Page 24 of The Heart We Guard
Butcher shakes his head, but follows suit, scooping up the other two splats. “I’m letting most of what you say slide, even though I think some of the bullshit you’re spouting is nonsense.”
My righteous indignation immediately fires to life. “Tell me one thing I’ve said that’s bullshit.”
He looks at me, as if mentally saying,Duh!
“What?” I ask.
“That you really like highbrow jazz. That’s got to be bullshit.”
I brush him away. “Whatever.”
“And the big ears thing is bullshit too. Anyway,” he continues. “You’re a pretty woman, Greer. Beautiful, even. You work hard, are good at what you do.”
“Apart from the whole respecting the rules, not yelling at my boss, and getting fired part?”
Butcher tugs at his hair. “Jesus, woman. Will you let me give you a fucking compliment and just take it before I lose my shit?”
I bite down on my lower lip to hide the smile forming at his exasperation. “Sorry. But for the record, Black musicians were pivotal to the development of jazz and was commercialized by white people. When you pay attention, you can see the links back to blues and the rhythmic patterns that exists in African music. It’s not highbrow. It’s a bridge with strong foundations. Continue.”
Butcher rubs a hand along his jaw as he pauses for a moment. “When you put it like that, I’ll give it another listen. And where was I? Right. You’re a pretty woman. Love that thick, white-blonde hair of yours. It’s unusual. Rare, even. Unexpected, maybe.” He reaches over and touches the ends of my braid and rubs it gently between his thumb and finger. My heart speeds up unexpectedly. “Kinda suits its owner. You got the kind of eyesthat can tell a man off without words but also make him wanna die for ‘em too. And those lips of yours? Thick and fat and pink. So, yeah. You’re fucking beautiful. Got a waist a man wants to get his hands around. And we won’t talk about your tits because I don’t want to make you uncomfortable.”
Uncomfortabledoesn’t even begin to describe how I feel right now. It’s like my body is being wound tightly around a reel. His eyes roam over me, as if he’s really seeing me. Seeing all of me. While I’m sure some people in my place would wish for the man to lean forward, to kiss them or undress them, I want him to stroke me with his words all evening.
My cheeks flush— I can feel the heat in them—and Butcher smiles softly, as if he knows.
As if he notices.
As if he likes it.
“Anyway,” he says, coughing to clear his throat. “You’re clearly really good at what you do, even if you don’t always keep it the fuck together when bureaucrats get in the way. If there was ever a reckoning where you had to decide which side of history you wanted to be on, I bet most people would be on your side. Access to your skills shouldn’t be decided by who can afford them, or who is privileged enough to get health insurance through their job. Why should the poor go without and make unconscionable decisions, leaving every sickness and ailment until they’re practically dying? It’s all fucking bullshit. You stood for something, Greer. And that tells me more about you than any certificate that might be hung on your wall.” He releases my hair, then looks at me like he knows everything about me. “Yeah. You fucking stood for something, and that’s what life is all about.”
It’s a rare thing for me to be tongue-tied. To not have a clue what to say next. But I’m unused to hearing myself described that way. “You make me sound like a rebel.”
Butcher leans forward and strokes my cheek. It’s brief, but the sensation of his touch lingers. “Aren’t we all a little rebellious? Plus, makes you sound like all those women you told me about. The warriors.”
The comparison hits my ego perfectly. “What’s your story, Butcher?”
“Outlaw stock through and through. My father and grandfather were Outlaws. I’m the first president in my family. And my folks live in Arizona now. Needed some sunshine on their old bones. My mom has arthritis, and the cold and damp months made her life a misery here. Had my daughter, Ember, when I was eighteen. Messed up with her mom. Love my daughter, but not proud of fucking up.”
Regret dims the smile that doesn’t quite reach the corners of his eyes.
“Didn’t you ever want to be anything else?” I ask.
Butcher looks back at his soup, then eats another mouthful, chewing thoughtfully. “I was never encouraged to be anything else,” he says when he’s swallowed. “It was expected that I’d join. The club got me training to be a locksmith.”
I raise an eyebrow. “Why would a motorcycle club train you to become a locksmith?”
Butcher grins. “Think about it for a second. It’ll come to you.”
I do, and then… “Oh! Right. Being able to get into places is a useful skill to have in your line of work?”
He nods. “It’s a legitimate business. The club runs many of them. The garage on the east road into town? That’s us. A locksmith? That’s me. We also have a weed facility, which, admittedly, runs above and below board.”
“I’m surprised you’d tell me that. Are you going to have to kill me later?”
Butcher shakes his head. “If I kill you later, it’s probably ‘cos you ran your mouth at me too many times, not because I’mtelling you what you already know. We got legal shit and illegal shit going on. And you’ll never find proof of anything I say anyway.”
I huff playfully. “And here I was, thinking you trusted me.”
