12. Chapter 12

Chapter 12

W ind ran through my lungs, rattling as if it were my last chance to taste it, and I was entirely upright before my eyes even had the chance to open. A clacking noise sounded to my left , my fingers clutched at my bare chest, and I attempted to slow my breathing with repetitive inhales and exhales as I glanced to the side table beside me to see…pancakes. And bacon. Cocking my head at the square, grey plate, I absorbed its appearance for all of two seconds before I looked upward to see a wide-eyed Cassie with her own plate of pancakes in her left hand.

She looked to have just flinched in shock, awaiting further surprises other than me waking in her bed as if I were a vampire rising from a coffin and she were my next meal.

Cassie gently asked, "My God, are you good?"

I legitimately debated my well-being as I recalled the details of the hours past—the time spent after I had arrived at her home, that is—after the acts that had occurred on her couch. Cassie had retrieved a wet hand towel, ensuring that I was thoroughly clean of my own mess, and we abandoned the remainder of our whiskey and the majority of our clothing to retire to her bed.

And though I was atop a plush mattress and thoroughly comfortable with the fact that we had succumbed to pleasures within each other and shared sleeping arrangements afterward, I wasn't, as she had asked, good.

My recurring dreams seemed to have shifted to a new topic—one that clenched to my bones as if it were bestowing upon me the weight of an impossible clairvoyance. For the second night in a row, memories had blended with unexperienced visions in my dreams. Flashes from the night of Peter's murder came first. Then, Cassie in the throes of passion above me—a dream that had come to fruition mere hours ago, the sepia ambiance of the fireplace and all. Scenes that I hadn't witnessed with my own eyes came next—a blonde woman who appeared to be badly beaten, followed by Cassie's bittersweet expression angled up to mine by the force of my own hands. The visions of the injuries I had witnessed being sustained when Claire's past had come to bite her were after that. Liam, whose wounds were missing from my last nightmares, was last—he was still alarmingly visible in the dark of night, screaming as he fell to the ground and clutched at his left shoulder .

It was at that point in my nightmares that I was woken by his sister, and the sight of her brought a light that attempted to break through the fog of it all. Trepidation still clung to me, though. I had thought nothing of it the night prior, but the events, if the others were to occur, were horrifyingly out of order in my life's timeline. Though I didn't believe in any sort of precognition, my mind still churned as to why this would be the case, and the cold sensation of dread remained in my bloodstream.

"James?" Cassie quietly called to me.

"Fine," I told her. "Got startled."

She tentatively sat on the mattress, and I shimmied my way out of the blanket to sit up beside her and swing my legs over the side of the bed. Cassie set her own plate on her lap, and she pressed:

"You sure?"

I blew out a last, loud breath. "Yeah."

Finally able to fully take her in, I noticed that she was dressed and ready for an outing. Or, rather, her makeup was prepared for an outing. While her clothing announced to the world that she was having a night in with black leggings and a maroon top that looked to be made of a comfortable, stretchy material, her face was done up. Much to my dismay, her freckles were concealed. Her eyes, though—black eyeliner rimmed her upper lid in a fashionable wing, and her eyelashes were, somehow, longer and fuller than usual. They drew me into her warm gaze in such a way that I had to blink twice to collect my thoughts.

"You, um," I stammered, "brought me food?"

A corner of her lip tugged upward. "You were out like a light, but it felt unfair for me to only make myself a meal. It's been almost a whole day since I last ate…figured you were hungry, too."

The gesture made my chest warm, and I truly meant it as I replied:

"Thank you."

She briefly showed me her teeth. "Mhm."

"What time is it, anyway?"

"Four o'clock."

"Four o'clock?" I returned disbelievingly. "In the afternoon?"

"If it were the morning, I'd be concerned that you fell into a coma," she remarked as she cut into her pancake with a fork.

I deduced aloud, "I slept for nine hours?"

