He hugged her closer. "And that's not all terrible. Tomorrow we're going to get this handled, all right? You're too shaky right now, and going out in the dark isn't a fabulous plan. We'll fight monsters in the morning."
The Morganville TV station was showing reruns of shows from three years ago. Shane put in a movie, and they talked some about . . . well, nothing, really, and kissed and stayed together until finally there was nothing to do but go to bed.
Shane walked her to her bedroom door, and before he could say anything, she said, "Stay, okay? I want you with me." He just nodded, and she saw relief on his face. He'd been going to ask, anyway.
They got undressed--mostly--in silence, and slipped under the blankets to hold each other. Claire was too worried and scared to want to do anything else, and she thought he felt the same, really; it was more holding on for comfort right now. And that was good. That was really good.
"I don't know what I'm going to do tomorrow," Claire said finally, into the dark. Shane's arms tightened around her, pulling her closer against his chest.
"Tomorrow, we're going to find out who can still fight, and get down there and pin Myrnin down and fix this," he said. "I swear. We're going to make this work."
"The two of us." "Yeah, the two of us, and whoever's left who's not bug-eyed crazy." He kissed the back of her neck, very gently. "It's going to be okay. Sleep."
And she did, warm in his embrace, and dreamed of silver rain.
THIRTEEN
Claire woke with the sun in her eyes, again, and for a precious, sweet second she just savored the warmth of it on her body, and the fact that Shane was still curled up against her back, one heavy arm around her waist. Then, regretfully, she turned over to face him. "Hey," she said. "Wake up, sleepyhead; we overslept."
Shane mumbled something and tried to put a pillow over his head. She pulled it off. "Come on; get up; we've got things to do!"
"Go 'way, Lyss," he moaned, and opened his eyes, blinked, and finally focused on her.
And then he completely, totally freaked out.
He actually flailed around, got caught in the covers, and, when he tried to get free, fell out of bed onto the floor. Claire laughed and leaned over the side, looking down at him. "Hey, are you . . . okay . . . ?"
The words died in her mouth, because he was still freaking. He writhed around in the covers, grabbed a blanket, and wrapped it around his body as he climbed to his bare feet, backing away from the bed.
And her.
He held out the hand that wasn't holding up the blanket, palm out. "Okay," he said. "Okay, think, Collins, think--yeah, okay, this is awkward, and I'm really sorry, because I'm sure you're really--Oh, man. What the hell did I do? Was there drinking? There must have been drinking."
"Shane?" Claire still had a sheet, and now she pulled it over herself, suddenly cold and feeling very exposed. "Shane--"
He was still backing away, looking panicked and deeply uncomfortable. "So, we've obviously been formally introduced at some point in my insane drinking binge. Uh, hi. Look, you've got to keep it down, okay? My parents will kill me if--" He stopped and looked around the room. "Oh, shit. This is not my room, is it? This is yours. As in, I never went home, all night. My dad is going to--" He squeezed his eyes shut. "Pants. I need pants. Where are my pants?"
Claire felt like her heart was breaking. Really, truly shattering into sharp, jagged, bloody pieces. She wanted to scream, and cry, and most of all, she wanted this not to be happening. She couldn't bring herself to say anything, and he ignored her totally to look around. He found his pants and T-shirt, and awkwardly put on his pants under the cover of the blanket before dropping it. Before he got his shirt on, he turned back to look at her, and it hurt, it hurt so badly to have him see her like that and not know her at all.
Her utter, horrified misery must have shown in her face, because his expression softened a little bit. He took a couple of steps toward the bed and said, "Um, look--I know. . . . I'm sorry; I'm probably a complete douche bag for doing this to you, and I promise, this isn't . . . I don't really get drunk off my ass and hook up like this, and you seem . . . you don't seem like the type. I mean, you're pretty; I don't mean you're not--I'm sorry; I suck at this. But I have to get home, right now." He pulled his shirt on and looked for shoes, which he slipped on without socks or even bending over to tie them. "Look, I'll call you, okay? Uh . . . your name is . . ."
"Claire," she whispered, and tears broke free and started streaming down her face. "My name is Claire. This is my fault." "Hey, don't do that, don't--I'm sorry. It's not your fault. You seem"--he bent over and awkwardly kissed her, and it felt like he was a stranger--"nice. I promise I'll talk to you later. We'll figure this out. Oh, Jesus, did I have a . . . Did we take precautions or . . ." He shook his head. "Not now. I can't think about this right now. I have to go. Later."
"Wait!" she wailed, as he opened her bedroom door and ran out down the hall. "Shane, wait!" He didn't. She grabbed up her jeans and shirt from the floor, threw them on, stepped into her shoes, and ran after him. "Shane, please don't--"
He was standing in the living room, staring around, and when she came clattering breathlessly down the steps, he turned to look at her again. This time he didn't seem as confused. But he didn't seem to be back to himself, either. "This is Michael's house," he said. "What are we doing here?"
"Shane--Shane, please listen to me; we live here! With Michael! And Eve!"