Precarious
Page 10
He’s studying me, his head tilted to the side. I keep going.
“Bad people choose to do the things they are doing, good people try hard to avoid being bad. They strive to be better, but, like I said, sometimes even good people can do bad things—it’s just that they do it with a different heart.”
He stares at me for so long I shift uncomfortably. “And what do you think I am?”
I’m shocked by his question. Yet I’m sure of my answer. “I think you’re a good person who did a bad thing, because of something that happened.”
He swallows and takes a few steps back before turning and walking to his bed. “Good afternoon, Ash.”
His tone tells me we’re done.
But my heart says otherwise.
I hear the uproar before I see any movement. I stand from the desk in the office, where I’m doing paperwork, and poke my head out of to see the guards dragging a struggling Beau down the hall. His face is dripping with blood, his eyes are swollen, and his fists are raw. My mouth drops open as they pass me.
I stand and rush out, running into Tristan.
“Out of the way, Ash.”
“What happened?” I ask, pointing to Beau.
“He got into a fight. We’re taking him to get cleaned up. If you can come and help out, that would be appreciated, because I’m putting in to get him moved. He’s causing too many problems.”
Too many problems? He’s been rather quiet, to be honest. The only problem he caused was because Tristan apparently went in and flogged him. I don’t have time to think about it. I hurry down the hall after the guards. We arrive in the medical office, and I step back as they chain Beau to the table, forcing him to sit.
“Where’s the nurse?” a guard barks.
Tristan turns to me. “Have you seen Kaitlyn?”
I nod. “She was at lunch, last time I heard. Did you want me to clean him up while we wait?”
Tristan stares at me, then grunts, “Yeah, I need to attend to the other prisoner. Larry, Tuck, you two need to stay in here with her.”
The other two guards nod, and Tristan pats my shoulder before disappearing out the door. I can still hear the commotion outside as I walk forward, gathering everything I’ll need. I feel Beau’s eyes on me as I move.
I place a tray of items far enough away from him so that he can’t reach, and then I fill a bowl full of saltwater and dip in a washcloth, turning to him. He’s messed up in a big way; his face is battered and bruised, and there’s both dried and fresh blood coating his cheeks and his lips. His left eye is swollen, but still slightly opened. With a swallow, I step forward so I’m in front of him.
He’s got his eyes trained on my face as I take another shaky step. My heart hammers as I lift the warm cloth to his eyes, gently placing it against his skin and wiping the grime away. I’m finding it difficult to breathe, my skin is prickling, and the thought of his eyes on me is giving me a flood of emotions I’ve never felt before.
It’s unnerving.
I’m fully aware he’s studying me. I try to concentrate on removing the dried blood, but it’s getting more and more difficult the longer his eyes stay locked on my face. His expression is so hard, yet there’s a depth to it that’s showing me more than he’s shown me in the last two weeks.
I reach down, taking his cuffed hands. I soak the washcloth, and then place it against his split knuckles. Whoever he beat, he did a good job of them, of that I’m sure. I notice as the blood is cleaned off his skin, that he’s got tattoos across his fingers that read, Lace.
“That’s a different tattoo,” I dare to say, as I continue cleaning.
“It ain’t none of your business,” he mutters.
Of course it isn’t.
I drop his hand and take the bowl, emptying it before refreshing the water. Then I take his other hand, cleaning it, too. I see he also has tattoos on these fingers, this hand saying Krypt. Interesting. I drop his hands and continue on with his face, focusing on the deep gash under his eye.
He flinches when I run the cloth over it, and I feel a puff of his warm breath hit my cheek. I realize I’m too close and go to step back, but he moves like lightning. His bound hands reach out and take one of mine, tugging me closer. His fingers are calloused and hard against my smooth flesh. I gasp and my eyes are wide as he brings me so close we’re nearly nose-to-nose.
He says nothing; he doesn’t need to. His eyes are on mine, his expression telling me everything he can’t. It screams don’t mess with me, as well as something else, something deeper—no doubt something about the guards that he wants me to know—and part of me wishes he could tell me. The guards jump into action quickly, jerking me backwards and securing him. His eyes don’t leave mine, even as they recuff his hands, this time behind his back.
“Don’t move again,” Larry barks.
With a swallow and trembling hands, I step back and continue cleaning his face. I decide while he’s here, and he can’t escape, I might as well ask some more questions. “Do you want to tell me why you got into a fight?”
He glares at me, but I continue. “Did he say something about your family?”
A flinch.
“About . . . your sister?”
He bares his teeth at me in a snarl that has me taking a step back. His look is murderous, and it stuns me for a moment. I catch my breath and take the step forward so I’m close and only he can hear me. “I get it. I understand how it feels to be angry at the world, to want revenge. You might think I’m here to make your life harder, but I’m not. I understand what you said—I’m taking notice. I hope you know that I’d never let anyone hurt you if I had a choice.”
