Page 4 of Bones
It seems I made the right decision when a moment after I step back through the door, it’s opening again behind me. I keep my head down, making sure I don’t make direct eye contact in case they deem that disrespectful and worthy of punishment.
“Beth,” his voice calls out from behind me, and I know exactly who it is. My body responds instinctively, tightening up and bracing for impact. It takes me a moment to realize he’s called me Beth. A weird sense of déjà vu hits me, even though I can’t recall ever being called that. I slowly turn toward him but don’t lift my head. Choosing to watch his feet instead as he takes two steps toward me, the toes of his black boots entering my view. I remain still, praying that he hadn’t actually seen me outside about to run. I know it’s impossible, but I wish it anyway.
His finger hooks gently under my chin as he lifts my face to meet his. The words that leave his mouth shocking me to my core. My eyes widen slightly before I lock the emotions behind the blank wall that keeps me safe.
“I wouldn’t have blamed you for running.” His tone is soft and kind, like he truly means it. But there’s no way. This is just some elaborate trick to get me to let my guard down, to trust him. My posture remains locked as all my muscles coil in on each other, bracing for what I know is to come. I remain silent, not willing to admit my transgression. Plus, I’m not sure he’s expecting a response. His eyelids lower partially and I see a sadness flicker across his face for a brief moment before he quickly covers it. “I will get you to trust me.” He promises. But must sense the new tension that’s tightening my body because he quickly continues. “Not to try and manipulate you but just because I truly want to help you. I want you to believe what I’m saying to you is genuine because it is.” He blows out a breath and looks away like even he knows that’s not in the realm of possibility. His fingers slide off my chin, as his arm drops to his side, his whole demeanor implying defeat.
He's quite a conundrum. I can’t figure him out. One minute he’s yelling at the girls already here, then he’s trying to comfort me and gain my trust. I don’t know what to make of it. It all feels like a trap. He breaks the tension in the air by switching the subject.
“Where are you from? Do you know your parents’ names so we can try to get you back in touch with them?” His hand that was just on my face reaches out slowly for my hand, allowing me to pull back if I don’t want the contact. Yet another contradiction. I squint my eyes, not even bothering to hide my skepticism, but allow him to grab my hand. I want to see what he will do if given just the smallest amount of trust. His eyes widen in surprise and an almost hopeful smile tilts his lips when he finally makes contact.
He gives me a gentle tug, guiding me over toward the kitchen chairs and out of instinct I go to drop to my knees on the floor. But as if he anticipated this response, his grip tightens on my hand, not allowing me the slack to lower all the way down. “Sit on the chair…” He almost growls before quickly adding, “Please.” In a softer tone. He shakes his head and repeats himself again. “Please, sit in the chair.” He steps back, allowing me the space to pull the chair out while he takes the chair opposite mine. I continue to watch him wearily as he adjusts, leaning all the way back in the chair, causing the front legs to raise as he gets comfortable with his large muscular arms crossing his chest like he’s got all the time in the world.
I finally sit down after I’ve decided that he probably won’t beat me for listening to him. The moment my butt hits the chair I hear a soft breath escape his lips like he was holding his breath that whole time. I tilt my head, my brows scrunched as I study him, waiting for his reaction, for some kind of response.
“Why didn’t you run?” He finally asks after a few long moments of silence and he seems genuinely curious, but not angry. I have no clue what to make of this strange man.
The way he’s talking to me, like I’m a person and not an object. Like I’m capable of emotions and logic and not just fulfilling the needs of others. It’s… unsettling. I’ve never had anyone speak to me like this. Well, other than the little girl who sometimes visits me in my dreams or in my subconscious states.
I decide to answer honestly. The worst that can happen is he can beat me, but at least then I would know his true intentions instead of this weird attempt at friendship. Beatings are nothing new. I’m almost eager to know what I’m up against, the contrast from what I’m used to makes me uncomfortable, the unknown. At least then I’ll know where I stand. “Because I don’t know what punishment I would receive for such an act.” My words are clipped and delivered as fact because they are. A moment later I hear the sound of the front legs of his chair connecting with the floor as he leans forward, his arms coming to rest on the tabletop. His eyes drilling into me.
“There would be no repercussions, no punishments. You’re not a prisoner here.” He pauses for a moment, assessing me before continuing. “But… I will admit, I’d be disappointed. I want to be able to give you as much help as I possibly can, and if you were to run, I wouldn’t be able to ensure your safety.” His soft gray eyes show no malice, no manipulation, delivered in the same factual state as mine. What the fuck is his game-plan? What does he gain from this? Does he want a willing participant? Does he get off on tricking woman into giving themselves to him before he uses them and takes what he wants? Feeling brave, I give up guessing and decide to just ask him. Let him show his true colors. They always do, eventually.
“What do you gain from helping me?” I raise an eyebrow suspiciously as I wait for his response, my arms crossing over my chest to protect myself if he decided to deliver a quick blow. His eyes close and I can’t tell if he’s trying to cover his immediate reaction or trying to not lash out at me and ruin his game too quickly.
“I get the privilege of gettin’ to know you. Of knowing that I helped someone who had a shit life, have a better one.” He doesn’t blink or look away and I’m even more confused. I don’t like not knowing what I’m up against. It was easier with my other master’s. I knew pretty quickly what they liked and disliked.
“I don’t need your help, and I won’t be your charity case so you or your guys can go around and say they did one good thing in your lives” My anger builds. I don’t know what the point is in all this, but I refuse to be pitied by anyone. I may have succumbed in order to survive but I am not weak. A large smile cuts across his face and his eyes darken slightly. And I think, this is finally it. The moment I pushed too far and will face the consequences.
