Page 53 of The Knucklebone Brothers

He turned back to me, his eyes dancing. "Should we get her cleaned up?" he asked Blythe, nodding towards me.

"I'll finish up here and meet you back there." Blythe responded with a matter of fact.

That was it. That was my out. I didn't wait for an answer. I turned on my heel and stormed out of the barn, my bare bloodied feet stomping on the dirt. I was angry, and confused, and I needed to get away from them. I needed to get away from the smell of death and the sight of them, and the way they made me feel.

Maverick just laughed, a loud, booming sound that echoed through the trees. He followed me out, grabbing my pile of clean clothes from the chair on his way. "Hey, wait up!" he called, his voice full of amusement.

I didn't answer. I just kept walking, my anger a fire in my belly, my steps quick and determined. I was going back to the trailer. I was going to wash this blood off my skin, and I was going to pretend like this never happened.

We reached the trailer, the storm clouds rolling in overhead, dark and heavy like a bruised sky. Maverick stepped in front of me still bloody, blocking my path, and shook his head. "No, I'll take it from here," he said, his voice firm. "You've done enough."

He kicked off his heavy bloodied boots then shirt and pants, tossing them aside without a care. He grabbed a dirty rag from a pile on the floor and a can of coffee grounds. He wiped his feet on the mat, the dirt and blood mixing with the grey fibers, and then looked up at me.

I stood there, watching him, my mind went fuzzy. He was a work of art, a body carved of muscle and ink. His skin was tanned and scarred, a map of a life lived hard. I tried to look away, to focus on anything else, but I couldn't. I could see splatters of blood on his face, dark spots against his skin, and it made the green in his eyes pop even more. He looked dangerous, but he also looked... beautiful.

Without a warning, he reached down and scooped me up in his arms. I gasped, my hands flying to his shoulders. He carried me inside the trailer, his steps steady and sure, and placed me gently on the closed lid of the toilet. He turned on the shower, the water hissing to life, steam beginning to rise.

"I'm going to be right outside the door," he said, his voice low. "The window is barred, so don't try anything." He paused, looking at me. "Would you like a cup of coffee?"

I rolled my eyes, the anger from earlier fading just a little. "I don't want your damn coffee," I snapped, trying to keep my voice steady.

He laughed, a low, rumbling sound that vibrated through his chest. "Alright, alright," he said. "I'll take that as a yes."

I watched him go, the door clicking shut behind him. I stripped off my clothes, the blood sticking to my skin, and stepped into the shower, the hot water washing away the smell of death and the feeling of the holler.

I closed my eyes, letting it run over my face, trying to pretend I was somewhere else, anywhere else. That's when the bathroom door flew open with a loud bang, crashing against the wall. I jumped, letting out a little scream as the shower curtain was ripped back.

I spun around, my heart hammering against my ribs, but it was just Maverick. I let out a shaky breath, my shoulders slumping in relief and annoyance. "Dammit, Maverick," I snapped, clutching my chest. "You scared the hell out of me."

A wide, wicked grin spread across his face. "Good," he said, his voice a low, teasing rumble. "That's what I do, obviously."

His eyes roamed over my body, a hungry, predatory look that made my skin tingle and my stomach do a weird little flip. I tried to cover myself, turning away from him, crossing my arms over my chest.

"You're no fun," he chuckled, shaking his head. "Anyways, I went to town and got you some things." He held up a small, zippered bag, the fabric covered in a pattern of orange and black diamonds, with little pumpkins and a cat wearing a party hat and a collar. "Ladies are so complicated with all your gadgets and what-nots."

I looked at the bag, then back at him, a strange mix of annoyance and awkwardness. "Thanks," I mumbled, my voice barely audible over the sound of the water.

"Also, you need this," he said, handing me a bottle of shampoo and a matching bottle of conditioner. He held them up for me to see, then showed me the lotion and the little tube of cherry lip balm. He tossed them onto the small shelf built into the shower wall, then turned and walked out, just as quick as he'd come in, pulling the door shut behind him.

I stood there for a moment, staring at the closed door, the water still running over my body. I was surprised. No man had ever done anything like that for me before. I'd never seen it happen, not really. It felt super weird, a strange, confusing mix of kindness and creepiness that I didn't know how to process. I picked up the shampoo, the scent of pumpkin spice filling the air, and felt a weird pang in my chest.

I grabbed a rough towel from the small rack and wrapped it around myself, tucking the end in securely over my breasts. I took a deep breath, my hand on the doorknob, and pushed it open.

Maverick was standing right there, leaning against the opposite wall like he'd been waiting. He was dressed in black sweats and a black cut off Tshirt. In his hands were my clean clothes. I reached out and snatched them from him without a word, then turned my back to him, quickly dropping the towel and pulling on the clothes.

When I turned back around, he was holding the familiar, heavy waist chain. "I know you hate me," he said, his voice low and serious, "but that's okay. Soon we hopefully won't have to use these."

I just sighed, the fight draining out of me. I didn't say anything as I stood still and let him step forward. He moved behind me, the cold metal of the chain brushing against my skin as he fastened it around my waist. It felt... strangely routine.

He then led me into the kitchen area of the trailer. He had a pot of coffee on, the rich, dark smell filling the small space. He was pouring two steaming mugs when I finally found my voice again.

"Coffee at night?" I asked, a small, tired joke.

He glanced over his shoulder, a small smile playing on his lips. "Well, I like coffee during storms," he said.

Just as he spoke, a loud rumble of thunder rolled overhead, shaking the trailer slightly. He smiled wider, a genuine, excited look in his eyes. He finished pouring the coffee into two old clown mugs, the kind with a creepy, grinning face on the side, looking like antique collectibles, someone's grandpa might have had. He handed one to me, the warmth seeping into my hands.

I took a sip of the coffee, it was strong and bitter, just like him. He watched me over the rim of his own mug, his eyes unreadable.