Fiction: Safe House Sleepover

By Chris Brady

If sleep or silence didn’t come soon, Driver thought he’d go crazy. 

He craned his head up from the small-ass pillow to check the bedside clock, moving careful so as not to disturb Gunner, the big man sleeping next to him.  

3:17 A.M.

Damn, Driver thought. Motherfucker’s been snoring over five hours straight. 

He rested his head back down and stared up at the gleaming glow-in-the-dark stars tacked onto the ceiling. 

Gunner’s inhales whirred like a weed-whacker. His outbreaths cooed childlike, like the purrs he’d made the previous day when he choked the life out the bank manager’s throat. 

Claustrophobia crept as Driver suppressed urges to kick out his legs, readjust his pillow, and shove bath towels up the man’s fucking nose. 

He was stuck, trapped. All because Gunner had laid down some hardline bedtime rules before drifting off. And violating them would bring about a severe punishment. 

“See this line here?” Gunner had said, lying on his side. In the nightlight’s beam, his thick finger traced an invisible boundary that divided the double mattress in two. 

“You cross that shit, I’ll fuck you up. Hear? Like I did that man earlier today.” 

“Understood,” Driver said, trying not to sound terrified.

Then Gunner shot a look at the money bag that sat on the floor in front of the closet. Their guns lay atop the duffel. 

“I sleep light, too. I hear you sneaking out of bed, guess what?” 

“You’ll fuck me up?” 

“I’ll fuck you up.” 

Driver tried his best to put his partner’s mind at ease. 

“Hey, man. I won’t try nothing. Wouldn’t want to disrespect you or your sister, especially since she’s letting us lay low at her house for the night. Hope we didn’t put your niece out.” 

“She’s fine on the couch.” 

Then Gunner laid down, flat on his back. His big bare feet stuck out from the covers, hanging off the bed’s edge. 

When his bulk crowded across the imaginary border, Driver shriveled up like a salted snail to avoid an accidental brush that might get himself killed. 

Gunner reached over and knobbed off the nightlight. The room went dark. 

“Usually use a CPAP. But I’ll stay awake awhile, give you a head start before I start sawing logs.” 

“Appreciate that,” Driver replied.

Couple moments later though, Gunner fell asleep. His heavy snoring bombed the room’s silence.

Later, in the wee hours, Driver lay awake. Toiling up a plan to end his insomniac suffering.

He wanted to get up and escape the house. Preferably alive with a gun in his hand. He didn’t give a rat’s ass about the money no more. 

But it was tough choosing the best tactic: slink out from under the covers or bolt upright and attempt a fast break. 

Both were risky.

For a man his size, Gunner was lightning quick and predatorily dangerous. Driver saw it firsthand when that bank manager had tried rabbiting once the safe sprung open. Gunner had nabbed him fast, used his big mitts like bear paws. Sang out those creepy coos. 

The memory haunted Driver’s imagination, growing scarier with each passing minute.

It was time to make his play.

To test the soundness of Gunner's sleep, Driver moved his arm out until it floated over the edge of the bed.

The big man didn’t stir. Snores roared.  

With his other hand, Driver pulled down the top sheet, one inch at a time so as not to ruffle out a noise. It took five minutes before his body was uncovered. 

Still, Gunner slept. The snoring rhythm unbroken.  

Delicately, Driver let a leg dangle. His toes brushed carpet. 

But when he tried shifting his hips, a mattress spring uncoiled with a slight, muffled twang. 

A snore caught mid-intake. 

Driver froze. 

Gunner grunted like a boar and rolled over the imaginary line. He laid an arm over Driver's throat, pulled his body in close. 

The weed-wacker racket throttled off. Labored huffing took its place. 

Gunner’s muscled hold clenched viselike. 

The cooing grew louder, blowing foul morning breath into Driver’s nose.

Driver fixated the stars above him. They multiplied in number and burned supernova. 

As their brightness blurred into a single white void, Driver prayed for restful silence.

Chris Brady writes historical pulp and crime fiction. His latest story “Necropolis” is available in Starlite Pulp Review #5. He lives in Nebraska where he teaches history at a small college.