"Warm fire, a little whiskey, what looked like some vivid dreams." She glanced sideways at me, skirted past my nightmares, and offhandedly said, "Mutual masturbation." She smirked, placing a bite of pancake in her mouth. "Mhm." She chewed, then swallowed. "That'll do it. "

Her casual mention of our fireside activities would have been a joy, but my thoughts were still swirling about from my rapid wakeup. I shook my head quickly, looked back to where I had once laid and then to the side table, and quickly muttered:

"Shit—has anyone called? Luke? Liam? Where's my phone? I had it before we went to bed—"

"Charging," Cassie replied as she reached for a piece of bacon. It snapped as she bit into it, revealing that it was exactly as crispy as it appeared. "In the kitchen. No one from the group called either of us."

My body sagged in relief.

‘Purgatory,' I internally reminded myself. ‘We're in purgatory.'

"Oh."

"Your friend, Shawn, however…"

I rubbed at my eyes. "Fuck. Work. I didn't even call in."

"Don't worry, he knows you're not dead," she murmured.

I felt one of my eyebrows cock high as I watched her slowly chew the remainder of her bacon.

"You went into my phone?"

Cassie held up an index finger while she swallowed, and then replied, "In my defense, it was vibrating so much, it was about to start a fire on my kitchen table. Took a glance at your notifications to make sure it wasn't Luke or anyone else and saw, like, ten missed texts from him." Her tone softened. "It's sweet, actually."

I admonished her gently, "Cassie."

"I didn't… go into your phone," she stated. "Wouldn't have been able to regardless, it's locked—I just…answered a phone call. I let the first three calls ring through to voicemail, and I only answered after the preview of his text sounded overly worried since you weren't responding."

I sucked on the inside of my cheek to withhold a grin, nodding all throughout her defense.

"Okay, okay." I reached to pick up my plate, feeling the warmth of it through the thin layer of my boxer briefs as I rested it on my lap just as she had, and grabbed the fork to stab into my breakfast. "What exactly did you tell him?"

Cassie joked, "Before or after he finished squealing like a pig when I answered, ‘James' phone, this is Cassie' ?"

I pursed my lips together. "After."

"You think you caught a stomach bug," she told me with a smile.

"Mmm. Stomach bug. Got it. Did he ask why you were with me?"

"Uh huh—didn't answer him. Told him you were sleeping and hung up. He has since called three more times. "

I chuckled as I lifted my fork to my mouth, tasted syrup before anything else, and grimaced when I began to chew for the texture was mealy, and the flavor…lacking.

"Angh," I groaned through my teeth and forced myself to swallow. "Oh, that's bad."

She incredulously laughed, "What?"

"Your pancakes—as much as I do appreciate them—are bad." Trading my fork for a slice of bacon as a palate cleanser, I quickly broke off a piece between my fingers and popped it into my mouth. "Can't fuck up bacon, though."

Cassie shoved my shoulder. "You ass!" I snickered along with her as she said, "You're full of shit, my pancakes are totally fine."

"I sincerely wish I were," I replied. "Sorry, Cas—your pancakes suck."

"They aren't my pancakes; it's not like I have a recipe. I followed the instructions on the back of the box—"

I interjected, "That was your first mistake."

"What are you, a pancake enthusiast?"

"The trick is to make sure you have buttermil—"

She deadpanned, "You're a pancake enthusiast."

"Can I show you how to make actual pancakes?"

"Why?" she simpered. "Because you're old and ripe with wisdom? "

I beamed. "Uh huh."

"Another time. Maybe." She pointed her fork, prong-end at me the moment that she finished slicing off another bite with purpose. "Maybe. I have to go soon. I'm running out of time."

My brow pinched together. "Go?"

Despite my complaints regarding her pancake making abilities, I continued to eat, but my chewing slowed when she succinctly responded:

"Work."

Reality of the now gut-punched me, and I coughed to clear my throat, my half-masticated, dry bite sticking in my esophagus.

