"All that matters is where you lay your head" –Kölsch feat. Troels Abrahamsen, All That Matters

********************************

Three Years Later

There are two kinds of people in this world: The ones that can look like movie stars after a twelve-hour shift at any job, and the ones that look like roadkill on tarmac out in the sweltering sun.

I fell in the latter category, of course. A quick glance into my rearview mirror revealed that my waist-length black hair had rebelled, escaped from its braid, and the shorter strands were now flying haywire. Determined slate-grey eyes stared back at me, and there was a smudge of something I didn't want to analyze on my right cheek.

I looked demented, and who could blame me? The night shift at Rose Haven could be crazy – sleepwalking, night terrors, running stomachs – and if you threw in the anger I'd held on to the whole twelve hours, I was exhausted. I wasn't a confrontational person by nature but that sure as hell didn't mean I was a doormat.

This time – this time Jacob Ford had gone too far.

It was close to six-thirty when I pulled into the driveway of the Ford residence. The peaking sun was the only witness to the dramatic scene I made throwing open the door of my car and unceremoniously slipping on air, falling onto my knees on the gravel.

Gravity and I – we had a love-hate relationship – were not on the best of terms today.

I'd already fallen more times than I'd stood on my own two feet today and all I could blame it on was fatigue. Thankfully, I was done for the week.

I scrambled to my feet before someone caught me and wiped my hands on the front of my uniform as I marched to the front door. I knew from the few times I'd stopped by that Jake rarely locked his door. His neighborhood was full of young couples and children in split-level homes identical to his own; of course he didn't have to worry about security like I did. In my sketchy apartment building, welcome mats disappeared like friends who owed you money.

Pushing the large door open, I crept inside, blinking quickly to let my eyes adjust to the darkness that enveloped me the second I stepped into the spacious living room. Black curtains were drawn across all the windows and the entire house was eerily quiet. I hadn't been here since Ella.

"Jacob?" I called out, exiting the room and heading out into the passage, where I quickly headed up the two sets of stairs.

I knew from memory that there were four en-suite bedrooms and a toilet upstairs. The furthest one from the stairs belonged to Jake and I hesitated before knocking. It was early, after all.

But I was mad.

This just had to be dealt with as soon as possible.

"Jacob? It's Maya." I knocked. Knocked again. And again.

Grimacing, I pushed open the door and went in. This was probably the first and only time I'd ever been in this man's bedroom. I instantly regretted it.

Two – no, three – bodies lay fast asleep in a tangled mess beneath the white sheets on a massive king-sized bed. I stood there for a minute, processing this. OK, the orange-haired woman kind of looked like Bree Mason who worked at the tattoo parlor Ghost owned. She was actually very nice, even though everyone called her all kinds of names behind her back because her hobby was seeing how many Phantoms she could sleep with before she turned thirty.

The Asian woman was definitely Sara. She had a great-grandmother at the nursing home. Plus, I'd know that eyebrow piercing anywhere.

Just another testament to how small this town is, I thought, feeling sad all of a sudden.

That feeling was quickly replaced with something akin to liquid fury when my eyes focused on Jake, sandwiched in between the two women. Unlike them, his amused eyes were wide open. How I hadn't noticed that, I would never know.

"Jesus, what time is it?" he was muttering, sitting up and rubbing the sleep out his eyes. The sheet fell to his waist, thankfully doing its job of covering the essentials.

"What is wrong with you?"

"What, this?" He tilted his head in Bree's direction, simultaneously jerking a thumb at Sara.

"No, not that!"

"You shouldn't be in here."

I blushed furiously. He was totally right. In hindsight, I had never bargained on this montage of a threesome. This town was just too small not to recognize everyone's one-night stands.

"So how's it going?" he asked me, sounding nonchalant. He leaned back against the wooden headboard.

I snorted. "How's it going? Well, I don't know. How do you think it's going for me? Since you seem to know every minute detail worth knowing about my life."

"Sarcasm doesn't suit you, babe. You might wanna turn around..."

