Chapter 8
The next morning, I brought George’s breakfast tray to his apartment. He checked its contents through half-open eyes before telling me to set it on the table. It was a failed attempt at emulating his morning banquets, I knew that, so I left it there and went back into the house to have breakfast with Sayer.
“Dr. Hart was very impressed with your work on George’s wound,” he told me as he finished his coffee. “You saved him the bother of stitching.”
“Better for George.”
“Not that he would know. The doctor sedated him heavily. I don’t think he’ll feel a thing for weeks.”
“He’ll be up in no time.”
“Hope so.”
I cleared the table, washed the dishes, kept myself busy with the laundry for a couple of hours, vacuumed the living room rug, watered the plants, and answered the door when someone knocked late in the afternoon. It was Helga and, just as always, she wasn’t happy.
“Since when do you not use your uniform?”
“That lasted only a couple of weeks, I think.”
“I heard about last night, you and George... Aren’t you scared?”
I went to pour some tea for her. I had asked her to wait for it in the study, but no, she had to follow me with her squinting eyes.
“I managed to keep us alive.”
“She did very well,” Sayer’s voice startled us both.
“Tea?” I asked him as I handed Helga a cup.
“Yes, please.”
“You’re walking straighter,” she told him, her face lightening up.
“I feel better.” He glanced at my empty hands. “Aren’t you having tea with us?”
“I have things to do.”
Sayer understood, knowing that lately I was trying to avoid Helga as much as I could. He had noticed how much grief she was giving me and advised me not to be in the same room with her for long periods of time.
“Why do you have to go? Stay,” Helga protested.
“I…”
“Would you be nice enough as to check on George, Scarlett?”
“Yes, Mr. Sayer.” And with that, I was free to go.
He didn’t mean for me to go straight to George’s, however, I decided to pay him a visit to see how he was doing.
“Scarlett!” He was surprised. “Come in.”
He smiled, an actual smile. Maybe Dr. Hart went a little too far with the painkillers.
“How are you feeling today? Do you need anything?”
“I’m good. Come in, sit down,” he welcomed me inside the cold, gray-walled apartment. “I want to talk to you.”
I sat in an armchair, leaving the sofa to him, so he would be comfortable. He had difficulty sitting, not because of the pain but because of the bandages.
“Sure you don’t need anything?”
“Yes, Scarlett, I am. All I wanted to say was…” He took a deep breath, “thank you.”
“No need to. I was just doing my job.”
“No, I do need to. I’ve treated you badly.”
“Don’t say that. You’ve tolerated me quite well.”
“I’ve been unfair, though, not giving you the credit you deserve. You’re good, Scarlett. Sayer is very happy with you.” He noticed how I lowered my eyes. “If he trusts you, why shouldn’t I?”
“You don’t have to, George.”
“Oy, but I want to! You saved my fucking life last night! I reckon those punks didn’t have a chance with you.”
“I still can’t believe I did that.”
He chuckled, grabbing his bandaged side, a hint of pain on his face. “I’d been meaning to ask Sayer for a partner for some time. Didn’t need to. Since you got here and turned from caregiver to, wut? One of us?”
“Helga wanted someone that could both care for Mr. Sayer and help protect him.”
“Cisneros, wasn’t it? The one that recommended you?”
“Yes, Cisneros is a friend of the family. We go way back.”
“Well, if it’s good enough for Sayer, it should be good enough for me.”
“Does this change… anything?”
“No.”
“OK.” I stood up and started for the door.
“One more thing,” he held me by the wrist. “There’s something I want to show you.”
That was a breakthrough. So this did change things.
When he opened the doors of what I thought was a wardrobe I was taken aback by the amount of guns stacked inside. It was a fucking arsenal, Christmas right there in front of my eyes. A candy store of all types of guns, firearms and rifles. I think I even saw a box of grenades.
“George!”
“I want you to have this.” He pulled a machine gun from its place and handed it to me, “Sayer has two under his bed. You should at least have one.”
“I have a rifle under mine.”
“There are never enough guns in this house. How many under your pillow?”
“One.”
“Sayer has one under each.”
“I know, I make his bed every morning.”
“Take this one too.” This time it was an assault rifle. “And if anything happens that requires more firepower, just come straight here and take what you need. My door is always open.”
“What the fuck, George? You don’t lock your door?”
He didn’t answer the question, just deposited a load of ammunition in my hands and walked me to the door.
It wasn’t enough excitement for me to carry this new arsenal up to my room; to see Helga’s face when she saw me with it was the highlight of it all.
“Scarlett!” She was talking to Sayer in the study when I came into view. “Where did you get that?”
“George.”
“Bloody hell! Don’t you think that is too much?”
“Let her be, Helga.” Sayer rolled his eyes, then turned to me, “I’ll meet you later, in the living room.”
I went on to my room before Helga could stop me, yet I could hear her speaking in shrill tones and not getting any answers.
