It Was So Dark Down There

It Was So Dark Down There
Rachael

The 80 proof Rumple Minze burned going down, sharp enough to make me cough, but I kept taking the shots anyway. The bar’s vinyl seats stuck to the back of my thighs, the jukebox was on its third round of old country songs, and Roman Hanshaw sat next to me like he belonged there, quiet, steady, watching me pour another.
“You’re pacing like you’re in a race,” he murmured, low enough that only I could hear.
“Not pacing,” I shot back, slurring just a little. I’m trying to burn out the cellar memories that assaulted me when we started talking about dragging victims.
The screams came first, desperate, echoing in a dark space that smelled of dirt and mildew. I squeezed my eyes shut, but they didn’t go away. I could still feel the cold pressing into my bones, the rough stone under my bare feet, the way the shadows stretched too long in the weak light.
I can’t shake them.
Yet.

I heard myself laugh, sharp and humorless.
I down another shot, it mixes with its friend Tramadol that is already buzzing my system and pushes me past the point of lightly buzzed.

I’m drunk.

The glass slid back across the counter before I even realized I’d emptied it. The bartender gave me a look...half pity, half annoyance, but I just tapped the rim again, insisting.
“Another,” I muttered, my words blurring at the edges. “You’re embarrassing me,” I said, pointing the rim of my glass at him. “One drink? What are you, twelve?”
His mouth curved, maddeningly calm. “Somebody has to drive you home.”
“I can drive myself,” I muttered. My words slurred together, not quite sharp enough to cut the lie.

He leaned forward, close enough I could smell his cologne over the fryer grease and spilled beer. “Not a chance, Sinclair. You’re three steps from face-planting.” He lifted a hand at the bartender. “Cheese balls. Extra basket.”
I groaned, smacking my forehead onto the bar. “What am I, a child?”
“No, I don’t think you’re a child...I think you’ve blacked out,” he said, with a soft laugh. “You’re drunk on an empty stomach too,” he said, not unkindly. “That’s a bad combination.”
I snorted and waved my hand like I was batting off a mosquito. “You don’t know my stomach.”
“True,” he said smoothly, “but I’ve got a hunch.”
The bartender set another drink down, but the plate of fried orange cheese balls followed a minute later, sizzling and greasy. The smell alone made my stomach growl even though I didn’t want to admit it. I popped one in my mouth, burning the roof of my tongue.

Roman’s mouth tilted into the faintest smirk. “Told you.”
“You think you’ve got me figured out? You don’t.” I try to muster a scowl, but I’m half hunched over, shoveling food into my mouth like a heathen.
His gaze was steady, annoyingly patient. “Then tell me something I don’t know.”
I squinted at him. “Like what?”
“Anything. Start small. Favorite color. First pet. First time you...” He caught himself, smirking like the tease he was. “No, never mind. You’d swing at me.”
I leaned in, propping my chin on my hand. “You want to know me, Agent Hanshaw?”
“Yes,” he said simply, and it rattled something in me.

A voice slid in behind me, rough with beer and cigarettes. “You’ve got pretty hair. You want to know my name...pretty hair?” I didn’t even look. Local. Male. Too close. Slurring words and hiccuping. He’s just as trashed as I am.
Roman straightened beside me. “She’s fine, don’t touch her.”
The guy leaned over my shoulder, breath sour. “Buy you a shot?” He jerked a thumb at Roman. “Or are you too good for me?”
I barked out a laugh, wobbling on the stool. “Jealous?”
Roman’s voice dropped so low it vibrated through me. “Back off.”
The guy blinked, then snorted, but the sharpness in Roman’s eyes made him retreat without another word.

“You scared him off,” I said, swaying. “What if I wanted a free shot?”
“You’ve had enough,” Roman said.
“Bossy.” My tongue felt heavy, like it belonged to someone else. “Don’t like bossy men.”
“You like being alive, though,” he said. His hand brushed the small of my back when I swayed too far, steadying me before I fell.
“I like feeling alive. I feel alive now!” I exclaim as I fall half off my stool, digging around in my purse, praying there is one loose cigarette floating around it.
There isn’t.

I don’t remember paying. One moment I was glaring at the bottom of my empty glass, without a cigarette, the next, Roman’s arm was hooked around my waist, guiding me toward the door.
“Hey, I’m not done,” I protested, stumbling against him.
“You’re done,” he said firmly. “Come on.”

My feet didn’t cooperate. The floor tilted, and the cold air outside slapped me sober for half a second. Then my legs gave out, and he caught me, arms solid around me.
“I can walk,” I muttered against his shoulder.
“Sure, you can.” He shifted, and suddenly I was airborne, cradled against his chest like I weighed nothing.
“Put me down!” I wriggled half-heartedly. The world spun, nausea creeping up, so I pressed my face against his jacket instead. His heartbeat thudded steadily beneath my cheek.

The sidewalk blurred past. My thoughts blurred too, edges breaking loose.
“It was so dark down there,” I whispered before I could stop myself.
Roman’s arms tightened, but his stride never faltered. “What was?”
I blinked, throat dry. “The cellar.” The word slipped out like a secret I hadn’t meant to share.
His voice gentled. “Whose cellar?”
I shook my head, dizzy. “They screamed. All the time. Couldn’t get out.”

Roman’s hand cupped the back of my head like he could shield me from words already spoken. “You’re safe now, Rachael. It’s not real anymore.”
I mumbled against him, tears stinging though I didn’t know why.
I don’t remember him stuffing me in the car. Just the scent of his cologne, how the rise and fall of his chest felt under my cheek.
When I blinked next, I was in my bedroom. The bed caught me in a heavy drop, springs squeaking under my weight.
My arms wouldn’t cooperate when I tried to sit back up. I was too tired, too drunk, everything slow and clumsy. “Easy,” he said, lowering me back against the pillow. His voice wasn’t sharp, wasn’t impatient. Just steady. Like it always was.

My boots felt like anchors. I muttered something about hating them, though it came out garbled. Roman crouched without a word and tugged one off, then the other, careful not to jar me. “Better?” he asked, setting them neatly by the bed.
I nodded, too loose-limbed to do more than mumble. I tried fumbling with my uniform buttons, but Roman jumped in to help with that too, and I let him. I blinked up at him, the room spinning. “You don’t have to… do all this.”

“I know,” he said simply, throwing my shirt to the side and unbuckling my belt. He slowly slides my zipper down and tugs my pants off, throwing them with the shirt. I lay before him in my plain bra and panties, but instead of trying to remove them as well, he pulls the blanket over me, tucking the edge against my shoulder. “But you’re not doing it yourself tonight.”
I clutched weakly at his sleeve as he tried to straighten. “Don’t go.”

He sat on the mattress, close enough that the dip rolled me toward him. His hand brushed my hair away from my cheek, and I swear I saw a flicker of heat in his eyes before it changed to tenderness.
“I’m not going anywhere until you’re asleep,” he said, voice steady as a promise.
I let my head sink into the pillow, too far gone to care if I start drooling in front of him. The scent of his cologne wraps around me. Comforting....safe.
My lips moved before my brain caught up. “It was so dark down there…”
His hand stilled for the briefest moment, then kept combing lightly through my hair. “Shh. You’re safe now, Rachael. Just sleep.”