Stifling a screech once I saw what he was about to do, I whirled around and faced the doorway, listening to the sound of a sheet being whipped away.

"You're standing on my pants."

I glanced down. Sure enough, my foot was on a pair of worn black jeans. I took one crab-like step to the side, allowing him to snatch them up. The sound of his jeans being pulled up seemed too close for comfort.

"OK – what have I done now?" he wanted to know. "And yeah, you can turn around."

I turned and glared up at him. The fact that I could even look up at him was a miracle. At 5'10", I was the same height as Seb. Jake had to be approaching 6'5". Despite myself, my eyes took in the expanse of ink across his broad chest. My eyeballs, traitorous things that they were, noticed how defined his pecs were, and how his brown nipples were pierced. And since he'd just folded his arms across his chest, my eyeballs observed how the motion meant that his muscular biceps flexed spectacularly. My observation was purely clinical, like how a zoologist studies animals. After all, Charles Darwin hadn't been sexually attracted to the mockingbirds and apes he'd studied.

I took a deep breath. "My landlady called yesterday to thank me for my early rent. Of course, I had no idea what she was talking about," I said through gritted teeth. "You paid my motherfudging rent, Jacob?"

His eyes glimmered. I hated that look, because I knew he was going to say something I wouldn't like. "Motherfucking. I paid your motherfucking rent. If you're gonna swear, do it like a person who pays taxes. Else, don't do it at all."

"That's beside the point! No, the point is that you have no right to –"

"You were a month behind, Maya," he pointed out, as if I hadn't known that. I wasn't even shocked that he knew that. The man probably knew my bra size – 32C – and favorite Teletubby – Po.

Ruth, my landlady, had been on my back for a while now. The woman wasn't conventional in any sense. She sent Facebook 'FINAL DEMAND' notices, for Pete's sake. I could only thank God that she knew the difference between a wall and private messages.

"I was working on it," I said lamely. "I was going to pay her something extra at the end of this month. But that is none of your business."

"And the electricity bill?" Self-righteousness filled his eyes.

"You can't keep doing this. You can't keep insinuating yourself into my life at every freaking turn." I sounded calm, like my normal self, when all I wanted to do was yank strand after strand of blonde hair out of Jake's big, idiotic head.

"Take care of Maya Fenton. Make sure she's OK," he recited, like he always did whenever we had any of these altercations.

I counted to ten. Backwards. Slowly. Out loud.

Jake waited patiently. This was our routine. It had been our routine for months now since his release. He'd play my Secret Santa, or guardian angel, or stalker extraordinaire – and I'd end up counting to ten at one of our various confrontations.

Usually, it would be little things I could overlook. Like Mr. Tyson from 7C suddenly averting his eyes whenever I walked past him in the passage, instead of making a crass, sexist comment about my backside. There was no doubt in my mind that Jake had used intimidation to make the fifty-six-year-old former wrestler so timid.

But now he'd gone too far. This kind of charity was a totally different story. I couldn't accept the exorbitant amount of money he'd forked out for me.

"Take this," I said, digging into one pocket of my pants and coming out with a carefully folded piece of paper. I handed it to Jake, watching him unfold it. "It's my rent, to the dollar. Just don't cash it yet. I'll let you know when..." My voice trailed off at the sight of him ripping the check into tiny pieces and sprinkling them like confetti in between us.

"Don't make me laugh, Maya. I'm not taking your money."

"Well, I don't want yours, either!"

"Too fucking bad. Go home. You look like shįt and I'm sure you feel like it, too."

He was right, of course. My bones ached and my feet did, too. I needed a bubble bath, a big mug of hot chocolate and a bowl of Cheerios, in that order. If I was lucky, I'd sleep the whole day and night, and wake up feeling refreshed the next day.

"You're a tool," I heard myself say.

He shrugged. "Been called worse. Much worse."

"Sebastian will not enjoy the idea of you doing this for me." Not that I'd ever dream of mentioning this to Seb. He wouldn't understand. No one would.

