Page 12 of Echoes in the Storm

The way Cammie set the sofa up has my head at the window end—first problem to rectify. I switch the blanket around, and then settle on the cushions with my phone laid on the floor beside me. The low-battery icon flashes up as I lie back and blink up at the ceiling. I reach out and dismiss it; the race is on to get to sleep.

But how can I when all I hear in the darkness are the echoes of the man I used to be?

Coward.

Weak.

Hopeless.

The words I lull myself to sleep with every night. And yet, tonight, they yell louder than ever before, deafening me with their truths.

I can’t be this man forever: a guy who relies on the strip of light from a slim piece of technology to hold his nightmares at bay. I can’t spend my life checking under the bed, and looking for trouble at every turn.

I just can’t.

There’s a life on the other side of the canyon of my fears, yet no matter how hard I try, I can’t find the bridge to get there.

Which leaves me with only one option: build my own.

Yet I don’t know if I can.

Cammie

Sunday can’t come early enough. Between the show and dealing with Jared’s crap about the house, I’m exhausted. My eyes are heavy, my arms sore from holding the spotlight steady, and yet I’ve got two more shows before I can spend the day doing nothing. I roll to my right, ready to kick things in the guts, and let my gaze fall on the closed door.

Oh, that’s right.

I have a guest. Guess that rules out breakfast in my PJs on the couch while I binge on Netflix until show time.

I lie on my side, adjusting the blanket higher over my chilly shoulder, and listen for sounds of life from the other end of the house. Silence is all I get in return.

Maybe he left already?

The display on my phone reads a little after eight. As much of a stranger Duke is to me, he doesn’t strike me as the kind to over sleep. Then again, it was well after ten by the time we turned in. Perhaps he needs the rest?

Grow some balls, Cammie.Slip your legs out of bed, pull on your comfy cardigan, and face the man already.

My legs protest as I shuffle across my room to the built-in robe, and pull my extra-long, extra-thick cardigan off the hanger. Its instant warmth is a comfort, as are the bed socks I wore last night; there’s nothing as unforgiving as a cold hardwood floor first thing in the morning.

Well, except Jared.

No light spills from the living area other than the warm yellow hues of the morning sun. Birds sing their praises outside at the warming day as I round the corner and find the two sofas empty. I blink, lift a sleeve-covered hand, and rub my eyes.

It takes me a minute to piece together what’s wrong with this picture.

The sofa is stripped of the bedding I left out for him, the cushions barely wrinkled, which indicates he didn’t stay there long. Yet what catches my attention most are the feet poking out from where the sofa intersects with its shorter twin.

I shuffle farther into the room and round the three-seater to find Duke propped up with his back jutted into the corner where the two-seater meets the wall. The blanket is tucked under his chin, his hair messed up as he rests his chin on one shoulder.

My feet stay rooted to the spot while I contemplate the best course of action. Do I wake him? Is he the kind to get startled and violent when he wakes suddenly? More importantly, why the fuck is he on the floor like that?

I back away, careful not to disturb him, and retreat toward the kitchen. The electric jug starts its rumble after I flick the switch, my clumsy hands making the two mugs I pull out of the cupboard clang together.

I grit my teeth and set them down as gently as possible on the counter before retrieving the coffee canister from the cupboard. I manage to get a heaped spoonful in the first mug and then make it halfway through doing the second.

“Morning.”

I jolt, so sure he was still asleep. Coffee goes everywhere: on the counter, on the floor. I’m pretty sure some skitters across the tiles and under the fridge.