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  An awkward, foul silence follows.

  His eyes soften a little. “You’re shivering.” Pointing to my sofa, he says, “Sit.”

  Lifting my hands, I see that I am shivering.

  This man – Twitch – he does something to me.

  Shuffling over to my sofa, I sit and cover myself with a blanket. I’m surprised when he follows me and sits at the opposite end. My surprise turns to stunned disbelief when he reaches into his pocket, pulls out a packet of M&M’s, and throws a few into his mouth.

  He chews slowly, watching me watch his mouth. Leaning forward, he holds out the candy and jerks his chin towards it.

  When I make no move to take any and continue to stare at him, he pulls back. “Suit yourself.”

  Moment of adrenaline over, I mutter, “I should call the cops.”

  His eyes flash, and he shakes his head slowly. “No. You won’t. It’s already taken care of.”

  What?

  Brows furrowed, I ask, “What do you mean taken care of?”

  His eyes search my face a long time before he utters, “Got a friend to come and sort out the problem.”

  My blood runs cold.

  I swallow hard, then whisper, “Is- is he dead?”

  Seeming annoyed, he shoots back, “You care?”

  A moment of complete honesty passes through me. “No. When you pulled me up, I wished he was dead.”

  Twitch nods and his eyes soften. He seems to like that answer. “Don’t ask, don’t tell, Alexa.”

  My eyes widen and I shiver. “You know my name.” A statement.

  Throwing more candy into his mouth, he sucks on them and looks at me through narrowed brows.

  I know what he’s thinking. I’m thinking the same thing.

  Why aren’t you freaking out right now?

  Then I remember.

  Standing, I head to the kitchen, open the top cabinet, and get out my first aid kit. Bringing it back to the sofa, I reach for his hand, but he pulls away. His eyes darken. “Don’t need to do that.”

  “Please, let me help you.”

  His eyes flash, and he shakes his head a little as if to clear it. Closing his eyes, he murmurs, “Okay.”

  Victory and joy swirl through my body. I’m momentarily elated.

  My type of work means I come across a lot of different types of people. I know that everyone is different, but what I’m sure about Twitch is that he’s a sociopath.

  Opening the bottle of peroxide, I steady my jittery hand as much as possible and pour a little on some cotton. Reaching for his hand, he watches closely as I pick it up and bring it closer to me, resting it on my knee.

  “This smelly stuff stings,” I warn before I dab the cotton on his wound.

  He doesn’t flinch or make any sign that he’s in discomfort, but his pupils dilate as I wipe at his raw knuckles. Not liking the idea of him being in pain because of me, I bend at the waist, lean down, and blow lightly on his knuckles.

  When he grips my knee tightly, I lift my head to look at him. His jaw set, his eyes hooded, he looks pissed. I whisper, “I think you’re good now.”

  His face softens at my hushed tone, and he orders gently, “You need to go to sleep. You’ll be sore in the morning. Take ibuprofen.”

  I don’t even get a word in before he stands, grips my upper arm firmly-but-gently, and pulls me up. Wrapping an arm around my waist, he walks me down to my room, lifts the covers of my bed, and helps me in.

  I’m so relaxed right now. The ferocity of presence is alarming. I feel protected. And safe. I’m not scared of anything right now.

  Laying my head down on my pillow, he pulls the covers up and over me before turning and walking away.

  My head begins to pound, and my heart races.

  What if you never see him again?

  Just as I’m about to call out to him, he stops at the door and turns back. Looking a little unsure of himself, he watches me. I sit up, chest heaving. He searches my face for what seems like the billionth time, then asks, “You need my help sleeping?”

  No hesitation. “Yes.”

  He blinks. His brow furrows. Then he walks away.

  Feeling very much alone right now, I can’t help the disappointment that courses through me. I accept the fact that this is how things are destined to be for me forever.

  I’ve gone through everything in my life alone. I don’t need anyone now.

  You don’t need anyone. It just would’ve been nice to have someone be there for you. Even if it was just for a little while.

  Not wanting to think too hard, I close my eyes and lay my head down. But all I see is blackness in its bleakest form. All I feel is gripping fear. My body doesn’t feel like my own at this moment. It feels tarnished and defective.