Jake actually laughed, a sound that was foreign to the both of us. "And what'll that pussy of a boyfriend of yours do? Hack into my Mac and leave a worm?"

"There's an idea," I mumbled.

He shook his head, chuckling. "I need coffee if I'm gonna deal with you so goddamn early. Nice talk."

He sidestepped me and was out the room before I could so much as turn around.

And do what?

I could write check after check, until my fingers bled, and Jake would just rip them all up. I'd just have to wire the money to him – when I was eventually paid.

"Ripper pays your rent?" Sara's loud voice nearly perforated my eardrums. "Damn. Your pusşy must have magical properties."

I took a second to realize that she was referring to Jake. "No. He doesn't pay my rent and I have typical genitals."

Sara was getting out of the bed – butt-naked, mind you – and stretching out, hands grabbing high in the air. "But I just heard you say –"

"Damn, Sara. What is this, the Spanish Inquisition?" said a scowling Bree, who fortunately remained covered. She flashed me a wide smile. "Hey, Maya. You good, honey?"

"Yes. I guess I am. How are you doing?"

Sara strolled into the en-suite, swinging her hips. A big red-and-black rose dominated most of the flawless ivory skin of her back, the stem trailing down her spine and ending just above her crack. The bathroom door was closed and the shower was turned on.

"It's Monday," Bree answered with a heavy sigh. "Mondays are always busy at the shop. Don't know what it is. Guess people want to nurse their hangovers with a needle to their skin, you know?"

I nodded, as if I knew. My weekends were usually spent indoors with Seb, or, on the flip side, working. Sometimes I'd hang out with my best friends, Kira and Luke, who worked at the same middle school.

"When're you coming in for some ink?" Bree pushed, sounding excited all of a sudden.

"Maybe we could talk about this...some other time?" Like not in a room that smelled of an orgy and alcohol and cigarettes.

Bree nodded. "I'll hold you to it. I need to get cleaned up anyway, so...good seeing ya, M."

I was slightly mollified by the time I made my way downstairs and into the kitchen, where the smell of coffee brewing wafted into my nostrils. Jake's back was to me, and I became conscious of the fact that I'd never actually seen it. His back, I mean.

While Sara had a flower taking up most of the space on her back, Jake had a huge pair of angel wings done in black ink. One wing began at his right shoulder bone and travelled down the right side of his back, the tip curling just above the waistband of his jeans. The left side mirrored this, and each individual feather seemed lifelike.

Humming a tune, he went about retrieving a mug from a cupboard overhead. Almost as an afterthought, he took out another.

"Want a cup?"

I jumped, taken aback both by the sound of his deep voice and by the fact that I was ogling. "How'd you know I was here?"

He turned, a half-smile on his face. "I was in prison, remember? You don't survive if you never know when someone's creeping."

"Makes sense."

"Plus, your rubber shoes squeak on the wooden floor."

I felt the corners of my lips twitch.

"Come on, babe. Smile. You can't stay mad at me forever," Jake informed me, scratching his bearded chin. He was definitely overdue for a shave, but I had to admit that the facial hair suited him. Not that I'd ever say that aloud.

"I'm paying you back at the end of this month, whether you like it or not," I told him, "and no – I don't want a cup."

I turned to leave, but his words stalled me.

"Whenever you need me, Maya, you can call me. Anytime, anywhere. Remember that."

***

That night, Seb came over and cooked me dinner.

I was still in the PJs I'd thrown on after my bath that morning and I couldn't stop the yawns spilling from my mouth every five seconds. Even so, I allowed him to set the table in my little dining room and pour me a glass of red wine.

"Voilà," he announced, unveiling a plate of beef steak and thick, golden fries.

My stomach growled and we both chuckled. "I'm starving," I admitted, lifting two to my mouth and biting. "Crunchy on the outside, soft on the inside," I said with a sigh. "You're the best."

He was.

Seb lowered his mouth to mine for a soft, languorous kiss. My eyes slid shut and my hand came up into his perfectly-styled brown hair. His tongue ran across my bottom lip, tasting the salt from the fries. It was over before it even really started. He straightened, cleared his throat, and went to sit on the opposite end of the table.

