Devil You Know(53)

“I know that, Malice.”

“I can drop you off until you save enough for a car, or until you find a place closer to town.” His blank stare gives nothing away.

“What if the shifts don’t match yours?”

“I’m flexible.”

“How many times is your boss going to do you favors before he says enough is enough?” I ask. “I’ll find another way—it’s okay.”

“Honestly, Jane. It’s not a problem.”

“What shop do you work at?” I run an inventory of the butchers I know in town, and fall short on any that would offer flexibility like that.

“I don’t work from a shop, as such.” His eyes avert my gaze.

What’s he hiding?

“How can that be?” I ask, gaze narrowed on him.

“The people I work for specialize in home-kill. I go to their place, instead of them having to arrange transport to the works for the kill.”

“Oh.” Guess that makes sense after all.

His phone ringing breaks the silence. He doesn’t move.

“Your dad again?” I ask. It would be the third time this week his father’s called, and he hasn’t answered.

“Probably.”

“Why won’t you answer?”

“What business is it of yours?” he snaps.

I sit, and draw my knees up. Rocco lifts his head, and watches Malice.

“I’m sorry, Jane. I need to get a handle on this.” He stands, and walks over to where his phone sits.

I watch as he punches the screen, and heads outside into the inky darkness that shrouds the back yard.

Rocco looks up at me, and whimpers. “I’m not sure, buddy,” I say. “I can feel it, too.”

The tension around Malice when I bring up his father is palpable. Something serious went down between the two of them—serious enough that I’m guessing they haven’t talked for a while.

Sounds familiar.

Malice returns a short while later, a storm in his expression.

“Everything okay?” I ask.

“Fucked. It’s all fucked.” He flops on the sofa, and throws his hands over his head. “Seventeen fucking years without a singular word. He gave up, and he left me—long before I ever did. And now? Now he wants to talk? I mean, what the fuck?” He screws his eyes tight, and grits his teeth. “Tell me to shut up if you want to. I know it’s not your problem. Fuck, it’s probably light years from on your radar.” He laughs.

“It’s fine,” I reassure him. “I want to help.” He doesn’t move when I take a seat next to him on the sofa. “Truth be told, it keeps my mind off my own shit for a while.”

Malice drops his hands, and rolls his head to face me. “You sure?”

“Yeah.” I shrug. “You’ve listened to me bleed on long enough. Why not take the floor from me for a while, huh?”

He rolls his head away, and closes his eyes. Silence falls between us, and I look him over. His nose is crooked from this angle, and that scar under his jaw intrigues me. It’s only human to wonder what happened to him.

“I left home when I was thirteen.”

“Wow.”

“Yeah.” He chuckles. “It was kind of ‘wow’ to start with.” His eyes open, and he fixes his gaze to the far wall. “You think as a kid, you know everything. I mean, I was adamant there couldn’t be anything worse than living with him. But fuck me, I was wrong. When you’re young, people can smell you coming. Every hawker is your best friend, and every fucker wants their pound of flesh.”

His gaze slides around the room, but his interest isn’t there. This man who has shown me nothing but strength and resilience, given me support, now looks lost. I’ve finally found his weakness, but the victory is hollow. Knowing what I do now, I’m not so sure I am entitled to every detail about him. Sometimes it’s easier to battle on keeping the memories most painful to you inside. Not necessarily hidden, just shelved. Put somewhere safe for you, and only you.

“Where did you go when you left?” I ask. “Did you have other family?”

He shakes his head. “I hung out with school buddies for a while: slept on their sofas, in their garages. When their parents got sick of me hanging around, I went my own way. I lived on the street for quite a while.”

“And that was better than living with your father?”

Malice swivels in his seat, hangs his legs over the side, and places his head in my lap. My fingers find their way to his hair, and I gently stroke it while he talks.

“He tried to kill himself when I was eleven. It freaked the fuck outta me. He strung a rope up, and hung himself. I was too weak to lift him up, so I dragged the outdoor table across the back porch to where he was, and cut him down with the hunting knife he gave me the Christmas before. He was lucky to survive. But you know what fucked me up worse? He never apologized. He never said sorry for doing that to a kid, for showing me something so fucking horrific. For quitting on me.”