“Bad people choose to do the things they are doing, good people try hard to avoid being bad. They strive to be better, but, like I said, sometimes even good people can do bad things—it’s just that they do it with a different heart.”
He stares at me for so long I shift uncomfortably. “And what do you think I am?”
I’m shocked by his question. Yet I’m sure of my answer. “I think you’re a good person who did a bad thing, because of something that happened.”
He swallows and takes a few steps back before turning and walking to his bed. “Good afternoon, Ash.”
His tone tells me we’re done.
But my heart says otherwise.
I hear the uproar before I see any movement. I stand from the desk in the office, where I’m doing paperwork, and poke my head out of to see the guards dragging a struggling Beau down the hall. His face is dripping with blood, his eyes are swollen, and his fists are raw. My mouth drops open as they pass me.
I stand and rush out, running into Tristan.
“Out of the way, Ash.”
“What happened?” I ask, pointing to Beau.
“He got into a fight. We’re taking him to get cleaned up. If you can come and help out, that would be appreciated, because I’m putting in to get him moved. He’s causing too many problems.”
Too many problems? He’s been rather quiet, to be honest. The only problem he caused was because Tristan apparently went in and flogged him. I don’t have time to think about it. I hurry down the hall after the guards. We arrive in the medical office, and I step back as they chain Beau to the table, forcing him to sit.
“Where’s the nurse?” a guard barks.
Tristan turns to me. “Have you seen Kaitlyn?”
I nod. “She was at lunch, last time I heard. Did you want me to clean him up while we wait?”
Tristan stares at me, then grunts, “Yeah, I need to attend to the other prisoner. Larry, Tuck, you two need to stay in here with her.”
The other two guards nod, and Tristan pats my shoulder before disappearing out the door. I can still hear the commotion outside as I walk forward, gathering everything I’ll need. I feel Beau’s eyes on me as I move.
I place a tray of items far enough away from him so that he can’t reach, and then I fill a bowl full of saltwater and dip in a washcloth, turning to him. He’s messed up in a big way; his face is battered and bruised, and there’s both dried and fresh blood coating his cheeks and his lips. His left eye is swollen, but still slightly opened. With a swallow, I step forward so I’m in front of him.
He’s got his eyes trained on my face as I take another shaky step. My heart hammers as I lift the warm cloth to his eyes, gently placing it against his skin and wiping the grime away. I’m finding it difficult to breathe, my skin is prickling, and the thought of his eyes on me is giving me a flood of emotions I’ve never felt before.
It’s unnerving.
I’m fully aware he’s studying me. I try to concentrate on removing the dried blood, but it’s getting more and more difficult the longer his eyes stay locked on my face. His expression is so hard, yet there’s a depth to it that’s showing me more than he’s shown me in the last two weeks.
I reach down, taking his cuffed hands. I soak the washcloth, and then place it against his split knuckles. Whoever he beat, he did a good job of them, of that I’m sure. I notice as the blood is cleaned off his skin, that he’s got tattoos across his fingers that read, Lace.
“That’s a different tattoo,” I dare to say, as I continue cleaning.
“It ain’t none of your business,” he mutters.
Of course it isn’t.
I drop his hand and take the bowl, emptying it before refreshing the water. Then I take his other hand, cleaning it, too. I see he also has tattoos on these fingers, this hand saying Krypt. Interesting. I drop his hands and continue on with his face, focusing on the deep gash under his eye.
He flinches when I run the cloth over it, and I feel a puff of his warm breath hit my cheek. I realize I’m too close and go to step back, but he moves like lightning. His bound hands reach out and take one of mine, tugging me closer. His fingers are calloused and hard against my smooth flesh. I gasp and my eyes are wide as he brings me so close we’re nearly nose-to-nose.
He says nothing; he doesn’t need to. His eyes are on mine, his expression telling me everything he can’t. It screams don’t mess with me, as well as something else, something deeper—no doubt something about the guards that he wants me to know—and part of me wishes he could tell me. The guards jump into action quickly, jerking me backwards and securing him. His eyes don’t leave mine, even as they recuff his hands, this time behind his back.
“Don’t move again,” Larry barks.
With a swallow and trembling hands, I step back and continue cleaning his face. I decide while he’s here, and he can’t escape, I might as well ask some more questions. “Do you want to tell me why you got into a fight?”
He glares at me, but I continue. “Did he say something about your family?”
A flinch.
“About . . . your sister?”
He bares his teeth at me in a snarl that has me taking a step back. His look is murderous, and it stuns me for a moment. I catch my breath and take the step forward so I’m close and only he can hear me. “I get it. I understand how it feels to be angry at the world, to want revenge. You might think I’m here to make your life harder, but I’m not. I understand what you said—I’m taking notice. I hope you know that I’d never let anyone hurt you if I had a choice.”
