Page 9 of Bleeding Blackheart

I wait by for a few minutes, and she hobbles back over to me, placing my food on my placemat.

She did a good job. This sandwich is certainly prettier than anything I’ve ever made. I pick it up, getting ready to dig in when she huffs. “Don’t you have anything you want to say to me?”

I look at the angry little lady in front of me, gripping the plate of food she made for herself. I know exactly what she wants. And she deserves a thank you. But she won’t be getting one. Smiling at her, I shake my head. “No.”

I’ve almost got the sandwich to my lips when she spits on it.

This little bitch spat on my sandwich. When I look up into her eyes, they’re glowing. The sun shines throughmy windows, and she looks angelic almost, with a white bandage on her head wearing my white shirt.

She’s so proud of herself. Thinking that this is supposed to turn me off. As if I haven’t shared spit with a woman before. I’ll show her that she doesn’t know who the fuck she’s messing with.

Holding my sandwich in my left hand, I bring it to my lips slowly and run my tongue over the spot that she soiled. Her look of victory falls from her face like shattered glass, and I lick over the spot a few more times, making out with the fresh bread.

She curls her lip upward and sits across from me. “You’re disgusting.”

Instead of knocking her plate off the table like I want to, I preoccupy myself with my own meal, knowing deep down that she’s only being so difficult because I’m driving her to be that way.

We eat together in silence, and I’m reminded that I can’t remember the last time I shared a meal with a woman. I’ve certainly never had a woman in this house. It’s been just me and my animals for the past twelve years. Twelve years since I survived my suicide attempt. Twelve years since I’ve been inside a woman.

Montana shuffles in her seat, and I get a whiff of my lavender soap she used. It smells good on her.

I finish my food before her, and when I’m done, I watch her eat. She won’t look at me. It’s like she hates the sight of me. It makes me more self-conscious than I care to admit.

Once she finishes her food, I grab our plates and get out more water from the fridge. I have no desire to take care of her, but I don’t want to overexert her when we’re about to go out.

Passing her a bottle of water, I lean on the counter across from her. “Finish this up, and then we’ll go to town.”

Panic washes over her face. “Town? But my father—”

“Won’t find you. I’m taking you about an hour away from here. Opposite from the direction you came from. It’s a small town. No one will know you. Especially not since you’ve dropped a few pounds and changed your hair. And everyone knows me where we’re going. No one messes with me.”

She sighs and leans back in her chair. “You haven’t met my father, have you?”

“No. I have not.”

“I can tell.” She frowns, looking away. “My father isn’t scared of anything. And if he finds out, when he finds out you betrayed him, he’ll tie you down and cut out your guts while you’re still alive.”

“Won’t happen.” I won’t let him close enough for that to happen. I can handle myself. I’ve taken care of myself for my entire life.

She rolls her bright eyes again. “Suit your self, cowboy. But when I get you your money, you promise to take me wherever I want to go.”

I step up beside her chair. “If you get me my money, we’ll see.” I glance down at her swollen ankles. “Can you walk?”

She grimaces. “Not very well at the moment.”

“You’ll sit in the back of my truck, and I’ll drive slow. You can elevate your feet until we get where we’re going. What size shoe do you wear?”

“Nine.”

I should’ve gotten rid of Margaret’s shoes ages ago. And I did get rid of most of them.

But she had this pair of sandals she wore on our one year anniversary. It was the only time she ever wore them. And she was a size nine.

“Come with me down the hall, and I’ll get you some shoes.”

She stands up carefully and walks in front of me to the side. She needs better shoes than these sandals, but at least she won’t go into town barefoot. The only other shoes of my late girlfriend that I have are a few pairs of high heels she never wore. I remember the day I got her shoes fromher house. It was rainy and dreary, and I’d just got through burying her after I found her mangled body in her kitchen. Later that day, her house was up in flames. My father was the man who killed her.

We make it to the spare room at the end of the hall, and I open the door slowly, ushering Montana in ahead of me. She lets out a sigh of relief when her feet touch the bare carpet, and I step in beside her going up to the small pile of shoes against the wall.

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