Page 21 of Marx

He says nothing, just turns the water on. We wait in silence for it to heat up before he turns to me and grips the hem of my shirt. He gently tugs it, letting me tuck my good arm in through the arm hole before he moves it over my head, then lets it fall from my bad arm. His warm hands land on my shoulders as he gently turns me to face the shower, unfastening my bra with lightning speed, then pushing it forward, letting it fall from me onto the floor.

“I can do the rest, thank you,” I say, my voice thick with emotion. Mortified that I shared one of my secrets, and raw, so raw at the memory.

A grunt sounds out before I hear the door click shut. I drop my pants and panties then step into the small shower stall. I manage to wash my body with one hand, trying to avoid my dressings. It’s difficult, but I’m sure Switch will be able to patch them up if I get them too wet. I decide to go for broke and try washing my hair too, but it’s a big job and halfway through I can feel myself starting to flag. I’m puffing a little, and my good arm aches.

“Lovely, are you alright?”

“Yeah, um, just trying to rinse my hair,”

I’m certain I hear a grumble from the other side of the door, and then I hear it on the other side of the stall. A squeak escapes me and I feel myself going down, down, down, down until large hands grip me.

“Shit, fuck, I just can’t stop fucking up,” Marx curses. “Sorry,” he says to me. “Sorry, I gave you a fright. Um, why don’t youturn around and I’ll rinse out your hair? Um, no need to feel shy, I’ve seen all this before. Nothing special, same stuff, different woman, you know?”

I freeze and Marx sucks a breath in, “Fuck! I’m sorry I didn’t mean-”

“It’s fine!” I rush to say. My cheeks heat and my lower lip starts to tremble.

It’s nothing, he’s seen it all before, I’m not special. I repeat the words over and over until I’ve blinked away the tears threatening to fall. If there was ever a reason to move on and find myself a good man, it’s being told by the one you used to have feelings for that they’ve been with so many women that what I’ve got is nothing special. The same shit, so to speak. Gah, I don’t even know why it affected me. I’ve had worse insults thrown at me. Weak. Barren. Frigid. Disgusting. Good for nothing.

“Is this OK?” Marx’s murmur breaks me out of my spiralling thoughts.

“Yes, that’s fine.”

“Good. It’s, um, I think it’s done. Let’s get you dried and dressed. We have dinner and then Church.”

I nod and follow his lead. He wraps me in a huge, fluffy towel and, with mechanical motions, he has me dry without sparing me a passing glance. I guess that’s better than being ogled by someone who doesn’t like you like that.

He helps me dress in a soft gown, then my fluffy robe because, “ You’ll be in bed after Church, no use getting changed again,” then back in the wheelchair.

I’m emotionally exhausted after that shower and yet I feel better than I have in days. Now all I have to do is get better so I can move on with my plans for my life.

Marx

What the actual fuck is wrong with me? Why do I keep saying horrible shit to Lovely? I must have some type of brain damage because there is no way,no wayI just blurted out that I’ve seen it all before and it’s nothing special. Because that’s the exact opposite of what I think. She’s breathtakingly beautiful, and I’m a pig for admiring her. When I stepped into the bathroom and saw her dark hair plastered to her back, water sluicing down her curves, I almost swallowed my tongue. That was after I’d left the bathroom to beat the hell out of the mattress on the bed when she revealed that she’d been used as a sex toy by her husband. Perhaps that’s what had me blurting shit out? Not only was her husband a filthy animal, using her in public for his own sick desires, but here I was ogling her like a teenage boy with the Sears catalogue. Clearly my dumb brain thought the best way to make her feel comfortable was to say some fucked up shit.

I growl at myself and take a deep breath. I need to pull myself together. Roman as per usual decided to piss me off and offer some level of help, but there’s always something needed in return. I’ll have to run that by my men and women. Joy for me. At least Sniper seems to be doing marginally better after the conversation we had.

“You alright, brother?”

Sniper looks at me, his dark eyes giving away nothing. “Not really, Pres. How the fuck do I choose between my patch, and my blood brother?”

“Why do you need to?”

He gives me a bored look, before gazing out to the backyard. This is the second time today I’ve found myself on this swing seat, and I have to say it probably won’t be the last time I’ll sit here, thinking.

“There’s no way he can walk away from this.”

I run a hand down my beard, “Is he the reason you dislike cartels?”

He shakes his head, eyes never moving from the horizon. “I hate them because the Cordozas kidnapped my baby sister when I was away on tour. Refused to give her back even when we paid the ransom. They got her hooked on drugs, then charged my family for the cost of them. The debt was so huge there was no way my family could cover it. Not even with my salary.” He lets out a deep breath. “I came home for leave, found my mother and younger siblings living in poverty, all the money I had sent went to the Cordozas to pay a debt that wasn’t ours. I decided to fight for her, bring her home, get her the help she’d need to heal.” He swallows, voice thick with grief. “The day I found her she was in a Cordoza whore house, four guys were running a train on her dead body. She vomited at some stage and aspirated.”

“Fuck, brother, I didn’t know, I’m so sorry.”

He turns his gaze to mine. “She was 14.”

I reach out and grip his shoulder. It’s all I can do, to pass my strength on to him. “What would you like to do?”

“I want to burn them all to the ground, but most of all, I want Joseph. I get to put him down. No one else.”

---