Page 45 of Liar Byrd
I hate myself all over again for being so pathetic. I should be fighting him with everything I have, flinging a bottle at his head or spraying bleach in his eyes. But Jeremiah sucked out every bit of strength and fight in me. I have nothing left, just a violent desire for everyone to leave mealone.
His grip tightens, and he tilts my head until we’re eye to eye. “Why?”
I shake my head, confused. “What?”
“Why’d you clean it?” His voice is gruff but not angry, and when he releases my chin, I let myself relax a little.
That’s a good sign. If he wanted to hurt me, he’d already be doing it, wouldn’t he?
I gulp. “I’m the maid.”
“A maid cleans the house, and Lydia never went near my bike.” He scowls at me. “Not that I’d have let her; that girl can’t clean for shit.”
“I won’t touch it again. Sorry.” I’m slipping away when his hand circles my wrist and halts me.
He leans in close, his lips brushing the shell of my ear when he growls. “Stop.Running. I amtryingto thank you.”
I stare up at him. “What?”
His irritation is plain to see. Irritation is good. Anger is bad.
“I keep trying to thank you, and every time you see me, you sprint away from me. You are giving me a complex.”
“You sounded mad.”
“Iwasmad. Because you keep running away from me. Do you know how it feels for someone to take one look at you and run the other way?” He pauses for my response, but I’m too shocked by the way this conversation is going to give him one. “Not great. That’s how.”
“Oh.”
He releases my wrist now that I’ve stopped trying to run away. “Did Nance tell you to?”
I shake my head. “I’d finished all the cleaning Nance wanted me to do and…”
He raises an eyebrow. “You decided to go looking for more work?”
“Yeah.” I press my back to the doorframe when he glares at me. “What did I say this time?”
He steps back and turns around, walking away. And he says without turning around. “Don’t clean my bike again.”
I nod even though he can’t see me. But he must know I nod, or he doesn’t care, because he continues down the stairs, leaving me more confused than I’ve ever been.
Three days later, I’ve finished all my cleaning for the day, I’ve helped Nance in the kitchen, and I’m having thoughts I need to not be having again.
It’s filthy.
I wouldn’t have done it if it weren’t so filthy, but I passed the open garage and I couldn’t help but notice there’s mud everywhere, and there’s nothing to do, so I clean Makhi’s bike.
Again.
It’s sparkling when a small sigh makes me whirl around.
Makhi stands in the garage doorway with a bucket of steaming water beside his booted feet, a cloth gripped in one large fist, and a look I cannot decipher stamped on his handsome face.
I hide my washcloth behind my back. I’m not sure why. From my bucket of water and my dirt-splattered apron, it’s clear that I’m responsible for his sparkling bike.
He stalks toward me, dropping his cloth on the floor.
I don’t bother running. There’s nowhere to run to with the door behind him.