"Beg—beg pardon?"

"My shift starts at five."

I waited for a punchline to her terrible joke, but it never came. "Your shift at Gas Lamp?"

Cassie peered at me with a single, high eyebrow, "You have a problem with my work, Jay?"

I chastised, "Don't do that, Cas."

She innocently returned, "Do what?"

"Act like my issue with your work has nothing to do with finding out that dancers are going missing."

As if that weren't altogether alarming, she quipped, "Do you have an issue with it aside from that?"

My jaw hung open. "Are we really doing this right now? "

"Speak now or forever hold your peace," she sang, splitting the last word into two husky syllables.

I rolled my eyes heavily. "Okay, fine, Jesus— as a person, no. As someone who's one half of whatever this is…" I waved between us, and her face pinched together as I murmured, "Problem is the wrong word, but I'm not, ah, thrilled about it."

She set her fork down with a clack against her plate, turned her body to face me, and with a tone that just slightly turned hard, she said, "Please don't say you're about to give me the I can do better speech."

"I'm not. Trust me, I'm not." I sighed in exasperation and quickly stated, "I'm just a jealous guy. It is a me problem, not a you problem, and I can deal with that, but we have bigger fucking fish-to-fry-here!" Her brief defensive demeanor was whisked away, and she pressed her lips together tightly as I continued, "My mind is nowhere near the subject of you just being a dancer, Cas. You aren't dumb. Don't pretend like you're being ignorant because you're not."

"Okay, okay." Cassie eyed me sympathetically. "Straight up? We don't know anything for sure with all the stuff Colton said."

"Come on," I retorted. "Women. Dancers. Have gone missing. In and around Salem."

She sighed. " I'm aware of the rumor mill. I was there for the origination of it last night, remember? I slept on it—just because we heard something from one man—"

My eyes widened, and I interjected, "The rumor mill?"

"One man," Cassie went on as if I hadn't spoken, "who none of you seem to trust all too much, for good reason—I'm gonna keep my skepticism on this one."

"Okay," I acquiesced. "You have a point, but our lack of trust in him aside, it's all a little too coincidental, don't you think?"

"James…I'm not up and quitting my job. Not before I know without a trace of uncertainty that something's up. It's not fair to my work, which is already short-staffed. It's not fair to the other dancers who'll inevitably have to pick up the slack." I opened my mouth to argue that her reasoning was insane. That a job is just a job. That if she were to drop dead tomorrow, Gas Lamp would recruit a new dancer to replace her as quickly and efficiently as possible. That her livelihood—hell, her life— should be put far above a job. Cassie stopped my planned interruption with a blunt, "It's not fair to me. I make really good money. I have great benefits. I've never had either of those things."

I exhaled softly. "I get that being financially comfortable is nice, Cas, but— "

"But I don't think you grew up poor," she argued, and I silenced myself for a beat because she was right.

My parents still lived in their upper-class, suburban home in Roanoke—it wasn't a mansion, and Luke and I weren't driving luxury cars at sixteen, but we were not, by any stretch of the imagination, poor. My college tuition was paid off. I landed a job right out of school and life never gave me a chance to so much as worry about money.

"I did not."

My confirmation was meek, for I was unsure of exactly how much she had to struggle as she grew up. Aside from being aware that her father was a shithead and her mother passed away when she was a young teenager, I knew very little. Through context clues within casual conversation at Henry's, I had gathered that they weren't well-off, but Cassie—and Liam, for that matter—were both quite good at skirting conversations regarding their childhood.

"Don't look at me like that," she muttered. "We still had a roof over our heads and food to eat, but once my mom left, it was kinda a fend for yourself situation." I focused on the word left rather than died, but I chose not to question it. Cassie continued, "Comfortable doesn't describe the peace that the paychecks give me, okay?"

