Human Bait

Chapter 7: Fluffy

When Recluse returned minutes later, he tromped past me without a word or glance. The veins in his left forearm swelled with the weight of a huge steaming bucket. He set it down and strewed a few garments over the wooden coffee table beside the couch. Then he pulled my switchblade from his pocket and placed it beside me.

I gripped both sides of the chair, not daring to move for the blade. Was this a trick? Though I could not guess his game, he definitely seemed angry. And angry meant dangerous.

When he still didn't speak, my nerves pressed me to break the silence. "Wh-wh-what are y-y—" I clamped my jaw shut and breathed in and out before trying again. "What are you—"

"Clean yourself up and put on those clothes." His gruff voice splintered the words like heavy boots on thin ice. "Come out when you finish." 

He retreated toward the entry. Confusion knotted my brows, and anxiety notched tight over my chest. Of all the games a person could play, the worst was the one I didn't understand. 

As his hand closed over the doorknob, my voice left without my command. "Recluse, wait."

He pressed his other palm against the wall beside the door. 

I picked at a hole in my wet jeans and swallowed. "About... about what I said earlier, I didn't mean—"

Recluse cut me off with a huff and a jerk of his head. He yanked the door open, stomped out, and tugged it shut behind him.

With another wary glance at the door, I slipped the blanket off my shoulders and peeled back my wet jeans. When my first toe touched the water, my cold skin burned, and a shudder zipped up my spine. I eased in slowly, nabbed the soapy sponge floating in the water, and dragged it over my body.

I dried off and slipped into the sweatpants and sweatshirt Recluse had left. Soft warmth enveloped me, along with the smell of clean soap and a faint spicy musk.

Of course that bastard's clothing still smelled good.

I tightened the drawstring as far as it would go and rolled up the sleeves and pant legs to free my hands and feet. Then I grabbed my switchblade and examined myself in the vanity mirror beside the couch.

Green eyes stared back at me underscored by dark bags and sunken into a gaunt, angular face. Dryness, chafing, and bruises mottled my ochre skin like camouflage. Matted dark hairs shelled over my head and ears. Ether, I looked like a Freshly-Baked.

I flicked open the switchblade and hacked off the ends of my hair. As clumps littered the ground around me, the remaining hair separated into locks and eventually strands I could work my fingers through. The face in the mirror still did not resemble the one I remembered, and the sweatshirt devoured my frail frame, but I felt more human than I had in months.

I eyed the door, fingers fluttering over the switchblade in my pocket and teeth trapping my lower lip. Recluse wouldn't hurt me... would he? If he planned to hurt me, why give me fresh clothes first?

Then again, he had shot me, strung me up as bait, and proceeded to bring me home like some lost puppy. Who knew how his mind worked?

Taking a deep breath, I limped toward the door.

A corridor with wooden floors and white walls greeted me. Through an arched opening on the other side, pots clanged, liquid sizzled, and a salty-savory aroma wafted toward me.

Five stilted steps later, I stopped in the entrance. Oakwood comprised the entire room, from smooth floorboards to neat rows of cupboards to the arched ceiling. Recluse stood with his back to me, stirring a pot on an electric griddle.

"How the fuck do you still have electricity?"

Recluse shifted toward me. "Installed solar panels on the roof long before..."

The spatula clunked in the pot as he stared at me.

Suddenly overly conscious that I was wearing his clothing—and not well—heat rose to my face, and defensiveness sharpened my voice.

"What are you looking at?"

    "Your hair is, uh... it's so..." He waved a hand in a bemused gesture. "Fluffy."

    My eyebrows crept up my forehead. "Is that a problem?"

    "No, it's..." He turned back toward the griddle, but not fast enough to hide the pink sponging his cheeks. "It's not a problem."

    When the initial shock faded, a smirk fought its way across my lips. Ether, could he actually be attracted to me? If I played this right, maybe I could make him want me before the two weeks ended. And if he wanted me enough, maybe he would let me stay.

Recluse interrupted my plotting with a bowl and a command. "Eat."

The steam from the meat and veggies wrung a growl from my stomach. Focused on the food in my hand, I forgot about my wounded calf. When I started toward the table, the torn muscle seized up in protest, and I pitched forward. Recluse lunged toward me and grabbed my biceps just before my knees could smack the ground. Unfortunately, the bowl had already slipped from my hands.

Ceramic shattered, and hot stew slopped over the floor. I jerked free from Recluse's grip and backpedaled until my tailbone smacked the oak table. Throwing shaking arms over my face, I mumbled desperate, unthinking words. "I'm sorry, I'm sorry, I can—"

"Hey—"

"—clean it, please let me clean—"

"Stop. Sit down."

The steel in his voice left no room for argument, and my body obeyed the command, locking down into a chair. My gaze pinned to a dark swirl on the oak table, my hands squeezed both thighs, and one foot tapped a panicked beat against the floor.

Recluse sucked in a breath. Puffed it out. Drew another.

"Listen, I'm not good at... people. Well, I'm good at hurting them." His voice tightened—cracked. "Fuck, I hurt you, too. But I'm not going to hurt you again. And I want you to stop being afraid of me."

"Ok," I told the table, voice weak. "I'll try."

"Good." Footsteps retreated and returned, and a bowl slid over the knot in the wood. "Eat. Slowly."

"What about the—"

"I'll clean it. Just eat."

I stared at the food, worrying my lip. "Thank you."

"Hey, I told you not to thank me. Makes you weak."

I huffed a laugh through my nose and shook my head. "I'm already weak."

"Why do you think that?"

The soft curiosity in his voice drew my gaze to his face. His head tilted slightly to one side, eyebrows drawn together. I lowered my eyes to the bowl and sifted the fork through the stew.

"My father always said I was too pathetic to last even one day in the real world."

"Well, that's funny."

I rolled my eyes at the food. "Yes, childhood trauma is hilarious."

A swallow clicked in his throat. "That's not... it's funny because the Infection has wiped out most of humanity, and you're—"

"Probably joining them soon."

He shook his head. "Na. You're a survivor, Southie."