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I sigh, hastening my step. Getting back to my shack has never been more important.
Chapter 9
Dex
The girl is sitting in the chair I usually sit in when I’m in Theron’s shack. She looks like… well, shit. Jus
t a thought. Not like I’d ever say it out loud. After what she’s been through, I’d look like a pile of shit, too. I’m sure of that.
There is only one other chair opposite her and I take it. I see Theron cleaned her up a bit. Her face is now blushing softly, even though her hair is a tangled mess. There is dirt underneath her fingernails. She’s probably dying for a shower. I knew I’d be if I was her.
“We got a shower in the back,” I tell her. “Theron will get you a towel and you can go use it any time you wish.”
She shows me her ragged clothes, then shrugs her shoulders.
“Clothes?” I ask. She nods. “Sure, we can get you some.”
She doesn’t smile. She probably doesn’t know that I saved her. It doesn’t look like she remembers.
“You know, I’m the one who…” I start, but she isn’t listening.
I see her hand is up to her ear, her thumb and pinkie finger outstretched, the other three folded downward. She’s pretending that she’s holding a phone.
“You wanna call someone?” I ask.
She nods again quickly. Her eyes light up and I see that underneath all that dirt and messy hair, she must be even more gorgeous than I thought she was. She probably cleans up pretty good.
“Mom….” she speaks a little and it sounds more like wow, but I understand her.
“Of course, you can call your mother,” I tell her. “But I doubt it’s advisable for you to talk long enough to explain what happened to you.”
Her hand quickly flies up to her cheek. The bandages are tight. Theron hasn’t told me the extent of her injuries, but if she can’t talk properly, they hurt her good. Rage fills me up again, just thinking of that guy being so rough with her. I regret taking it so easy on him. I should have fucking roughed him up so that the other guy would pick him up in pieces. Oh well. There’s always a chance of a rematch.
Her eyes fill up with tears, but she’s trying to resist crying. Women cry so easily. Too easily. When they do, I’m not around. All that unnecessary drama pisses me off. Men shout, we say things in the heat of the moment, even if it’s true, then that makes women cry even more. Nasty shit. Wouldn’t it be better without drama that we ourselves create and then wallow in it?
For a moment, I consider leaving and just letting Theron deal with the crying. I’m far better at bringing out other aspects of the female personality. Drama isn’t my thing. Theron has always been the one who picks up broken pieces and puts them back together. He’s got a knack for that.
And yet, I stay.
“Listen,” I start, trying to come up with a way to help her, “I can talk to her for you.” She gives me a confused look. “I can tell her where you are and that you’re OK. I suggest not telling her the whole truth though.” Another puzzled expression on that beautiful face that was now bandaged up, hiding half of it from me. “Maybe it’d be a better idea to tell them you had an accident and now you’re at some hospital in the middle of nowhere. They’ll probably want to come see you, but I’m afraid that’s not possible.” She raises her palms upward, voicing a silent question. “I’ll explain that later on. Just, trust me, OK? You want to let them know you’re fine, getting better I mean and as soon as you heal up, we can drive you back to the city, wherever you want to go. I just can’t have any outsiders wandering around here. It’s not safe.”
A shadow forms on her forehead and I know fear is creeping up on her again. I keep forgetting she’s paper thin right now. Like the flicker of a candle. One blow and she’ll be out. Her smiles are all on the inside now and yet, I saw her smile with Theron. But, this girl before me is bleeding emotionally, her invisible tears and blood spilling right onto the floor before me. I hesitate. I’m not used to dealing with broken things, broken people. I like things as a whole. Broken things agitate me too easily.
She tries to swallow, but it’s difficult. She then points at me and nods.
“Halk,” she whispers, the remnants of her voice echoing all around.
“Talk?” I ask, trying a smile. She nods, but no smile.
I look around and find a little notebook and a pen next to it. I get it and then place it before her.
“Right down your full name, your mother’s name and anything you’d like me to say.”
She doesn’t need to be told twice. She acts immediately. A flicker of a smile rests in the corner of my lips. It’s joy at seeing others do what I say. Most of the time what I say is necessary and I hate having to explain that to someone. At other times, what I say is simply… pleasurable. I watch as her pen jolts up and down on the paper, her left hand working quickly, leaning slightly to the right. Looking at it upside down, I notice it’s in cursive. Crap. Will I even be able to read it?
She finishes quickly and slides the notebook back to me, but doesn’t give me the pen. She keeps it in her left hand. She uses it to tap at her name. Isabel McCormick. Her mother’s name is Rosa. She points at a few other things. Mention Vanessa. Sister. Tone down the injury. Emphasize everything is OK.
“Got it,” I nod.
