Shadows In the Sheets

Shadows In the Sheets
Rachael

I flung my door open without a care, heading straight toward the cupboard and pulling down a bottle. Roman follows behind me, and judging by the lack of sound of his moving, he is standing somewhere behind me, watching me drink from the bottle.
“I’m not sure liquor is one of the approved drinks to wash medications down with.” Roman’s bag flops down to the floor next to the couch.
I hate that I let him in so easily.
I hate that I want to let him in further.
I hate that I will now have a witness to my spirals.

I wipe my mouth with the back of my hand and drag my bottle across the counter, taking it to my room and closing the door behind me. I take another swig before stripping my uniform off and tossing it in the laundry pile that is growing in height daily.
I jump in the shower and quickly wash the stench of the rotting Jane Doe off of me.
I scrub until my skin starts to redden, trying to scrub away the memories haunting me that I can feel simmering just below the surface, threatening to send me into a full panic attack.
I quickly exit and dry off, piling my hair in a towel while I pick out jeans and a hooded sweatshirt. My hair gets thrown on top of my hair in a messy bun as I grab the bottle, taking another big chug and enjoying the burn it leaves behind.
I exited my room to find Roman still standing in the living room as if he was waiting for me this whole time. The increased dose of my relaxant is working and I’m starting to feel less like I want to crawl in a hole, hyperventilate, and die.

His voice cut through the quiet. “You sure that’s smart?”
My jaw clenched. “It’s my house. My rules.”
“I didn’t say otherwise.” He set the laptop aside, gaze settling on me. Calm. Unruffled. “But if you’re set on drinking, you don’t get to go out alone. I’ll take you.”
I snorted. “You’ll take me? What, like a date?”
“Like a babysitter,” he said evenly. “Pick your word.”
Something in his steady voice made me falter. I hated that. Hated the way his calm chipped at my stubbornness. But the idea of sitting in this house with the walls closing in, photos staring, Travis’s text still burning in my pocket, I needed noise. I needed a distraction.
“Fine,” I muttered. “Let’s go.”

The vinyl seats clung to my thighs as I slid into the booth. The place hummed with Friday noise—country music whining from the jukebox, glasses clinking, low laughter that carried tension under it.
Roman ordered before I could, his voice smooth over the din. “Two whiskeys. And cheese balls.”
I shot him a look. “Cheese balls?”
“You’re drinking on an empty stomach again.” His tone left no room for argument. “You’ll thank me later.”

The whiskey burned sweet down my throat, a fire racing into my veins. The second came faster than I expected, then a third. Roman kept pace, but slower, sipping instead of slamming. Always controlled. Always measured.
“You watch me too much,” I slurred at one point, leaning across the sticky table.
He smiled, a flash of teeth. “You’re hard not to watch.”
Heat flared in my cheeks. I shoved it down with another swallow.

A man at the table in the middle of the bar leaned over, voice loud enough to cut through the music. “Hey, Sinclair! That true? Another girl found out in the park?”
My spine stiffened. Every eye in the place seemed to tilt toward me.
Roman was up before I could spit fire, hand braced casually on the table as he said, “Ongoing investigation. No more questions.” His voice wasn’t raised, but it carried a weight that pressed the man back into his seat.

I stared into my glass, the burn suddenly too sharp. My ears rang.
Roman slid back into the booth. “Ignore them.”
“Easy for you to say, they aren’t staring at you.”
His hand brushed mine, light but solid. “If I were them, I’d stare too.” Roman winks as I roll my eyes, but internally, I find myself liking it.

By the time the cheese balls arrived, my head was swimming. I popped one into my mouth, burning my tongue. Roman smirked, leaning close.
“You eat like you drink. Too fast.”
“Maybe I just like it hot,” I shot back, surprising myself.
His grin widened. “Careful. I’ll start to think you mean that.”
The air between us tightened. I swallowed, heart hammering, and reached for another drink instead of answering.
“Is that all it takes to stop your combacks? You can’t handle a little flirting, Sinclair?”
“You tell me, Agent Hanshaw. Is it hard for you to maintain your professional boundaries?” I say as I put my empty beer bottle down, harder than I anticipated.

