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When I didn’t hear a response, I spun around.
The empty stool greeted me. No beaten boy or wet, bloodstained t-shirt. Only a few droplets of his blood on the floor.
Like a spook, Country had disappeared.
“WHY ARE YOU ALWAYSbrawlin’, Sweet Pea?” My father shook his head, pressing the cotton swab soaked in hydrogen peroxide to the cuts on my knuckles.
With a wince, I shrugged.
“I know you can get meaner than a hornet when someone insults the club. Is that what happened this time?”
I sighed. “No.”
“Then tell me why I’m cleanin’ blood off my little girl.”
That comment made me snort. I was sixteen. Almost seventeen years old. I hadn’t been little since ... well, it’s best not to think about the details.
“Carmichael boys were beatin’ on the new kid. I don’t like bullies.”
My dad smirked. “I can’t fault you that one.”
I didn’t think he would.
“Tell me about this new kid.”
“He’s different,” I began, thinking about Country. “He has a nervous twitch—old clothes. I don’t think he cares about style unless you count his cowboy boots and hat,” I observed. “He’s quiet and thoughtful. I’ve seen him around school. He doesn’t say much, but his blue eyes don’t seem to miss a thing going on around him.”
My father placed a bandage over the deepest cut and dipped his chin, dropping a quick kiss on my forehead. He backed away, putting the supplies back in the bin we kept under the bathroom sink for easy access.
The members of this family had a frequent need for it.
He leaned against the bathroom wall, staring at me with one of his parental brow arches that meant he could see between all the lines and wasn’t fooled by my lack of detail.
“What’s his name?”
“Spook. Well, I call him Country because of his accent, cowboy hat, and boots.”
“Spook?” He frowned. “Where does he live?”
“I don’t know, dad. Somewhere within two miles of the school. He doesn’t ride the bus or drive.”
“And you said he was here? You brought him into the house?”
There was the look of disapproval I knew was coming.
“Dad. He was hurt. They slashed his stomach with a knife and beat the shit out of him. I thought he was going to pass out when his head slammed against the ground.”
“Well, shit.” My father sighed. “Don’t like knowing this kid has been in my home and I haven’t met him. Need to see into his eyes and get a feel for him.”
“Yeah. I know. The eyes never lie.”
I thought of Country’s brown eyes and how they showed a wide range of emotions in the short time I spent with him. The depths held mystery, sadness, and resilience—an intriguing mixture. He was complicated and secretive, but I didn’t mind.
“They don’t,” my father agreed. “Bring him around. I want to see this Spook.”
“I don’t know if I’ll ever talk to him again.” Really. He disappeared so fast it was almost eerie.
My father snorted. “You will.”