"Yeah…okay, but—"

"And no one's up and going missing at Gas Lamp," she added. "Anyone who's skipped their shift did just that— they skipped their shift. There are security cameras all over that place, and if you recall, it's pretty damn public. If women are being taken, it's not gonna happen there."

Her words were a comfort, but wariness was still surrounding me as I murmured a slow, "Okay."

Cassie threw her last bite in her mouth, forcing it down before I could gather any further response for argument's sake, and she noted, "I have to get going."

She stood, taking her plate with her as she bustled out of her bedroom and, assumedly, into the kitchen, and I called out, "Wait—we're not—" I set my plate down on the side table and stood from the bed to stride after her. "We're not done talking yet."

By the time I reached the kitchen, she was gently placing her plate to the left of the sink. Moving to the table to gather her belongings, she looked at me with a raised brow, holding up a small, black backpack in her right hand before returning it to the table.

"I carry pepper spray in my bag at all times. I know how to use it safely. I'll call you when I get there."

"Will…I…"

"And I already shared my location on my cell, per your request… remember?"

I blew out an exhale through my nostrils at her apt reminder of the brief conversation we had so recently exchanged in her bed. "Can I at least drive you?"

"And leave me carless at two in the morning when my shift ends?" She returned with a slight smile.

"I'll pick you up, too," I offered.

"I'm not making you pick me up," she returned with a laugh. "Come on."

"You wouldn't be making me."

She grabbed the overcoat that was hanging on the back of a chair that matched her maroon top and began to pull it on.

"You're not driving me to work, Jay. My Jeep works just fine—I already cleared the snow off of it, and it's cranked and pre-warmed."

I sighed. "It's not about the state of your Jeep."

Cassie secured her jacket with a loud twang of the zipper as she pulled it up to her chest. Slinging her backpack over her shoulder, she looked at me with soft eyes, walking directly to me, and she placed a hand on the left side of my chest. I was sure that she could feel it nervously beating away with the sympathetic expression that she gave me. With the smallest of stretches onto her toes, she placed her lips on mine. It was a patient kiss—all slow-moving mouths and quiet smacks. Her arms wrapped around my naked waist, I hummed as the tightness in my chest eased ever so slightly, and when I touched my palms to the sides of her face, she pulled away.

With a smile, she assured me, "Look, I'm not jumping ship quite yet, but if anything seems wrong at Gas Lamp, I'll quit."

Any fight I had in me had abruptly left at the feeling of her lips, but I was still dissatisfied as I mumbled, "You will?"

She tilted her head into my left hand, and my fingers curled against her cheek as she quietly replied, "I won't even give two weeks' notice. I do still have a sense of self-preservation."

Her response could only aid my tension so much.

I asked, "Call me when you get there?"

"Mhm."

"And when you leave?"

"It'll be two in the morning, but sure."

I further demanded, "And when you get home."

"And when I get home," she confirmed. "Yes."

"Thank you," I whispered.

Cassie's eyes gave me a silent no problem, and she stated, "I put my spare key on the table by your phone. Lock up for me when you go and just take it with you—I'll grab it from you later."

I nodded and insistently pulled her mouth back to mine. She leaned away after two chaste touches of our lips, and I griped, "Stop that," before ushering her back to me. Cassie smiled against me, wedged her hands between us, and gave me a soft push once they reached my chest.

"I'm going to be late; I have to go. Eat your pancakes." Cassie reached up to give my beard a gentle tug, and my cheeks swelled in a begrudging grin as she cooed, "They're really not that bad."

She planted a last kiss on me—a hard one that I prayed would leave a bruise so I could feel her linger there—she bounded away, and in the blink of an eye, she was out the door.

I wasn't sure why, but I stared at the entrance as if I were anticipating her to walk back through it. My feet blindly brought me to the front door, and my eyes stayed glued on the wood until I heard the closing of her Jeep's door and tires crunching through the snow. I finally turned to find my clothing that had been stripped from me laid across the arm of her couch.

