ARTHUR

I wake up the next morning—real morning, with sunlight behind the blackout blinds—in Gilbert's bed, which is rather startling. I look around the room, because it feels very intimate, being in a man's bedroom like this—but he's not here. It's just me, in the middle of the bed. It's nice here, in this bed. Not like the one Alfred bought for us, designed specifically on either side for our respective . . . what are they called . . . spinal somethings. The bed cost thousands, just like everything else in the ridiculous house. That's the difference between here and there. There, it was the kind of life you would see in a magazine. In a commercial aimed at people who want to get rich quick. Here, though, life is real. It's flawed, strange, dirty, comfy. Terrifying. But it's all real. Anything could happen.

I get up and go have a shower. I try to shower as quickly as possible, so I don't have to see myself naked. I happen to glance downward while I'm scrubbing, and I see that penis, the pink fleshy thing that used to fill me with disgust. Now, as I look down at it, I feel and odd surprise. I'd forgotten it was there.

Happiness surges. One day, I'll look down and only see my legs, nothing between them but soft petals. Oh, how lovely that would be.

Soon, soon. Please, soon.

I get dressed and go downstairs. Gilbert is nowhere to be found, but there is a peanut butter sandwich in clear film waiting on the table. Did he make this for me? I'll have to thank him, when he turns up. I eat it and leave the plastic in the bin. I wait a few minutes more, then decide it's time for a tour of the Bel . . . Biels . . . of Gilbert's house.

I really need to have him write his name down for me sometime.

I walk around the house, silent in my polka dot socks. There's the kitchen, the living room, a little porch before the door where Gilbert keeps a pair of winter boots and a big overcoat he would look very handsome in. Upstairs, there's just the bedroom, the bathroom, and a spare room. Tiny, with shelves of extra cereal, soup, shampoo. There are no decorations around the house, no pictures or anything. No sign of the personality of the guy who lives here. Maybe that's why he has so much personality, because he keeps it all inside him instead of painting it over his surroundings.

He's so nice, you would never think he was a hit man. But there's one part of the house I haven't seen yet. The place where his violence calls home.

The basement.

I go to the basement door, hidden in the back of the house, away from everything else. It has a lock on it, but I can see it locks from out here, not inside. Does he keep people down there when he isn't with them? Does he starve them, make them bleed out while he's running errands? Come back home with a loaf of bread and milk and go downstairs to check on his victim?

He's so nice, but he has another side to him, and it's evil.

Like Alfred.

Like my stepfather.

How do I surround myself with these nice/evil men? How does that happen?

Gilbert doesn't want to hurt me. Gilbert wants to help me. That's what I have to keep in mind.

Do you have proof?

I can't think like that. If I do, I'll go mad. I'll end up dead in some back alley behind a bar. Or dead, bleeding from the wrists in Alfred's bathtub.

Oh, please let Gilbert be a real miracle, not an awful one like Alfred. Please, God or whoever else. Let me have one more chance.

I bury my fear and open the basement door. It doesn't have the basement smell I'm used to, the cold dampish concrete smell. This one just smells like paint and some metal, iron possibly, a rusty kind of scent.

I have no idea what to expect, but I'm surprised. Pleasantly surprised. There are no corpses or blood spatters or congealed organs. There's a counter with a sink on one wall, some chairs over in the corner (covered in tarps; I don't want to know why) and there is Gilbert, lying on the bench of a . . . well, I'm not sure what it's all called, but the thing he's lifting over his head is a barbell, and it looks really heavy. I watch his sepia-lamp-lit muscles flex and strain under the weight as he lowers, lifts, puffs out breath and sucks it in again, then puts the bar onto its resting place with a metal clang and sits up.

He is extremely shirtless. The lighting and sheen of sweat make his muscles look even better than normal. I feel something in my inner thighs, a quickening I've never experienced before. Looking at him makes me feel breathless, even though he's the one panting.

"Hey, Kirkie," he says, wiping his forehead with the back of his hand. He leans to one side, still straddling the bench, and picks up a glass of water, which he drains in one go. "Sleep okay?"

"Very well, thank you." I'm working on my voice, trying to make it lighter without just whispering or sounding whiney. "Why was I in your bed?"

"You, uh, seemed kinda cramped on the couch, so I thought maybe you'd be more comfy in the bed. That couch is too small to be a bed. You can have mine whenever you want."

I smile faintly. "Thank you, Gilbert. But . . . you don't mind sharing?"

He raises his eyebrows. "Who, me? Mind sharing? Hell no, little lady. I'm the best sharer in the whole world. Didn't I tell ya, I'm the awesomest guy you'll ever meet? An awesome guy is always willing to share. It'd be my pleasure. So long as you don't mind sharing, too."

Do I mind sleeping with him? No, not in the slightest. All I can think about now is how nice it would be to touch his abdomen, rest my cheek against his chest, listen to his heart thump under my ear.

Well, maybe after he showers.

Or maybe while he showers . . .

"I wouldn't mind sharing," I tell him, smiling wider this time. "It's easier to sleep when someone is next to you. And you make me feel safe already, so I won't be afraid at all, if we slept together." My heart jumps into my throat, and my cheeks burn in embarrassment. "Oh, I mean—sleep beside each other. Not together. I mean . . ."

Gilbert chuckles. "Relax, sweetheart. I know what you mean."

I'm comforted by the warmth of his reddish gaze, but I have to look away from it. My eyes go to the tarp-covered chairs in the corner. "What do you do down here?"

The friendliness in the air fades. Gilbert's voice gets a little dark. "Bad things. Do you really wanna know?"

I do, and I don't. I want to be honest with me, but I don't want to be afraid of him. What if he tells me about this dark side of him, and it ruins the light side? What if . . .

No. He is who he is. If I can't accept him for it, that's my fault, not his. Right, Alfred?

I turn to look at Gilbert and nod, trying to be brave. "Yes, Tell me. I told you about the demon in me. Now tell me yours. I'm ready."

Gilbert stands up and slowly steps toward me, until he's less than a foot away. He smells like man, like hard work, and a bit like toothpaste. His brow is low on his eyes, very reluctant. "Promise . . ." He stops, then rushes on, "I know they say that bullshit about loving someone means letting them go, but . . . fuck. Just promise you'll stay with me until it's safe for you to go. Okay? You can hate me and spit at me, whatever, but promise you'll let me keep you safe."

He's so serious, almost desperate, that I meet his gaze. "Yes, of course. I promise. I'll stay with you, Gilbert."

He looks down at me, and for a second I think he might tear up. Then he nods. "Alright. Well, then. Lemme take ya into the fucked-up world of Gilbert 'The Prussian' Beilschmidt."