Free Before I Wake by Kathryn Smith Page A

natural tendency was to be dramatic and refuse his gesture, deepening the animosity between us that had no basis except fear.
    I put my hand in his, allowing his warm fingers to wrap around mine and pull. I stood on legs that shook more than I wanted to admit.
    “How did you do it?”
    That was a question I wasn’t ready to answer, so I just shook my head. He wasn’t buying, but he didn’t push.
    “I’ll take you home,” was all he said, dark eyes unreadable. He seemed disappointed, and that was worse than anger.
    I nodded, my mouth too dry to speak. He went into the bathroom and emerged once more dressed in his jeans and gray shirt. We didn’t say much on the way out of the building. I guess we were both still a little shell-shocked from our shared experience.
    He had a second helmet on his bike for me to wear, which I appreciated. I’m big on safety, especially when it concerns a person’s brain. I gave him my address—not the least bit concerned about handing out such personal information—and climbed on the back of the bike. I was a little nervous, not having any leather or protective gear except the helmet, so I wrapped my arms around Noah and clung for dear life the entire drive home. I didn’t let go until we were stopped in front of my building.
    He lifted the visor of his helmet and watched me as I stood beside his bike—a sleek, black cherry and chrome machine that screamed speed and sex. I removed my helmet and combed my fingers through my smooshed hair.
    “Thanks for the ride.”
    He nodded.
    “Are you going home?” It was none of my business, but I felt somewhat responsible for him now. I think maybe he felt the same way about me.
    “Yeah.” His eyes were like black glass under the streetlights. “I’ll probably paint for the rest of the night.”
    It was a brave man, I decided, who could admit that he was afraid to go back to sleep with such ease.
    “Take a Vicodin. Have a drink, whatever. It will help you sleep.” At his dubious expression I added, “Depressants suppress REM. I wouldn’t recommend a steady diet of it, but it cuts back on the risk of dreaming.”
    He watched me, almost expressionless. But I knew he was picking apart everything I’d just said. And I knew that he took my advice as acknowledgment that there was truly something to fear inside his dreams. Funny, he looked almost relieved. “What are you going to do?”
    “Knock myself out,” I admitted. “In the morning I’m going to go looking for someone who might be able to give us some answers.” My idea might be nuts, but it was the only one I had that was worth a shot. My other option was…well, not an option.

    He didn’t ask who I was going to talk to, or demand answers to any other questions I knew had to be swimming around his head right now. God knew I had a million.
    What he did ask was, “Will you be okay here alone?”
    “I have Lola. My roommate. You?”
    “I’ll be fine.”
    Notice that he didn’t tell me if he had a roomie or not. If I invited him to stay, would he get the wrong impression? What was the right impression? As concerned as I was for him, offering him my sofa—or worse, the spot next to me—would definitely compromise the doctor-patient relationship.
    As if we hadn’t already compromised the hell out of it. And he’d only ask more questions I wasn’t ready to answer.
    “What did It mean with all that stuff about your mother?”
    Questions like that. Nope, wasn’t ready to answer it. “I’m not sure,” I half lied. “Has It said what It wants with you?”
    He looked away. “No.” That was a half lie too. I’d bet my rent on it.
    “Well,” I said lamely, “good night.”
    He grabbed my hand as I turned to walk away. His fingers were cold, but his grip was strong. “What are you?”
    I laughed, but it came out more like a sob. “I’m not real sure about that either.”
    He let me go. “Call me.” It wasn’t a demand or a plea, but he made it compelling all the