The sight of them alerted me to the cool temperature of the tile against my bare feet. I shivered, and I snagged my jeans to pull them on over my boxer briefs. After dressing quickly and finding that Cassie had neatly deposited both of my socks inside my boots, I took her advice and returned to my breakfast.

I ate the bacon first, of course, chewing it slowly. I had been unable to absorb the details of her bedroom until now, for my mind was otherwise occupied, and I found myself doing so as I made up her bed. It was small, much like the rest of her home, but rather than feeling cramped, it was cozy. The size of her bed allowed just enough room for the single nightstand where the remainder of my breakfast resided, and the headboard matched its color in a rustic, distressed white. The comforter was a camel brown, autumnal and akin to a dried leaf that had fallen from a tree and drifted to the ground, and it had the feel of suede on my fingertips. A pocket door to what was clearly her master bathroom was directly to the right of her nightstand—I paid it no mind, as the light was turned off.

Once Cassie's bed was sufficiently made, I walked the plate and fork back to the kitchen. Before sitting, I cut myself a bite, grumbled the moment it touched my tongue, and forced myself to swallow.

I shook my head. "Nope."

Deciding that I would fare far better with food of my own making at home, I promptly opened the cupboard underneath her sink where her trash was located and scraped the plate clean. Placing my plate atop hers on the counter to the left of her sink, I turned and found my cell on her dining table as promised. I unplugged it, letting the cord to the left of the table fall free to the tile, and peered at the screen.

I was less than shocked at the sheer number of texts from Shawn. Oftentimes, if I were out sick or on vacation, I would find my phone buzzing with his messages. They would typically contain random remarks regarding the day, and it would, truthfully, be as if I hadn't been away from work at all—in a good way. These messages were no different, but because I was typically a quick text responder and, furthermore, I had never been absent from work without notifying management, Shawn's tone had quickly changed as the day went on:

Brooks 8:32 A.M.: You're laaaaaate. I'm telling on you.

Brooks 10:04 A.M.: Sleep through your alarm?

Brooks 12:13 P.M.: Lunch is lonely without you, boo.

Brooks 12:47 P.M.: Paula tried to ambush me with one of her long convos. I had to hide in the bathroom to escape.

Brooks 12:48 P.M.: I'm still in here. It's been ten minutes. Think that's long enough?

Brooks 1:36 P.M.: Okay, now I'm concerned. You didn't even put in PTO for today?

Brooks 2:20 P.M.: You're not answering your phone either?

Brooks 3:02 P.M.: Jay, come on. I'm all sweaty and nervous.

Brooks 3:25 P.M.: A STOMACH BUG, MY ASS!

The next two messages that I received no more than one minute later contained a bevy of emojis—the first displaying balloons, confetti, and cake, and the second an eggplant, droplets of water, and a peach.

It was amusing, really—to the point that I blew out an exhale of a silent laugh. And, yes, despite the fact that we hadn't discussed our newfound closeness and what that meant, there was a part of me that was swarmed with what I could only describe as butterflies. Considering the circumstances and everything we had come to know within the last twenty-four hours, they felt rather inappropriate…but they were there. I shook my head gently, deducing that my mind was simply not up for verbally—or textually—explaining my current relationship with Cassie and any potential lying that would go along with it. I typed out:

James 4:23 P.M.: Yes. Very sick. Talk Monday.

My phone almost immediately buzzed with:

Brooks 4:24 P.M.: She's taking care of you, huh?

I sighed heavily. I so wished that were the case—I yearned for simplicity…and this was not it.

James 4:24 P.M.: Not now, man. Catch you up Monday. Sorry I ghosted.

Brooks 4:25 P.M.: All good. Feel better. Long live Jassie.

His continued use of the amalgamation of our names still made me quietly snort. I shook my head, bringing my focus back to the present, and tapped through my phone to find my text message thread with Luke. I sent :

James 4:26 P.M.: No updates?

