Rescue Me *Completed*

Chapter Eighteen

I wanted to ask him that night about his past in the Military during dinner, but he finished his meal so fast, he went straight to the office before I could even bring it up at a appropriate time.

Even when I thought to ask him in bed, he also didn't come to sleep that night either.

I wasn't sure why I assumed he would sleep with me that night, but I suppose it was a good thing if we were just... friends.

When I woke up in the middle of the night from another heart throbbing nightmare, Michael did not come in racing to my rescue.

To my relief I didn't scream this time, but my throat did feel dry from all the heavy panting.

I walked to the kitchen for a glass of a water only to find him passed out on the couch.

He was still wearing his jeans, but the black t-shirt had come off and was thrown onto the coffee table along with his vest.

"God damn it Michael." I muttered under my breath. "The least you can do is take off your glasses."

I quietly approached the back of the couch, leaning over ever so lightly that I grabbed his glasses by the nose. I held my breath, slowly pulling away when a sudden breath made me freeze.

"Mmmm..." he groans, his glasses easily coming off as he turned his head.

I sighed in relief that he didn't wake up.

I came around the couch again, leaving his glasses on the coffee table when he slurs suddenly,

"Not his fault..."

My body froze thinking that he had woken up, but his eyes remained closed as he continued to slur his words.

"Lasthope... falsehope..."

Last hope? With what?

He doesn't continue to speak.

His body curls up into a ball, clutching onto the pillow tightly to stay warm. I wasn't sure where he kept his spare blankets, so go to his room, grabbing the comforter that kept me safe and laid it on him instead to keep the nightmares away.

I tried to go back to sleep myself after that, but the continuous thoughts of Blakes whereabouts still haunted my mind. I tried to think of anything else but him. School, art, another form of income. Nothing seemed to work until my mind resorted to the mental image of a shirtless professor.

He is so beautifully defined. The tattoos on his arm was so hot, it defined his bicep so beautifully. His hand, his abs, his happy trail...

"Mmmm..." I buried my head deeper in to the pillow. "What the hell... think of something else. Anything else."

My mind defied me and only pushed more Lewd thoughts into my head.

As much as I didn't want to think of them, they did help with getting me to sleep much quicker. It was as if the happy rosy ideas were my own source of melatonin— a blissful intoxicating form of melatonin that I slowly grew addicted to.

On the days he had to go to work in the morning, I found myself sleeping in a lot more easier. With the help of musical scores, headphones, and a vivid imagination, the thoughts of Michael and I made the urge of going to sleep much more comforting.

Call me a creep, I know; but for now, it worked. I'm sure I would get tired of it soon anyway.

Every night when I woke up from the vivid dreams of Blake's torture, I would find Michael passed out on his desk or on his couch.

The same routine followed.

I would take off his glasses, give him my comforter, and the next morning, I would find it right back on top of me.