Page 44 of Liar Byrd
“Hey!”
I recoil from the wood.
“Open up.” The wood creaks as if he’s leaning against it.
I retreat another step, my heart pounding in my chest.
“Look, I’m not going to hurt you. Just open up, okay? I wanna talk to you for a second.”
If I’d known the matte black Yamaha was his, I wouldn’t have touched it. But I’ve spent the last four days skulking in the shadows, cleaning anything and everything, just without the MP3 player that distracted me so badly when I backed into the office and discovered three men staring at me.
Nance told me I was cleaning like I was a girl possessed. I almost laughed because she was right. When I clean, I can’t think, and thinking hurts, so I clean.
It was only a matter of time before I ran out of rooms to dust and sheets to change.
I’d seen it as I finished polishing the garden windows.
A garage.
I’d stuck my nose inside, not expecting much, and seen the dirt-smeared bike. Then I’d done the only thing a girl does when she’s cleaning to avoid dealing with emotions she’s not ready or willing to face.
I’d armed myself with a bucket of water and scrubbed and polished that bike until it shone.
I probably got water somewhere I shouldn’t have or caused some damage to his bike, which is why he’s so pissed at me.
“Fine, you win,” Makhi mutters. The door creaks again. Has he stopped leaning against it?
The soft sound of his footsteps moves away from my closed door. My shoulders relax, but I stay right where I am, hiding in my room like a little mouse. Too scared to even squeak until lunchtime when Nance calls up to tell me it’s time to come and eat.
Makhi is leaning on the wall just outside the guest bedroom, arms crossed.
I just spent the last thirty minutes dusting a room that did not need dusting. The reason I’m on the third floor in the farthest room from the stairs is to hide from him.
He cocks his head. “You cleaned my bike.”
We’re on the third floor. Alone.
I dart a rapid glance down the hall and prepare to run.
“Don’t.”
I flinch, heart pounding and blood rushing in my head.
Straightening, he uncrosses his arms and moves toward me.
I retreat, my back bumping against the doorframe of the room I just cleaned, leaving me nowhere to go.
The skin on his arms is tan, and he smells slightly smoky.
“Sorry if I broke your bike,” I whisper, staring at the ground.
I brace myself for a fist, a slap, or maybe something worse. Makhi isn’t big like Jeremiah or his acolytes, but he waited until I was on the third floor to corner me. I prepare myself for more pain. More hurt. That seems to be all I deserve.
“You didn’t break anything.”
He’s not shouting now. There’s no anger in his voice, but maybe he wants to be quiet so no one can hear what he’s about to do to me.
His fingers grip my chin, and I cower as a small whimper slips out. He pauses for a beat, and I desperately wish I could look up into his face and know what he’s thinking.
