Page 4 of The Devil We Know

“Do you want me to help you?”

She frowns, uncertainty clear in her eyes, and then shrugs. Understanding that there’s no way she’s going to manage even the quickest shower on her own, I sigh in resignation.

Not that I’m at all opposed to showering with a woman, but the current circumstances are less than ideal, and I have to be careful not to do anything that might panic her.

I lean down, pressing both my palms into the mattress on either side of her so my face is level with hers as I say, “I’ll help you, Jess. You just need to focus on remaining calm, and remember I won’t do anything to hurt you.”

She searches my eyes momentarily, her lips pressing together again. Finally, she nods, so I straighten, pulling my jacket off and tossing it in the chair that’s beside the nightstand. I strip down methodically until I’m standing there in my underwear, and I chuckle internally at the fact that she’s not even looking at me. I don’t want to sound egotistical, but that is a sure indication that she is completely fucked in the head right now.

Walking back over to her, I quickly remove my shirt and then help her stand. Her arms on my shoulders are heavy as I pull her pants over her hips and down her legs, where they pool on the floor. She steps out of them and stands before me in her bra and underwear. I was going to leave her undergarments on, but I can see where blood had soaked through her shirt and stained the lace of her bra, so I pull back and ask, “Do you want to leave it on?”

She gives me a questioning look and then glances down at the front of herself, her frown deepening as she shakes her head erratically. Her hands leave my shoulders, and she jumps back, clawing at the fabric in an attempt to be rid of it.

I reach for her, intent on helping her, but she slaps me away, her hands frantic as she manages to unhook the bra and yank it free, throwing it away. She looks down at her underwear, frantic again as she struggles to push them down. After a coupleof failed attempts, she manages to coordinate herself enough to push them down to her ankles, where she steps out of them, kicking them away.

Her earlier vacant expression is gone, her eyes burning now with anger and disgust. Her chest heaves, and I do my damndest not to focus on her breasts and hard nipples.

She stares at me, unflinching, as she lifts her chin at me almost defiantly. I keep my eyes locked with hers as I ask, “Do you think you can do it now?”

She deflates a little bit, then she glances around the room as if she forgot where we are. She looks down at her nude body, her hands coming up to cover her chest, but then she looks down further, and one arm drops down in front of her, and the other one crosses over her breasts as she groans, “I’m sorry.”

I chuckle, shaking my head as I reply, “No reason to be sorry, but you’re going to have to tell me what you need me to do.”

She stares at me, contemplating the question before answering, “It’s probably safer if you help me. If you don’t mind.”

“Don’t worry about me, Jess” I respond. “I’m here to help you. Anything you need, all you have to do is ask.”

Indecision crosses her features again, quickly replaced by sadness, and then she says quietly, “Just help me. I don’t even know what that means, but please help me.”

I do have an idea of what she means. Having grown up in less-than-desirable circumstances, I certainly didn’t take my first kill to heart, but that doesn’t mean it didn’t bother me.

Even killing in self-defense. It’s all the same torment.

I say nothing further, instead extending my hand to her which she takes it without hesitation. Turning, I lead her to the bathroom, walking directly to the running shower and opening the door, motioning for her to enter. I step in behind her, close the door then turn back to find her standing on the edge, justoutside of the spray of the water. I smile, urging her under the warm spray with my hands on her upper arms.

She stands there motionless and emotionless, water pouring down on her as she stares at the ground, her hands now grasped in front of her.

I turn her until the spray of the water hits her in the chest, so she has to tilt her head back to avoid getting hit in the face. For some reason, I prefer her looking at the ceiling than the ground, and I laugh to myself at the lack of sense it makes.

I stand just outside of the spray of the water, trying to give her some space to get her bearings. Her eyes close, then her hand comes up, fingers outstretched, reaching. Every nerve ending in my body tells me to ignore it, to step back where she can’t touch me, but I don't. Instead, I extend my hand and grasp hers, allowing her to pull me closer.

I stand there with the front of my body pressed into her side, and her lips twitch, the corners turning up slightly. If nothing else, I’m glad that the natural instincts of my body has worked to at least cut some of the tension in the air.

I press my hips forward, bumping her side with the obvious erection in my underwear, and she giggles. I shake my head as I say, “Don’t judge me. Dicks don’t have brains.”

She giggles again, one of her hands coming up and covering her mouth as she attempts not to laugh, and I add, “Go ahead and laugh. Dicks don’t get offended.”

She drops her hand and gives up all semblance of not being amused by the betrayal of my own body. Then, she parrots, “Dicks don’t have brains.”

Now, I laugh as I reply, “It really is that simple. Some men like to pretend that it’s not, but they’re also usually fucking stupid.”

She laughs for a moment longer and then sighs, some of the tension leaves her body, but I can sense she’s still on edge, hovering over the precipice of being fine and complete lunacy.

“Hand me that washcloth,” I say evenly. “And whatever soap you want to use.”

She does as I ask without comment, handing them both to me and then standing there, waiting.

I soap up the washcloth and hand her back the bar of soap that she puts back on the shelf, and then I step back and turn her so she’s facing me. “Put your head back into the water, we’ll wash your hair next.”

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