I’m drunk.

“No harder than it is for you to forget about me giving you your first orgasm. Piece of cake, right, Rachael?” Roman grins, popping another cheese ball into his mouth as I squeeze my thighs together. “I think you need some new things to replace your drinking and drug use. Which is more common than you think with people like us.”

I didn’t bother telling him that my drinking and drug use have nothing to do with our line of work, and instead, my upbringing.

“What should I replace it with, you?” I laugh as I pop another cheese ball in. My head is starting to swim, and I find it harder to keep my head upright.
I’m too drunk.

“You could, but not until you are sober. When I make you cry the first time, I want it to be with need.”
“Will there be another reason you would make me cry?” I ask, throwing my last beer back.
“Quite possibly. I am a man. I think I heard we do everything wrong and are never right.” That makes me laugh.
“I need another drink,” I say, enjoying banging my head to the radio station playing within it.
“You need to go home.”
“I’m not leaving. I can drink more.”
“You’re done,” he said firmly.
I shook my head, swaying. “I’m not done. I never get to be done.”

He sighed, and then his arms were under me, lifting me like I weighed nothing. Gasps rippled from the bar’s open door as he carried me past the locals, their stares cutting.
“Put me down,” I mumbled, but my arms looped around his neck anyway, clinging.
“Not a chance,” he said, voice gentler than his words.

He carries me all the way into the house and sets me down. I stumble into my bedroom, fumbling with the hem of my shirt. The liquor made me reckless, bold, and the walls felt too hot against my skin. I stripped everything off piece by piece, shirt, bra, jeans, until I was bare, swaying in the lamplight.
Roman froze in the doorway. His eyes flicked over me before he dragged his hand down his face with a sharp breath.
“Damn, Sinclair,” he muttered, half exasperated, half something else. “You’re trying to kill me.”
My laugh came out broken. “What, never seen a naked woman before?”

His jaw clenched, and for the first time, I saw him falter. Then he crossed the room, pulled a T-shirt from his bag, and dropped it over my head in one swift motion. His voice was low, steady, but I caught the rough edge under it.
“You’re beautiful, but you’re also drunk. So, shirt on. Now open your mouth.”

I blinked as he guided me into the bathroom, one hand steady at my hip, the other holding a toothbrush like I was some reckless kid. He brushed for me when my arms wouldn’t cooperate, his knuckles brushing my lips, his scent, clean cologne, drowning out the taste of whiskey.
Back in bed, he tucked the blanket high, the way he always did, like sealing me against the world.

“Stay,” I whispered, fingers curling into his wrist.

He hesitated, then pulled his slacks off and unbuttoned his shirt, climbing over me into my bed. “Are you going to keep your socks on? You sleep with slocks on you, heathen.”
Roman laughs, lying behind me. Not touching, but extremely close. “They’re called socks, you lush and no, I don’t normally sleep with my slocks on and they will forever be known as slocks."

My head is spinning, and I wiggle to the side of my bed and put one foot down on the floor. “What are you doing?” I hear the sheets rustle, feeling his weight shift. He must have followed me over.
“My head is spinning. If you put your foot on the ground, you won’t throw up.”
“Does that really work?”
“You'd better hope so.” I slur, rolling to my back and closing my eyes. His finger twitches slightly, tapping the back of my hand, which is a breath away from his own.

The words slipped out before I could stop them. “He killed them. All of them. In front of me.”
Roman went still. His voice was careful, like stepping across glass. “Why?”

My eyes remained closed. “Because my mom cheated. Because she used. Because she broke his heart.”
My throat burned. Roman didn’t ask who or what. He just smoothed the blanket, the weight of his hand grounding me.
“You don’t have to carry that alone,” he said softly.
But I already knew I would.