  Shutting my eyes so tight that it hurts, I hear his disgusting panting and bite my lip to stop my whimper. Covering my ear with my palm, I breathe heavily, only to inhale his rancid smell.

  The bridge of my nose tingles. And I’m hurting.

  I hate him for leaving me.

  I hate myself more for wanting him to stay.

  Tears slide out of the corner of my eyes, dampening my pillow. I push harder on my ear, trying hopelessly to block tonight out of my mind.

  Things like this don’t happen to people like me. Maybe in my old life, but not anymore.

  I’m not sure what I’m meant to be feeling after that, but I feel angry. And sad. And wounded. All at once.

  I should be used to this. Comforting myself, that is. I revert back to my childhood and curl up on my side in a fetal position, lightly rocking. I need something to drown out my thoughts. Standing, I walk over to the CD player, press play, then all but throw myself back on the bed, once again curling up on my side.

  I listen to Guy Sebastian sing about battle scars never fading. Keeping my eyes open for fear of what I’ll see if I close them, I stare into the void that is my room, wetness sliding out of the sides of my eyes.

  A creak down by my door makes my ears prickle. Light footfalls follow. My body breaks out into goosebumps. The bed dips. Fright forces my heart to race.

  Then…nothing.

  I wait wide-eyed for an attack. An assault. Something.

  Turning, I see his hood in the low light of the room. And my tight chest eases.

  He didn’t leave.

  Elation swirls through my troubled mind.

  Curling up to watch him, I whisper, “You didn’t leave.”

  But he doesn’t answer me. Lying above the covers, he pulls the hood lower onto his face, then places him arms behind his head. He says through a sigh, “Sleep, Lexi.”

  Feeling safe, warm, and protected, I close my eyes and let slumber take me to a brighter place than today.

  Tomorrow.

  Waking with a start, my eyes snap open.

  Disappointment fills me.

  Twitch is gone.

  I quell the urge to pout. Instead, I smile.

  He might be gone now.

  But he stayed.

  Having done my best to cover the minor scrapes and bruising from the night before, Charlie looked at me a second too long and I jumped into panic mode. Immediately I forced a laugh and explained that I had a run in with a brick wall.

  Charlie narrowed his eyes at me, but soon enough, smiled and shook his head in a ‘you’re a nut’ kind of way.

  I managed to keep myself busy all morning, and before I knew it, lunchtime had come. Not wanting to stay inside and stuck in my head, I decided the park was the place to spend this fine sunny day. The urge to eat wasn’t very strong. My stomach still ached thinking about what could’ve happened the night before. Stopping at a local café, I bought a muffin and orange juice, then made my way over to the park across the street. Slipping off my shoes, I sat directly on the plush grass with my legs outstretched in front of me. Lifting my face, I took in the warm sun and sighed in bliss. I was beginning to relax again.

  Which brings us to now.

  My body hums in awareness.
Awareness that I’m being watched.

  My brows furrow. In the direct heat of the sun, I shouldn’t get goosebumps the way I just have. Suddenly, a feeling of contentment washes over me. Opening one eye, I turn and peer across the street as if I’m homing in on him.

  And there he is.

  A hooded figure, hands in his pockets, walking away from me.

  Bubbles of warmth course through my body.

  There he is. Watching me. Keeping me safe.

  Or so my gut tells me. I know I should feel differently. I should feel uneasy. And even frightened. But I don’t. Something about this man puts my mind at rest. And I know deep down that I have nothing to fear. Twitch will protect me.

  Just like he always does.

  The front door to my unit opens and I hear familiar voices.

  “Alexa, baby, we’re here!” Nicole Palmer, my very Aussie, very uninhibited best girl friend yells out. She quickly adds, “Where are you?”

  Smiling, I shout back, “In the shower; be out in a minute!”

  “Take your time, love. We’ll just open some bubbly and chill on the couch.” That’s David Allen, my best guy friend. He’s tall, strapping, and handsome, a complete sweetheart, and tragically enough for the female population of Sydney, a one-hundred-percent show-tune singing pansy.

  Gay as they come.