I admired him in the comfortable silence that followed. Sebastian Brown, he of the brown, curly hair and even browner eyes. He was dressed in his regular work outfit – a dress shirt of one of the colors of the rainbow with the sleeves rolled up his forearms, a pair of black slacks and Converse. His hair curled over his forehead, hanging just over his eyes, and his nose was slightly aquiline, marring what would have been a flawless face. I liked how his lips were always curved into smile. That just made him perfect.

"So how was work?" he began, already cutting up his own steak. "I tried calling you this afternoon but you were probably knocked out."

I sipped my wine, wincing at the bitter taste. I glanced at the label of the bottle. And people said they could taste "hints of oak and cedar"? I decided that I hated the brand.

"I was comatose the second I hit the pillow," I admitted, "but work was fine. One of the patients had a stomach upset, so that was what I spent my night doing. You know, cleaning up both ends."

Seb visibly cringed. "And I'd really wanted to eat this steak..."

I let out a laugh. "My bad. Let's talk about your day."

Seb was a computer geek in every sense of the label. He designed computer software for companies and made enough money to live on the cooler side of town. I was proud, considering how we'd both started out at community college. But then he'd applied for a scholarship at MIT and had left to pursue a degree in computer science. He'd returned to Sallow because he'd wanted to be close to his family. The Browns were a very close-knit family, so I could understand that. It was just too bad they hadn't accepted our relationship.

At twenty-eight, Sebastian was three years older than me and, according to his mother, wiser. They saw me as young and immature. They saw me as an orphan from the wrong tracks; never mind that I'd gone to the same community college as their son, never mind that I'd hardly been impoverished as a child, and even if I had been, so what? My aunt, Stacy, had legally adopted me and had been like a mother to me until her untimely death when I was fifteen and Ella was twenty.

Ella's going out with a new man who's much older. She's wearing really short shorts and a denim jacket over a purple tank top. Her long hair is styled into an up-do and she's got hoop earrings in her ears. Her flawless deep brown skin doesn't even need make-up; she's more beautiful when she's natural. The heels she's wearing give her the extra height she needs, she says, walking over to where I'm seated on the couch watching Fight Club. It's getting late and I don't particularly want her to go out, but she rarely gets the chance to have fun now that she's stuck with me. I tell her to have fun. She says she will. Her new man is called Marlon, like Marlon Brando, but he prefers to be called Ghost...

I listened half-heartedly as Seb relayed a funny story about a Trojan he'd found in a laptop that belonged to some CEO or other, and how the other man had asked if Seb thought he was stupid ("How the hell does a ċondom get into a computer?"). Seb had had to explain very slowly and carefully that he was referring to a Trojan virus. The other man had turned the color of a tomato and apologized profusely.

"Is everything alright? Maya?" Seb said suddenly, sounding concerned.

"Yes. I'm sorry, I'm just" – yawn – "still so tired."

He gave me an understanding look. "Understandable. I shouldn't have come over."

I shook my head. "Don't be silly."

"Well, at least I've fed you. I wouldn't want you skipping every meal."

I looked down and discovered that, at some point, I'd cleared my plate. I pushed it away, leaning back into the rickety old chair. "Thank you, Seb. For coming over."

He gifts me with a beautiful, wide smile. "Anytime. Let me do the dishes. Guess you're not up for The Blacklist, huh?"

I feigned disbelief. "Are you kidding me? I'm wide awake now."

Since I don't have a TV, I have to rely on the internet on my laptop and Seb's reliable downloads for my TV series fix.

"Good. You just get comfortable on the bed and I'll be there in a sec," he let me know, starting to clear the table. "Try not to fall asleep."

I dutifully ambled to my room and slid under the covers, making space for Sebastian. Well, as much space as I could make in my little sleigh bed. The scent of the dry lavender I put under my pillows filled the air. It was very soothing, and something Aunt Stacy had taught me.

Of course, I fell right asleep.