckles crack. His head, on the other hand, barely wavered. So I hit him again, this time in the hard plank of his stomach. Not so much as an oomph, the fit bastard.

I went to town, slapping at him, pummeling desperately. I whacked his sides, his chest, his shoulders. I hit and hit and hit. And he stood there, as if he were a marble statue and I were a feral pigeon flapping around his feet.

“I hate you, I hate you, I hate you!” I heard myself scream.

I brought up my knee, going for the money shot. At the last second, he blocked the jab. Then his hands captured my wrists, and suddenly he had me backed up against the far wall. Now I was the one on the defensive, my small frame pinned by his larger build.

He leaned down, face so close I could count the beads of sweat dotting his upper lip. His eyes were a deep dark brown. Chocolate, with a ring of gold in the middle.

He was going to kiss me. In my agitated state, I couldn’t decide if I would kiss him back, or bite him.

“I won’t fuck you,” he said again.

“Bastard!”

“When I let you go, you’ll stop hitting me. You’ll go down the hall, get into bed, and get some goddamn sleep. Do you understand?”

“Asshole!”

“Feel better yet?”

I growled at him. He still didn’t release my wrists. Then, abruptly, our bodies so close together, I felt the hard length of him against my hip. He wanted me. It gave me a sense of power I hadn’t had in days. I moved against him, slightly dipped and swayed.

The gold ring around his pupils contracted. Another bead of sweat appeared on his upper lip.

I raised my right leg, hooking it around his hips and jerking his pelvis deeper into mine. I decided that fucking Gym Coach Greg might be the best way ever of escaping from my own mind.

His head lowered, his lips hovering just above mine. I worked my hips again, until I could feel his erection right where I wanted it. I started rubbing, slowly, lightly, picking up speed and pressure as I went along.

He was panting. So was I. Maybe we wouldn’t move. Maybe we’d dry hump right here in the kitchen. After that, I’d take some rum. I’d chug it before walking out of this goddamn apartment and going home alone.

Then, God help me, I saw Lucy again, her small body hanging from the ceiling, and I broke. Tears welled up. I wanted to cry. I needed to cry. But it wouldn’t be enough. Couldn’t be enough. My mother, Natalie, Johnny. Lucy.

I hit Greg again. Weak, this time. Weary. Then I collapsed into the support pillar of his body, my face buried in the salty curve of his neck.

Greg scooped me up. He carried me down the hall. He tucked me into bed.

“Sleep.”

He closed the door. I was pitched into darkness, where I could once again smell cordite and blood. Except this time, I was the one holding the gun, standing beside my mother’s bed.

“You said you’d help me. You said you’d make him stop.”

“Danielle…”

“You said you believed me.”

“Danielle-”

The front door slamming shut. My father’s drunken voice booming up the stairs, “Honey, I’m home!”

Me raising the gun.

“Danielle!”

Cordite and blood. Singing and screaming. Love and hate.

The story of my life.

My eyes snapped open.

I lay on Greg’s mattress, curled up in the cool darkness, and didn’t sleep again.

Phone was ringing. The sound came from the living room and it finally roused me from my post-weeping lethargy. I rolled off the mattress, tested out my legs, and decided they’d hold.

I opened the bedroom door, hearing Greg’s deep baritone in the living room.

“Yeah, I can come in. What time does the kid arrive? What are the protocols?”

There was silence as he listened to the answers. He was talking to Karen. A new child was arriving at the unit and, for some reason, Karen wanted Greg there for the show.

I walked into the living room, waited for him to see me. His dark hair was damp from a recent shower; he was wearing a navy blue towel around his waist and nothing else. I stared at his deeply tanned torso, ridged with muscle, and my mouth went dry.

I retreated to the single bathroom, where I splashed cold water on my face and tried to regain my bearings. Greg was Greg. Greg had always been Greg.

But I’d never realized before what Greg looked like naked.

I took another minute, then opened the bathroom door to find Greg in the hallway. He’d changed into gym shorts and a white polo shirt. It made it easier for both of us.

“That was Karen,” he announced. “Listen, I gotta go to work. You can stay if you’d like. My roommates probably won’t return until late.”

“What time is it?”

“Four p.m.”

I frowned, surprised by the time. Perhaps I’d dozed off after all.

“What’s up?” I asked.

“New arrival,” he said, already walking down the hall to retrieve his gym bag. I trailed after him.

“Why you?”

“Kid has a history of violence. Karen would feel better with me there.”

“What’d he do?”

“Stabbed his mother.”

“When?”

“Sounds like this morning.”

“Mother okay?”

“Don’t know.”

“How old’s the kid?”

“Eight. Currently catatonic, according to the ER docs. Most likely shock.”

“And once that wears off…” I agreed. The panic would set in, and the explosive child would explode.

“Looks like it’ll be a night.” Greg slipped on a pair of nylon workout pants over his shorts. He slung his bag over his shoulder and, that quickly, he was good to go.

I stared at him. He stared at me. A faint bruise marred the line of his jaw. I took a step forward without thinking. I traced the bruise lightly with my fingertips, then, standing on my tiptoes, I gently kissed the mark I’d left on his skin.

“I’m sorry,” I said honestly.

“Danielle…” he said thickly.

“What?”

“It’s not always about you. Just remember that, okay? It’s not always about you.”

“Okay.”

I kissed his jaw again. I inhaled the fragrance of his freshly showered skin, then I stepped back. He went to work.

I had other business to tend to.