“I’ve done some bad shit in my life, and I sure as fuck ain’t no saint. Never claimed to be. But trust me, no one’s coming to us lookin’ for handouts.” He chuckles like he knows something I don’t. “We are the Ruthless Heathens motorcycle club.” He points to the patch on his leather vest like I’m supposed to know what that means. He seems to read my mind, because a moment later he laughs harder. “We are a gang, little girl.” The pride in his voice shines brighter than in anything else he’s said thus far.
Is he trying to convince me he’s a good guy or a bad guy?
“Look…” He says, running his hands through his hair, clearly flustered. His confidence from moments ago, getting twisted up with his unsureness. “Let’s just say no one views us as the good guys, but that doesn’t mean we are the type to do the shit that’s been done to you. In fact, we have a very strict moral code, and fuckin’ with woman and children is a hard fuckin’ line we don’t cross.” His voice raises as he says the last line, like he’s truly disgusted and pissed off. “Fuck!” He hisses and I can’t tell if he’s mad at me, or because he seems to be digging himself a deeper hole. I almost want to laugh. He seems like he’s trying really hard to defend himself while also not trying to scare me.
“I’m fuckin’ this all up.” He finally concedes tossing his hands in the air and I give in to the chuckle that is fighting to break free, while he struggled to get his thoughts together. It feels good to laugh. I can’t remember the last time I’ve done this. Years? Ever? I honestly, can’t recall. He cracks a smile when he sees me laughing and it’s full of relief.
“What I’m tryin’ to say is we aren’t out to make ourselves look or feel better. I just genuinely wanna help you. No one as young as you should have to go through the hell, I can only guess you’ve been through.” His tone turns serious as his eyes remain locked on mine. Oddly there isn’t any pity in them, just resolve.
I shrug, it’s not like he can do anything about it. One of the people I was supposed to be able to trust, turned on me. The man I thought of as an uncle, used me, formed me into his perfect little plaything then sold me off when he was done with me. I don’t remember much from the beginning since I was only five at the time, but I feel like I’m finally starting to realize the hold he has over me, the unhealthy way I longed to make him happy, the way he turned my ignorance into admiration. Manipulated me into thinking what I was feeling from him was genuine love. And the sickest part… I still love him, even after all these years, even with the knowledge that I’ve gathered from the books I’d snuck.
One of the men who kept me for a while was a librarian and it frustrated him that I had very little knowledge of anything, my inability to barely hold up a conversation. He would leave me for days at a time with only a bunch of books to keep my company. It was better than any of the others and to this day he was still my favorite master. Although he took his pleasure from between my thighs same as the others, he left me alone long enough to gain knowledge which is something I’ll always be thankful for.
“Will you tell me?” he whispers, his voice barely breaking through my disturbing thoughts. I immediately shook my head, not comfortable enough to open up and tell him anything about myself. Not yet. “Will you at least tell me your age?” His hand reached across the table like he wants to grab my hand in comfort but quickly thinks better of it and pulls his hand back. It’s difficult to remember the exact date of my birth since I have no memory of ever celebrating it, but I’m pretty sure I was born on August 13, 1981, if the birth on the certificate one of my old owners insisted on getting to verify my youth, was legitimate.
“What year is it?” I ask quietly, embarrassed by my lack of this basic knowledge. His eyes widen before he coughs to cover his surprise.
“1996,” he says, and there is so much hurt on his face, I have no clue why.
I quickly do the math in my head, “Fifteen.” His eyes look me over, but not in the creepy way most men do, more in the assessing if what I’m saying is correct kind of way. I know I’m thin and pretty short, the lack of nutrition is not helping matters. He finally takes a deep breath and I wish I knew what he was thinking.
“Things will get better from here,” he says with a confidence I don’t believe. I remain silent, I’ll believe it when I see it. “Anyway, you hungry again?” He changes the subject like he can sense my unease. I stare at the table as my hands fumble on my lap. I am but I’m not allowed to ask for food. I only eat when others eat. “I’ll make something,” he finally says, not waiting for an answer before he’s standing and heading to the fridge to gather ingredients. It’s not long before there is a whole ham and cheese sandwich placed in front of me. I wait for him to take a bite of his before I pick mine up. It’s good. It might be a simple sandwich but at this point it might as well be a five-star meal.
We both eat in a somewhat comfortable silence, him not needing to fill it with mindless chatter, which I appreciate. He’s also not peppering me with tons of questions about what’s happened to me. He finally breaks the silence as he uses a napkin to wipe the crumbs off his chin, “What’s your favorite color?”
I lean back in my chair, shocked by the question and quite frankly unsure how to answer it. I don’t remember ever being able to think of something so frivolous as a favorite color. The only thing I can think of is the glorious darkness that I slip into when I don’t want to be where I am. “Black.” I finally whisper. His gray eyes flicker with a mischievous glint.
“You’ll fit in just fine here.” He smirks, as he gestures down to his all-black clothes. A weird sort of ache blossoms in my chest and I can’t place what’s caused it. I gently rub at my chest, hoping it’s just heartburn. He glances behind him at the slowly rising sun that’s barely breaking over the trees that line the large property. “Why don’t you go get some rest. I’m sure you could use it; it’s been a long fuckin’ night.” His smile is soft and encouraging, but how could I sleep in a place where I don’t know who will hurt me next, or for what? The thought sobers me. I need to keep in mind that I don’t know what these men are capable of, just because Bones is acting nice now doesn’t mean that he is.