  Every year, he makes us dress up and attend the gay and lesbian Mardi Gras. And every single year, I make a fuss about going. The costumes are so damn revealing! But every single year, once we’re there, I have a blast. And knowing I’m there to support my friend is enough to get me there.

  The bathroom door opens, and Nikki says quietly, “Hey, babe, just thought I’d let you know that Dave and Phil broke up last night.”

  With my hands in my hair, working the shampoo into a froth, I gasp.

  No way!

  David and Phil have been together almost a year. Dave spotted Phil at the gym working as a personal trainer and made me sign up with him for sessions to get information out of him. I, of course, did this for my friend. He’s so adorably needy sometimes that it’s hard to say no to that sweet face. Three sessions in with Phil – and my body screaming in pain – I decided to ask him out. Not that I wanted to ask him out. Oh, no. See, I knew he was gay from the very first session we had together. It wasn’t as if the guy was hiding the fact that he went out of his way to check out the other guys’ asses while they trained.

  Surprisingly, Phil accepted my lunch date. Over that hour, we got to know each other, and I came to the conclusion that Phil was good enough to date my friend. And I told him just that. He laughed at my forwardness and said full of attitude, “Honey, what makes you think your friend is good enough for me?”

  And just like that, I smiled like a loon, clapped my hands together, and yelled in the middle of the café, “You’re perfect!”

  Phil and Dave met the next day for dinner. And Phil...well…he sort of never left Dave’s house. Rather like a puppy being adopted.

  They were super sweet together. Both affectionate and needy in their own ways, they fed off each other, blooming in ways I hadn’t thought possible, and I honestly thought they had what it takes to go the distance.

  My hands stilling in my soapy hair, I groan softly, “Oh, no! Poor baby Dave! What happened?”

  I hear the familiar squeak of her taking a seat on my laundry basket. Conversations in the bathroom are not an unusual thing for Nikki and me. We lived together while we studied, and modesty soon became a thing of the past. She sighs, “They had a fight. A bad one. Not like they normally do, you know? It was a doozy. Long story short, Phil accused Dave of cheating on him.”

  Gasping a second time, I all but shout, “Get. Out!”

  Nikki makes a noise of uncertainty in the back of her throat and whispers, “Well, no. Not really. But that’s how Dave saw it.” Gah! Dave is emotional at the best of times. Nikki sighs, “Told Phil to pack his shit and leave. So Phil did. And Dave sat back and watched. Now Dave is sad.”

  Her short and sweet explanation of the events suddenly makes sense. Dave can be a diva at times. I confirm, “Dave wanted to take it back, but he didn’t, right? His fierce male pride got in the way and now he regrets it, leaving us with a whiny, emotional queen of a man who will likely be drunk by the time I exit the shower, yeah?”

  Amusement lines Nikki’s voice as she responds, “Bingo bongo, baby. Hit that nail right on the head.” Her voice turns awe-filled. “You’re so good at reading between the lines!”

  I bark out a laugh. “Nikki, do you know what I do for a living? I get lied to on a daily basis! Those kids…they’re smart as hell. They know what you want to hear and try hard as anything to get my sniffer dog ass off their scent so they can live happily uneducated and unsupervised on the streets. Believe me, I wish I didn’t have to read between the lines.”

  But I have to.

  The squeak of the laundry basket tells me Nikki is now standing. “I know, babe. But you’re good at it. And those kids might not think it now, but they’re lucky to have you. And I’m proud of you.” My heart swells and I smile. I really love this lady. “Now, hurry the hell up so we can supervise our very own street rat tonight.”

  She leaves me to condition my hair in peace and my mind drifts back to the previous night. Before I allow myself to go there, I burst into song to distract myself. Well, that, and to distract my friends from the fact that I’m feeling down.

  Blue, a little like a two dollar ho, and still shaken from last night’s attack.

  My unique rendition of Ginuwine’s Pony should do the trick. When I say unique, I mean I can’t hold a tune to save my life. But I like to sing. So fuck everything that doesn’t make you happy. I’m going to sing my out-of-tune ass off.

