Heathens & Hand Grenades (Book 1 of the Heathens Duet)

Chapter 33- Callie

"Thank you," I start with my eyes trained on his Adam's apple bobbing in his throat. If I'm lucky, he won't even notice I'm not looking at his face. Close enough right. "For punching J-Pretty Boy," I say hastily correcting myself. A brief glance up gives me no indication if he caught my slip. I've got to get a handle on myself. Jaxson and Dario won't be around all the time. My tongue can't be flapping about like it does with them. "Defending me."

Rave scoffs at that like the thought of him doing anything for me is the stupidest thing he ever heard. Normally I'd be the first to agree with that. That is if I hadn't heard his words through my panicked brain fog as he punched Pretty Boy's face in.

"Plus, I wanted to have a look at your hands. Maybe patch them up a bit," I say, showing the medical kit that's been dangling by my side. Twirling it around my fingers as I sway in his doorway, I wait for him to decide whether or not to let me in.

He looks them over and I was right. They're angry, red, and swelling. The skin is broken on a few and blood still leaks, albeit slowly now. At least he ran some water over them so I can see what I'll be working with.

With a resigned sigh, he moves out of the way. "Come on then," he says, ushering me in.

I don't know what I expected Rave's room to look like, but I'm still surprised. God's room is absent of any personality. So basic, it could be found in any motel along the highway. Dario's had a bit more. Still pretty basic, but it makes sense. Pretty sure someone would notice a ton of furniture being moved into the woods randomly. The idea of the guys carrying a load of Ikea furniture down the tunnels and assembling it in their rooms causes me to giggle. The mental picture is rounded out with the guys arguing over directions and the 'right tools for the job'. God just looks on like a weary toddler parent letting them work it out for themselves.

Rave looks over at me giggling like I've lost it and that just sets me off more. My giggle turns into full on laughter. Breathing becomes harder at the look on his face. I'm completely snowballing. "It's not- it's not even really that funny," I say between halting bouts of laughter.

"It looks like it," he says slowly and skeptically.

I don't blame him. Truly it isn't that funny. Like anyone after a long and emotionally draining day, my body's responses are out of whack. Anything was likely to set me off and my reactions were down to two options, crying or laughing. I had done enough crying lately to last a lifetime. I needed more laughter in my life, no matter the source.

First thing I notice when I look around me is color, everywhere. Desert camel tan and brilliant bright swatches of tangerine orange and forest green. They shouldn't go together, at all. It was so loud. Somehow, it both competed against and matched what I knew of the man in front of me. His bed dominated the space, a white comforter dressed the bed. It was spotless, though I figured Pretty Boy was more responsible for that state than the other men in the house. Though the man may have been more than a little dirty when he was with me, in all other aspects he seemed a bit of a neat freak.

An older tan body Fender acoustic guitar lay propped up in the corner. A random assortment of guitar picks sits on the edge of the mid-century desk cluttered with papers next to his bed. Though unlike the mid-century pieces prized by my peers at garage sales and thrift stores, I'm pretty sure this one isn't a style piece, just a relic of the previous owners that Rave blended into his own style.

Who knows. I could just be making all this up, trying to humanize the jerk in front of me into someone I could get along with. The paint was probably already here and he just drew the short or long straw depending on how they saw it, for the room.

Seeing his guitar reminds me of my original purpose. His hands. I'm not here to snoop. Okay. Fine, I'm not here just to snoop. Fix his hands so he can keep playing those songs that remind me of home. Better, happier times. Sure, they intertwined with some of the worst moments of my life, but that is life. Two sides of the same coin; you can only make the most of the flip you get and try again another day.

There aren't a whole lot of options in the way of seating. It makes sense, but doesn't make things any less awkward. Darting a glance at the bed, I quickly veto that idea. First, I'm terrified that I'll spill something on it and cause Pretty Boy to have a fit. Second, and the most important reason, is that it's way too intimate. Intimate and Rave do not belong in the same sentence as me. Nope. My boundaries have quickly expanded while I've been here, but that one will remain firmly where it is. I'll gorilla glue the boundary in place.

"In the chair please. You," I close my eyes at the word tornado that just spilled forth. "Can you sit in the chair please?"

"Alright sweetness. Do your worst," he says offering up an injured hand.

Touching him is a requirement to first aid, but my hands don't want to move. It's stupid. His words may be poison, but unless he's part dart frog, I think I'm covered.

Rave's not gonna bite, that's more Jaxson's style. I've already come this far. Buck up, girly.

Our size difference is startlingly clear when he places his hand in mine. His fingers are rough and callused from the guitar where they lie along my skin. Goosebumps erupt where we touch, but he does me a kindness by not acknowledging it.

Opening the kit, I take out what I know I'll need. Liquid bandage, alcohol, cotton pads, gauze, and tape. Focusing on the steps makes it easier to ignore the man.

Silence hangs in the air between us, but neither of us seem eager to breach it. Something about being here in his room relaxes me. It's probably the color. Anything to break up the monotony of the bare concrete and metal that make up the bunker. It's definitely not the company.