Page 46 of Forty

I straighten my shirt and rap twice on Heavy’s door. “And Wash? Don’t touch her. Anyone touches her, they die.”

6

NEVAEH

Itwist the knob again and bang on the door until the flat of my palm stings. Forty locked me in. That heavy-handed, ungrateful asshole locked me in.

In high school, I always pictured him as a Wild West gunslinger, the dusty man of few words who rolls into town alone, saving the day. His clothes were frayed and faded, his truck was rusted, but what he had, he cared for. He didn’t say much, so when he did, you listened.

I guess when you hone that personality with years of military training, you get a cold-hearted asshole. Insert dick in pants. Engage zipper. Mission complete.

There’s a spare toothbrush in the medicine cabinet.Jerk.

Like I didn’t rock his world. He tried to be all above it at first, but then he let go, and he loved it. I did, too. I thought for a second that this would be it. We’d take it to the bed. He’d snuggle me under his arm like he used to, and we’d talk. I’d tell him everything, and he’d tell me it’s all okay.

Nope.

Robo-Forty took my phone and locked me in his creepily clean and orderly bachelor pad.

Don’t touch anything.

I think I’ll start in the bathroom. I kind of do want to brush my teeth.

I toe off my other shoe—if I’m gonna be here awhile, I’m gonna get comfortable—and I head for the en suite. These digs are pretty fancy for an MC clubhouse. He has a tub with jets and a separate shower. Natural stone tile. There’s Lava soap in the dish, though, and off-brand shampoo in the shower.

I open the medicine cabinet. There’s the toothbrush, still in the package. There’s a can of Barbasol, floss, and a nearly empty bottle of Drakkar Noir. Some things never change.

There are also several bottles of pills on the highest shelf. I have to haul myself up onto the sink to take a closer look. The names are unfamiliar. I could look them up if I had my phone. Lots of warning stickers.Do not take with alcohol. Do not operate heavy machinery.The bottles are almost full, and they’re old. Filled last year. Pain meds, I’m guessing. There are several tubes of prescription creams, too. He seems to be using them.

They must be for whatever happened to his arm. I haven’t seen the damage. Lou told me there was a helicopter accident. That would have freaked me out, but Lou didn’t mention it until months after it happened, and Forty was coming back to town.

Uneasiness swirls in my belly. Heavy threw it in my face that Forty was hurt overseas. It can’t be that bad. Forty doesn’t act hurt. But he wouldn’t, would he?

Lou said Forty was in a helicopter, and it made a hard landing. He got burned saving another passenger. The other guys died. It messed up his arm so he couldn’t be a sniper anymore.

He can drive his truck just fine. I’m assuming he can ride his bike. He’s got to be mostly okay, right?

I bet he didn’t listen to the doctors. That’s why there’s all those expired medicine bottles. He’s crap at listening. He decides what’s right, and that’s what he does. Like enlisting. I told him over and over that I didn’t need a house and all of that. We could get an apartment downtown. We’d get jobs. I’m not afraid of work.

But he had it in his head that he needed to provide for me. He thought that no matter what I said now, one day I’d wake up and realize I’d made a shit deal, and I’d bail. Like his mother, I guess.

Which is really stupid, considering I’ve woken up every day my entire adult life, thought “this is a shit deal,” and rolled out of bed to go to work anyway. Is there really an opt out?

I squeeze a big ol’ squirt of toothpaste on my brand-new brush and scrub the salty taste of Forty out of my mouth. I don’tliketo swallow, but I was cumming so hard, and he was so into it, I got kind of carried away.

After I rearrange all the stuff in his medicine cabinet, I wander back into his room. I’m gonna toucheverything. Starting with the closet. The front of my T-shirt is damp with blowjob drool. I need a change of clothes.

Forty’s room is in the new annex. This whole part of the clubhouse hadn’t been built yet when I left town. It’s really modern, but somehow, it fits with the renovated 1930s garage that houses the commons, the bar, the kitchen, and the cramped rooms we used to pass out in back in the day.

Forty’s closet matches his fancy bathroom. It’s a walk in, with recessed lighting and cedar hangers. It’s mostly empty. I start opening drawers. Socks, folded and stacked in neat rows. I shuffle the black dress socks and the white gym socks. Underwear and undershirts, folded and organized by cut. I shuffle those, too. Ammunition.

Ammunition?

Yup. Three drawers of ammunition. Organized by caliber and manufacturer. I leave that alone. Messing with a man’s hoard of ammunition just seems unwise.

In the last, shallow drawer, meant for watches and cufflinks, there’s a rectangular jewelry box. Inside, there’s a gold medal hanging on a green ribbon with white stripes. There’s an eagle on the medal, and the letter “C” on the ribbon.

There’s nothing else in the drawer. I shut the box and put it back, trying to remember exactly where it was.

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