The message was left unanswered for only the amount of time that it took to return to the sink and wash both my dish and Cassie's. The vibration caused my phone to scurry across the tile on the countertop, and I glanced at it as I stacked the two clean plates carefully beside the cleaned mixing bowl and pan that she had clearly used earlier. It read:

Luke 4:29 P.M.: Nope.

Luke 4:30 P.M.: Fucking hate this.

I was uncertain if no news was good news in a situation like this. No news meant that Colton was still missing; therefore, potential evidence was still out of our hands . No news meant that neither Cassie nor I had any means of speaking with him regarding the MIA dancers at Gas Lamp. But…no news also meant that the police hadn't been back to ask questions about the break-in at 2D. No news meant that it was possible that, though he was missing, Colton and that laptop may not be in police custody.

The remainder of our conversation was lightning-quick :

James 4:32 P.M.: I know. Me too.

Luke 4:32 P.M.: I'll call you if we hear anything.

I let out a rather loud breath, pushing the thought to the back of my mind by the time I was locking Cassie's front door.

The blizzard had passed, leaving behind several inches of lumpy snow that would occasionally blow from the trees in large clumps, rapidly dissipating into the air in a glittering breeze. The roads were surprisingly clear as I drove, the warmth from the sun having melted whatever had stuck to the concrete below whilst I was sleeping. The apartment complex was quiet. I took a shower so hot that it blissfully stung my skin, and upon exiting into the steam-filled bathroom, I saw that my phone was glowing with a notification:

Cassie 4:48 P.M.: Made it to work.

I smiled softly, content that she had messaged as she had said she would, and it buzzed once more:

Cassie 4:50 P.M.: x.

X?

X?

The single letter made the butterflies swarm, and my eyes locked on the screen as if I were convinced it would disappear, but it remained. X as in the universal symbol for a kiss, right? Or… X as in her fingers fumbled and sent me a text typo? I picked up my cell and unlocked it, simply holding it in my palm as if that would settle my thoughts, and eventually began to type back:

X?

I deleted it, of course, and replaced it with:

You mean to send that?

I deleted that, as well.

That's a nice letter.

That was fucking dumb, and I deleted it. What I finally managed to send was :

James 4:52 P.M.: Thank you.

Quickly, because I knew that I would talk myself out of it if I lingered on the notion, I followed it up with:

James 4:52 P.M.: x.

The moment that my thumb touched the screen and the x was sent off, I practically threw my phone back to the counter and bustled to my bedroom to clear my mind.

I dressed myself slowly—not for comfort, but just in my typical jeans and a t-shirt—and wandered back to the kitchen. I cooked the chicken breast that sat defrosted in my fridge, eating it with a bowl of pasta topped with canned vodka sauce.

I knew that it was okay. Not great, but okay — it was a go-to meal for when I just didn't want to bother with slicing and dicing. However, despite the fact that I could taste the array of seasonings that I used on the meat, the buttery pan-sear had left a pleasant browning, and the pasta was just to my preference of al dente, it all sat in my mouth like cardboard. I ate it, regardless.

I washed my dishes with a pensive mind circling solely about all things Cassie, and when I returned to the bathroom to retrieve my phone that I had so anxiously ditched, there were no notifications. That made sense because it was after five o'clock, and her shift had started, but I felt a slight twinge of disappointed nervousness nonetheless.

I sat, watching television and absorbing very little of it for what ended up being hours on end, but naturally, my entire being was wide awake. My legs were restless. My phone was devoid of additional messages. The sheet of paper in my mind symbolizing the remainder of my night read various to-do items such as:

Relax.

Stop thinking about her. She's fine.

No, really. Stop.

By the time the clock struck nine, my list was, as per usual with things to do with Cassie, wiped clean. With no reason other than an endless case of rational jitters alongside a heart-eyed teenage dream, my paper went entirely blank, and my restless legs were put to use as I stood to leave.