Once in my room I played with the two additions to my small magazine, which could never compare to George’s but was slowly getting there. They weren’t loaded, so I weighed them, posed with them in front of the mirror, pulled the trigger a couple of times, cleaned them, and kissed them before placing them where they would rest until needed.
Over an hour later, when I heard Sayer’s limping steps underneath, I knew he’d be expecting me.
“I see you and George have finally made peace.” He patted the empty side of the couch he was sitting on. “He never shares his guns.”
“He’s grateful for last night.” I sat by his side, not too far, not too close.
“Go on, get comfortable, put up your feet.”
“If I put them up I’ll fall asleep in no time.”
He seemed to like the idea, since he grinned and encouraged me further into getting as comfortable as I could. He kept flipping channels with the TV remote until a French movie came on the screen.
“Do you speak French?” He asked.
“No, do you?”
“Only enough to survive in Paris.”
“Ooh, Paris! Sounds exciting.”
He leaned back, throwing his arm over the back of the couch.
“We could go there someday, take a short vacation.”
I had no idea what to say to that. He was being too nice, incredibly nice, and now his fingers were brushing my shoulder, pressing further until he took hold of my sleeve and pulled me closer. I went stiff. He noticed and stopped on his tracks.
“Would you like something to drink?” I asked.
“Bring something for both of us. I’ll be ordering dinner later.”
I almost sprinted to the kitchen, my hairs standing on end, and I didn’t even know why. Or at least I didn’t want to know, I didn’t want to realize what was happening other than the fact that I was unscrewing the cork off a bottle of wine.
Somehow Ferdinand’s voice ma
de it into my head, protesting. I ignored it and kept going. Sayer took the bottle and the two glasses from my hand, poured the wine and raised his glass.
There was no toast, all we did was nod at each other, clink glasses, and get back to watching the French movie. I was sipping wine and reading subtitles like mad. Not a bad movie; near the end a guy got shot shortly after going up on a stage. He had an affair with a girl young enough to be his daughter and, guess who shot him? The guy she married after the affair. After shooting him dead, the murderer took the stage and proclaimed ‘I killed the beast.’
Sayer stirred and I was suddenly aware that my head was resting on his arm, almost cradled on his shoulder. I pulled myself back, forgetting the glass of wine in my hand.
“Careful,” Sayer’s reflexes kicked in and he took the glass from my clumsy hands.
“Jaysus! I’m sorry. I was dozing off.”
“I’m ordering dinner,” he reached over my head for the phone on the lamp table.
I put my head on one of the couch’s armrests while his voice spoke in the distance about steaks and salads. There was no apparent reason for me to be so tired, although I had done a lot of things that day.
Not long after, something roused me, something brushing against my face. Then a pair of lips were close to mine, kissing me. I yielded to the hands brushing my sides, making their way slowly down to my hips.
I knew the smell. I didn’t have to open my eyes to know it was Armand pulling my body to his. His lips nipped and parted mine, his knee was gently pushing its way between my legs. It was all so quick, we were both so into it. There was no time to think while we pulled each other’s clothes off, while I pushed him to the couch, while I took control, while I set the rhythm. I rode him with such passion, and he... he kept jerking his head backwards, biting his lower lip and using his fingers to pierce my skin.
Then, I could feel it, he was getting there, not able to hold it much longer. One of his hands was touching me while the other rummaged under the cushions. I was so engrossed in our pleasure that I didn’t care. And then, all I saw was the gun barrel right in front of my eyes, pointing at the bridge of my nose, and the fire...
“FUCK!” I woke in such turmoil, the air wasn’t making it to my lungs.
I looked round to find myself alone in the living room. The TV had been turned off, there was a pillow under my head and the blanket that had been covering me was now on the floor.
I sat up, rubbed my eyes, shook my head, and shoved my hand under the cushions. Of course, there it was: a revolver that seemed to have been there for a very long time. I grabbed it and walked towards the light coming from the kitchen.
“Your -whoa!” Sayer had been pouring water into the electric kettle and was startled by me pointing the gun at him. “It’s me. I was about to tell you that your dinner is in the oven.”
“Sorry...” I lowered the gun.
“You looked so peaceful I didn’t dare wake you up. Did you have a nightmare? Is that my couch gun?”
“Yes, and yes, it’s yours. It was under the cushions.”
“How did you know it was there?”
“I just… knew.”
“Want to talk about the nightmare?”
“No, I’d rather not.”
“OK,” he stepped forward, stretching out his hand for me to give him the gun. “Thank you. Now,” he placed it on the counter, “your food is still warm. Shall I get it for you?”
“I’ll get it.”
“No, let me. Sit down,” he pointed at one of the high stools at the end of the counter.
He served me dinner and returned to brewing the tea. I kept replaying the nightmare in my head. It had been so real, I could easily picture this to be the dream: me eating there, with him smiling at me from the other side of the kitchen, was actually the dream after my death.
The Caregiver (Book 1 of The Caregiver Series) Page 11