  Wrapping a robe around me and making my hair into a towel turban, I walk right down the hall and into the lounge-slash-kitchen to find Dave sitting slumped on the sofa staring into nothingness, while Nikki has a one-sided conversation with him from the kitchen. He hasn’t shaven for at least two days, and his eyes are bloodshot, a dead giveaway of just how much this break is affecting him. He takes a swig from the sparkling wine he holds in his hand.

  Poor baby.

  Without a word, I walk over to him, take the sparkling wine from his hand, place it on the coffee table, and climb into his lap. Sitting with my legs draped across his lap, I wrap my arms around him and pull his head into the crook of my neck.

  No one gets Dave like I do. I know this because he tells me. I also know this because Dave talks to me. He tells me things he freely admits no one else knows. I am his confessional. And he is my therapy.

  We have a strange, yet completely functional relationship.

  I love him as if he were my brother. I wish he were my brother. The one God gifted me I left behind a long time ago. And he was a good brother. The type of brother a sister would be proud of.

  I remember as a kid that he would always put me first. He would give me the bigger half of our split chocolate bars. He would never let anyone pick on me. He would tell me the best and scariest stories. He made time for me. And I miss him.

  I know Dave needs affection. He needs affection like I do. We’re affection-whores. But we’d never admit it to anyone. Our hard shells protect our soft interiors.

  Dave sniffles. I feel wetness run down my neck. I let him silently pour out his sorrow. After a few minutes and no more tears, I whisper into his ear, “Want a cocoa à la Lexi?”

  Nodding into my neck, I feel his smile on my collarbone and I smile to myself. He’s sad, but not broken. We can fix this.

  Cocoa à la Lexi is a fancy way of saying cocoa laced with hard liquor. It’s my specialty. And I know how Dave likes it.

  Lots of chocolate. Lots of cinnamon. Lots of booze.

  Standing, I walk over to Nikki in the kitchen and pull out a pan to warm the milk. The kitchen timer dings, and smiling, she pulls open the oven door and the smell hits me like a brick to the nose. Turning to her, I gasp
, then whisper wide-eyed, “Double choc, peanut butter niknaks?”

  Laughing through her nose, she places the brownie tray on the kitchen counter and scoffs, “Well, duh! I think this occasion called for it. Don’t you?”

  Let’s get something straight.

  There is no occasion in the history of man that doesn’t call for double choc, peanut butter niknaks.

  Christening, bar mitzvah, wedding, funeral, Ramadan, the coming of the four horsemen of the apocalypse, AA meeting, the resurrection of Jesus, G8 summit, family reunion… these brownies would be welcome at any of the above. And I make it my business to invent occasions to enjoy these babies because Nikki is a hard nut to crack. When I say that, I mean the bitch is mean! She can be a softie, but not when it comes to double choc, peanut butter niknaks.

  She does not make these brownies willy-nilly.

  Watching me watch her niknaks like a fox watching a chicken out of the safety of its coop, she clears her throat. When I look up at her, she motions to the pan in my hand.

  Right! Cocoa à la Lexi! Coming right up.

  Maybe tonight won’t be as hard as I thought it would be. That is, until Nikki’s brow furrows and she steps closer to me with a scrutinizing eye. Reaching up, she touches my cheek, then my lip with a gentle touch and mutters, “Babe?”

  Shit, fuck, crap!

  My face flames and she steps back to search my face. Turning her head to check on Dave, she pulls me into the corner of the kitchen and whisper-hisses, “Talk.”

  So starts Whisperfest 2014.

  “It’s nothing. I swear. Don’t make a big deal. I don’t want Dave to freak out.”

  She whispers back heatedly, “If you don’t want me to say anything, I suggest you tell me what happened so there will be less freakage on my part, and I won’t need to alarm our sweet-yet-sad David.”

  Slapping her shoulder, I hiss out, “Shhhh! He’ll hear you!” Not having taken an inch of my dramatics, she glares at me while tapping her foot. And I cave. “Okay, so you have to promise not to freak out.”

  But as soon as I say that – of course – she freaks out. Wide-eyed, she steps back and whisper-shouts, “Who did this to you? Was it George? It was George, wasn’t it? I told you I didn’t want you living next to an unstable dude!”