Vegas: Devil's Rose #9

Chapter 4: June Emerson

"Did you kill him, Bruce?"

"Yes. But you don't need to worry about that. Is it okay if I touch you?"

"Yes."

Bruce kneels in front of me, being extremely gentle as he wipes Neosporin on the bleeding cuts the shape of half moons on my thighs.

"Rex really dug in, huh?"

"It's not fucking funny."

"No, I know, I'm not joking."

"Sorry, June, I'm just-I can't stop thinking about what happened."

"Neither can I."

"I heard what he said, you know. About what you're wearing and how you asked for it. It's not your fucking fault. I'm sure you know that, but I want to tell you, he's the only guilty party here. It wasn't your fault, and it never will be. It's not about your clothing, it's about his need for power."

I cradle the side of Bruce's face in my hand.

"Thank you."

"Do you want me to stay the night?"

"Yes."

He's done a lot for me tonight already. He killed someone for me, carried me home, sat on the toilet as I showered myself ten times, brushed my hair and teeth, and went onto his knees to help me with my cuts. All without question, all without saying a word of protest, all while asking my consent for everything.

And I'm not exactly praising him for it because that is what he should be doing while taking care of me, but I'm still incredibly grateful that he is. He doesn't have to be here. Truthfully and honestly, he doesn't have to be the one to take care of me.

Something terrifying just happened to me. Something I wasn't expecting; I don't think anyone can expect something like that. It doesn't feel quite real yet. It's almost like it happened to someone else and not me because it could never be me.

I'm left feeling confused. I know that he was trying to do that to me, and he almost got there, but it doesn't feel like it happened.

And Bruce cannot be forced to be here to witness my confusion and pain. He doesn't have to witness my trauma, he doesn't have to do anything. I understand that. I think I understand that because I'm in denial about what happened.

But he's here.

He picked up the phone, and he didn't ask questions except about where I was because he knew I was in trouble. I don't blame Westin for not picking up the phone; it's not his fault either, just like it's not mine. It's all him.

\He was the one that tried to hurt me, and he's the only one that can be blamed for that, and he's now dead. He's dead, and Bruce killed him. I guess that's about as much closure as one can get. But it just doesn't feel real.

"Hey, June, where did you go?"

Bruce stands about a good foot away from me, giving me space but offering a protector too.

"Sorry."

"Don't apologize. Try not to get too trapped up in there."

I tap my brain in acknowledgment, and he gives me a soft smile.

"I'll sleep on the floor. If that's okay with you."

His eyes don't leave mine as I contemplate this placement. I mean, yes, it's probably best that I don't have anyone around me. I don't want to freak out in the middle of the night and hurt him. I just think I also want a warm body next to mine.

I want to feel his protection covering me. I want to feel his power and dominance, knowing that he's going to take care of me. I'm not sure why I'm feeling this way. I feel like it would make more sense if I didn't want anyone around me, and I shoved people away.

But what I want is to know that someone else is there, someone who cares about me, and has a gun. He has a gun, and he's willing to kill anyone who touches me. That's what I need right now.

"Do you want to tell me what you're feeling?"

I shake my head no but ask about the sleeping arrangements.

"Can you sleep with me? Like in the same bed?"

Bruce nods his head, not questioning me, as though he understands why I want that. I don't even know why I want that.

"I'm going to change into sweatpants in the living room, alright? I can't sleep with jeans on."

"Can you come back with a kitchen knife?"

"Sure, and I've got the gun too, so we'll be prepared for anything."

I sit on the edge of my bed, waiting for Bruce to get back into the room. I run my hands over my satin sheets, but my fingertips feel almost numb. It's as though I can barely feel anything. I flinch as I see his figure walk in the doorway, and I can tell that he's slightly upset by it. That can't be blamed though.

We've known each other for so long, and I trust him more than anybody, so I can see why it would be so hard for him to see me slightly scared in his presence. He goes to sit beside me on the bed with me but hesitates, silently asking me permission first.

I tap the spot next to me and let out a shaky sigh as he sits down.

"Are you scared of me?" Bruce questions me gently.

"No, it's not you. I'm not scared of you. I'm just trying not to cry."

"You can cry all you want."

That's all it takes for me to start sobbing in his arms. He lifts me into his lap and cradles me as I shake with each miserable tear. He doesn't hush me, he doesn't even try to, instead, he rubs soft circles on my back. He somehow gets us both under the covers and my bed and just keeps holding onto me.

I bury my head into his neck, his skin wet with my tears but he doesn't complain. He doesn't do anything except be there. He doesn't speak a word. And if it was out of him not knowing what to say, I couldn't care less because I just need him either way.

At some point, I ran out of tears. My whole body feels drained and gross and sad, but at least I'm feeling something. At least I know I'm still alive. And that he is dead.

***

"June, I think you need to eat."

I bury myself in Bruce's arms, not answering.

I don't want to eat. I have no appetite anyway. My throat is sore from crying too. I would rather not force myself to eat. And I know that Bruce put a lot of effort into making my favorite foods so that I would eat, and I'm not being unappreciative. I'm just not in the mood to eat.

My stomach feels weird, my whole body at that, and I don't want to have to do anything. I think that's why I asked Bruce to carry me around my whole apartment this morning and have stayed curled into his arms. He hasn't complained about it, so I don't think he minds so much.

He rubs soft circles on my back and holds me against him.

"I know you're hurting right now. I know that you're trying to deal with something unimaginable. I know that this is painful. But I know you are strong, worthy of love, kind, and compassionate. I also know that you need food to live."

"I don't know if I want to live."

"I hear you. I also can give you a thousand reasons as to why you would want to."

"I think you've lost your mind."

"I think you are the most spectacular woman on this planet."

I smile against his shoulder, feeling a sense of relief for the first time this morning. He sits down on one of my kitchen stools with me still in his arms and pulls one of the breakfast plates toward me. I relax into his arms and let him feed me like I'm a baby.

I'm usually not willing to let anyone take care of me. I travel around the world digging in deserts and shit for a living. Most of the time in dangerous places. I can take care of myself. But I think my body, mind, and soul know that right now, it's okay for someone else to take care of me. It's okay just to be.