❝ YOU'RE PUTTING YOURSELF
IN DANGER ❞

–

I woke up that morning feeling cool, with Dallas's bulky comforter twisted around my body, hugging it so nicely I figured if I moved an inch it would ruin the pleasure. The sunlight filtered through the drawn curtains giving the room a subtle glow. It didn't take me long to realize I was alone and there was a large empty spot beside me where the remainder of the bed sheets I adored so much were left in a tangled mess. His clothes from the night before were strewn over the desk chair and there was no note in sight to hint where he had gone.

I didn't think much of it. Hell, it wouldn't be smart to think much of it. Dallas did what he pleased when he pleased, and there was no use in worrying about that.

It took me longer than it should have to get up. I carefully unwrapped myself from the blanket, grunting with each layer I peeled off. The room was cold with the window cranked open and my cheeks a bright red color. I didn't look in the mirror, I could only assume, the way my fingers nearly sizzled when I touched them. I also assumed I was a haggard mess since I'd forgotten to take off any makeup before drunkenly crawling into bed with Dallas. I was at least eased at the fact that Dallas was much, much, more inebriated than me.

I loved Dallas. Hell, I really did. I'd had my doubts, and I'd tried to push the thought so far back that it was painful. He didn't have to know and neither did anybody else. But I loved him for him. Not for myself.

I thought nobody in the universe would remember the precise amount of steps it took to reach a convenience store. Anybody else would see the futility of it, not the pleasure. Nobody would hang around a man nearly quadruple their age to make not only me happy, but them too. He liked Hanson. He really did. I could see it in his drunken, hooded eyes.

He mumbled when he slept. I could seldom make out words in the hour it took me to fall asleep after him. They were mostly inaudible, little blubbers, and after rolling him onto his side and resting my forehead on his back, I fell asleep to the sound of his drunken slurs. It was shockingly soothing.

I was disappointed but also relieved to see that empty spot. I wanted to wake up next to him, laugh and tease him about his lightweight tendencies. But I wasn't sure if he fully remembered the weight of the words he'd said. How much it filled my heart to hear it coming from him. I didn't know, and I sure as hell wasn't about to ask.

Shuffling my feet onto the floor, I finally rose from the bed and stretched my arms high in the air. His small room had a sort of stagnant, musty smell, but I didn't mind it. God knows I wasn't staying at a five-star hotel. It had a cozy feeling, something you wouldn't expect from somewhere Dallas lived. If clothes weren't thrown all over the floor it would have been perfect.

I sorted around in the myriad of Dallas's clothes to find mine from the night before. When I went back home looking like a drunken, hot mess, with my clothes from the night before I knew Steve wouldn't be so ecstatic. But if I went back in Dallas's clothes, there would be hell to pay. So I stripped from his giant white shirt and slipped on my smaller, tighter one, and squeezed into my jeans that hugged my hips but hung loosely on my legs.

I'd had two hangovers in my life. The first time I had blacked out drunk at a party in freshman year. I'd met this girl who went out every weekend, got shit faced, high and everything in-between. I idolized her for half a year before coming to my senses. That hangover wasn't a pretty one. The second time was a family event. I drank my heart out on an empty stomach, and my young, naive sophomore self was reeling over the toilet all night with Steve holding my hair and rubbing circles on my back as the room spun around me. I learned my lesson then.

This was my third hangover. It wasn't bad, just more of a gentle aching, because I remembered my limits and stuck with them. But it was enough to pop a few aspirins to relieve the pain. I started to rummage through Dallas's drawers, starting with his desk and making my way over to his drawers. Blank papers. Dull pencils. Cigarettes. Condoms. I groaned and slammed the drawer shut, before making my way over to his other dresser. When I slid open the first drawer my eyes widened.

Inside was a handgun, silver and black, its metal surface glimmering in the scant sunlight that pushed its way through the sheer curtain. I didn't know much about guns, but I'd seen my dad with them all the time. I always remembered what he'd tell me. Look, don't touch. His guns were completely off limits. I respected that, obviously, because he was a cop, and because they scared me.

