“Do you have to go into work?” It strikes me that it’s noon on a weekday. I can’t claim to know a lot about what pastors do, but surely they have an office of some sort that they’re expected to be at?

“I called them while you were sleeping to let them know I wouldn’t be in today.”

“You don’t have to stay here on my account.” Those are my words, but inside I’m secretly glad he is.

“I’ll be fine as long as go in tomorrow. I don’t want you to be alone today.”

I don’t thank him; he told me not to. “I don’t feel like being alone.”

As soon as the words leave my mouth, I realize how they sounded. “I mean, I didn’t, I don’t —”

“It’s okay,” he assures me. “I know what you meant.”

“How uncomfortable is it to be a pastor with a hooker in your home?”

“It would only be uncomfortable if I cared what other people thought. Since I don’t, I’m perfectly fine having an ex-hooker in my house.”

I’m sure there are unwritten rules about a single preacher being alone anywhere with a woman of any age. But maybe not. Hell, what do I know? It’s not like any religious types I’d been around had been paragons.

“I will have to go back to my office tomorrow,” he continues. “Will you be okay here by yourself? Should I leave you the car?”

“I’ll be fine. And, no, don't leave the car. If Mike were to come by looking, it might look suspicious if  your car’s here. Especially if it usually isn’t.”

He holds his head back, thinking about that for a few minutes. “That’s very true. I wonder if he’s been by today?”

My sandwich suddenly lodges in my throat at the thought of Mike being here, maybe looking into one of the windows.

“Damn it, Athena.” He jumps up and puts his hand on my shoulder. “I didn’t say that to scare you. Are you okay? You look so pale.”

I swallow the sandwich and take a long drink of water. “I’m fine.”

But my heart is still pounding and I keep looking toward the windows. Isaiah notices and frowns. He gets up to close them and pull the curtains. “I wish now I had a condo on the second floor.”

Now that there’s no light coming through the windows, the condo is dark.

“So what are we going to do?” I ask. “Sit around here in the dark all day?”

“I have some books if you’d like to read, or we can watch something on TV.”

My ears perk up at the mention of books, and I happily lose myself for next few hours in Isaiah’s small assortment. I don’t regret for a minute the way I left my apartment and old life behind, but I do mourn the loss of my book collection. When I read, I can become anyone.

When you live day after day in despair, you need a diversion, or else you either go insane or kill yourself. I’ve seen both happen, and swore I’d never do either one. Alcohol only makes it worse. I drank heavily my first two years, but one day, one of Mike’s girls went missing. All he said was that she was a drunk and no one wanted her anymore. He made sure he was looking at me when he said it. I stopped drinking that day, and books became my addiction of choice.

It’s funny, in that sad sort of hopeless humor, it was because of books that I turned to drinking in the first place.

After I’d been with Mike for about six months, he finally decides it’s time for me to be on my own. My new place is in a small complex not far from the hotel, and all of Mike’s girls live nearby. I’m the newest, so I get the worst apartment.

My first night, I cry myself to sleep. The entire time, I think about how much I hate myself. Not because of my situation or because it’s a shitty apartment. No, I hate myself because some sick part of me misses Mike.

He stays away for two weeks, and I hate myself even more when my heart pounds because he finally comes by to see me. He doesn’t say anything, doesn’t seem to notice how excited I am to see him. Calmly he steps inside, ignoring me to walk around the couch and glance over everything. His gaze travels to the bookshelf. Whoever was in the apartment before me left her books. I felt like I’d won the lottery when I discovered them.

“I told them to clear out all her things,” he says with a nod toward the paperbacks.

“If it’s okay, Sir, I’d like to keep them.” I beg him silently in my head not to take away the books.

“I should probably have them burned. But, I don’t know.” He is amused and runs a finger along the spines. “A whore who reads Jane Austen might be a bit refreshing.”

“Please.”

His face has lost all signs of amusement when he turns back around. “How badly do you want to keep them, Athena?”

The lessons that stick with you are the ones hardest learned. That day I learned a lesson that would serve me well for the next nine years: don’t feel anything and if you do, don’t let it show. Emotions will be used against you.

I try to tell him it’s okay, I don’t want the books, but he saw my weakness and knows better. For months after that day, I can't think of a book without hearing in my head the slow slide of a man’s zipper and feeling the choking hold of his hands around my throat as he pushes his way into me. I don’t touch a book again for two years. Not until I stop drinking.

Isaiah and I spend the rest of the day in companionable silence. It’s not until it’s dark out that things become uncomfortable.  He approaches me almost sheepishly.

“I’m going to let you have the bed tonight. I’ll sleep out here.” He’s got an armful of bed linens and throws a pillow on the couch.

I look up from the book I’ve been reading. Of course. The sleeping arrangement. I should have anticipated this. “I can’t kick you out of  your bed. I’ll take the couch.”

“I’m not going to let you argue with me. I’m taking the couch. Besides, when I leave for work in the morning, if you’re out here, I’ll wake you up. This way you can sleep.”

I can tell from his expression it’s not worth arguing with him. One thing I’ve learned is that smart people chose their battles. This isn’t a hill I want to die on, so I nod and say, “Thank you.”

“I’m going to go ahead and try to get to sleep.”

That’s my cue to move to the bedroom. I take the book I’m reading and head that way.

“I put a new toothbrush out for you.”

I don’t even have a toothbrush to my name. But instead of dwelling on the negative, I focus on the positive: I have a safe place to sleep. I have food to eat. And I have a friend who will protect me.

I stay up late into the night reading. Old habits are hard to break, and I’m not accustomed to falling asleep until after two in the morning. My eyes finally feel heavy when I hear it. Someone’s yelling.

I’m wide awake now, and my heart races because I can tell it’s Isaiah. I have one thought: Mike has found me. I reach for my phone, but realize I left it at the hotel with Theo, so instead I look around the sparsely decorated bedroom for something — anything  —I can use as a weapon.

There’s another yelp from the living room, and I run to the door and open it just enough for me to peek. It’s dark, and I can’t see anything, but there doesn’t appear to be any sort of struggle going on. Perplexed, I crack the door more.

Isaiah’s having a nightmare.

My hand clutches my chest in relief, but he groans in this sleep and starts to thrash around. I cross the room to him.

“Isaiah?” I touch his shoulder tentatively. “Wake up. You’re having a nightmare.”

“No!”

“Isaiah?”

His eyes snap open, and he grabs my wrist so hard it hurts. I jerk my hand back, but he doesn’t let go.

“Ow, stop.” I yank my arm again. “Isaiah. Let go.”

He blinks. “Athena? What are you doing?”

“Waking you up. You were having a nightmare. Would you let go of my wrist?”

He seems to notice for the first time that he’s holding me, because he lets go immediately. “Sorry.”