Sleep Noise

Gambling Debt

Atticus ripped his jacket off his shoulders and threw it onto the bed with a thwap!

He fumed, who the hell does he think he is? The audacity of a complete stranger asking him to risk his life and he most certainly would, messing with Andelo Stanic was too much for him. He stopped a moment and inclenched his fists, lifting one hand to his mouth and swiping at a trace of blood on his bottom lip.

His contempt turned to shallow concern when he thought about the daughter the man had mentioned. She could be waiting for something as simple as a money transfer before being whisked away to the highest bidder. Maybe she was stuck in someone's basement, a plaything.

He shook the thoughts from his head in a mass of blonde hair. He covered his eyes with his hands and waiting for a clear mind. He looked up at the red, luminescent numbers on his bedside table:

4:26 A.M. In the silence, he heard Delaney's TV buzzing down the hallway. What in Hell's name is he doing up?

He slipped to the door and pressed his ear against the door. He heard voices on the television with the volume down; he heard the shifting of feet over sheets, the rasp in his best friend's throat before he coughed. “Goddamn cold...”

So he knocked.

He sounded apprehensive as he response, “Yeah?”

“It's me,” Atticus answered quietly, unworried about whether Delaney had heard. That werewolf's ears had heard him scratch his wrist before he opened his own bedroom door.

“Come on in, buddy. I'm just reading,” Delaney said with a smile in his voice. When Atticus entered, Delaney was laying in bed one leg bent with a book resting on his thigh. He had his reading glasses on, resting low on the bridge of his nose. He looked up with a straight face and asked, “What's up?”

“Something weird happened at the bar tonight,” Atticus said flopping onto the far side of the bed and rested his head in the crook of his arm.

“Did they bite back?” Delaney kept a stoic expression, though they both knew he wanted to smirk at his friend more than anything.

“No, asshole. I went over to this guy who was taking notes on people... asked him what was up. He said he needed help.” He saw the book hit the comforter and looked up to see Delaney's face, looking intently back into his own. Then came the question, “With what?”

“He said Andelo Stanic was messing with him. That he had to... 'remedy that', and that he was looking for help.” Atticus stared at the foot of the bed and bit his lip. “I can't get it out of my head.”

Delaney was quiet but was nodding his head, deeply considering what he'd just been told.

Delaney stated, “Stanic isn't someone to fuck with,” and Atticus hit the bed with his fist and sat up.

“That's what I said! I'm not a heartless jerk then?” He asked, his face contorting with a guilt he was attempting to hide.

“Oh, you're definitely a heartless jerk,” Delaney was serious, “but that would be a big risk, even if it was me asking you for help.” Atticus slumped back into the pillow.

“Even if I wanted to help, if I wrestled some change of heart, what could I do about it now?” he asked, pulling at the fraying edge of the blanket. He was slapped at once by Delaney's monstrous hand.

“Not a lot, unless he found you.” The huge man next to him readjusted his glasses and sat back to read as he said this. That was when they heard the key in the front door and unsteady steps shuffle across the threshold.