But this one was alluring, simply by the beautiful shimmering silver of the handle, and how cold I imagined it would feel in my hands. The thought of ever using a gun chilled my spine. I couldn't imagine wanting to hurt someone so badly, an animal or a human. I wondered why Dallas had it. If he needed it for protection or something else. I hoped he never used it. I hoped to God.

Against everything my conscience told me to do, I grabbed the gun by its cool metal handle and felt it up. It was slick and sort of heavy. I jiggled it around in my hand. I had no idea how to check the ammunition inside, or whether the safety was on or off. Still, I held it up with both hands gripping the hilt until my knuckles turned pale, and squinted one eye shut.

What kind of person kept a gun hidden in their room? A greaser, maybe. But most greasers settled for a switchblade, not such a damaging weapon. I couldn't conjure a single idea as to why Dallas would need a handgun. Still, I put it back in its drawer, the same position as it was left, and gently shut it.

Right as I closed the drawer and concealed the gun under a pile of socks, three solid knocks of urgency sounded out in the room. I made sure the drawer was shut and there was no evidence that it had been touched. I'm sure Dallas wouldn't be too pleased if he found out I was fondling the hilt of his gun. I could already hear his annoying scolds in the back of my mind. Figuring it was Buck, or maybe Dallas who'd misplaced his key, I shuffled over and opened it. To my surprise it was Steve who stood there, arms crossed over his chest with a look of contempt etched onto his face. He always did this sort of snarl when he was agitated or upset. One corner of his lip curled up and his nose scrunched. I could only assume I had a look of innocence.

"What are you doing here?" I asked.

"What do you think I'm doing here, stupid?" He smacked his lips. "God damn. Don't show up all night and expect me to be cool with it."

"I decided to crash here, what about it?"

"What about it? Well, ya could've been kidnapped, or somethin'."

"Cool it, Steve." I turned away and pursed my lips. I swung my purse around my shoulder and then shoulder-checked him on the way out. I understood his concern, but at the same time, I was able to handle myself. I was sure, at that moment, that he was the most irritating brother ever.

"Don't be a brat, Holls. You're still a kid so quit acting like you're so grown. Going off and doing whatever."

"Why won't you ever just let me do my own thing?" I spun on my heel and crossed my arms.

"Because you're young and we live in a rough neighborhood. Get it through your head."

I let out a large sigh and looked to the ceiling. I wasn't dense enough to completely miss his point. "I'm sorry. But I'm not putting myself in danger."

Steve got a weird look on his face, then directed his attention to the ground. He had a bit of hesitation before he spoke. "You hang around Dallas a lot now?"

"I guess. Why?"

"Holls, if you're hanging around Dallas, you're puttin' yourself in danger."

I scoffed under my breath. "Don't be dramatic."

"You've already landed yourself in the cooler once."

"That was before," I said, with a softer tone. "Not again, I swear."

"Well," Steve said tentatively, "at least you didn't join him this time."

My stomach sunk. "What do you mean this time?" The look on his face wasn't good, so I busted out, "I was just with him last night!"

"Yeah," Steve spat, "then he went and pounded some guy up this mornin'. Landed himself right back in the cooler, busted the poor kid up so bad. You wanna know how I know about this?" I kept my lips sealed and my arms crossed. "Dad told me. He arrested him, locked him up. What are you gonna do when he gets out? Bring him over for dinner, introduce him to the family? Dad already knows him as a delinquent."

"If you hate him so bad, Steve, then why the hell are you his friend?"

"I don't hate him. He's one of us. That ain't mean he's good enough for you, though."

I bit my bottom lip so hard I thought I might've drawn blood, then hurried past him and toward the stairs. I needed to get out of there.

"Where are you going?" He called over his shoulder.

"Police station."

Steve looked at me for a moment, then emitted a heavy sigh of disappointment. His lids flickered to the floor. "Why don't ya say hi to dad while you're at it, huh? I'm sure he misses you."

I opened my mouth, expecting a clever retort, but my lips shut as soon as shot past me and dodged my shoulder, slamming the screen door behind him. There was a spark of guilt that flamed in my chest, but it abated with my own reassurance. My father and I hadn't had the best relationship, but it wasn't in ruins. No family was perfect. I knew that for sure. I also knew Dallas would be fine and he'd be out in the blink of an eye.

That was the way it worked. Always.