“Don’t know, never cared enough to ask. You sure know an awful lot about me.”
My face flames and I’m glad I’m behind the shelves. Did I give away too much? Would he know how I’ve sat alone at night and combed over his files and pictures, enthralled with his life? Could he guess that before I even saw him at the prison yesterday, looking so cold and aloof, but still devastatingly handsome that I was already infatuated with him? It makes me sound like a kook. I get that. Hell, I’m starting to think I am completely crazy. If you add in my reaction to him and the fact that I don’t hate him or want to maim him right now, I just might be certifiably insane.
“I told you, I had to research the file that the county of Ormond has on you to prepare for your parole hearing,” I lie and, it is a straight-up, bald-faced lie.
“I thought you said your boss threw this on you yesterday morning, without warning?”
I forgot about the high intelligence notes the warden and guards reported about Max.
“He did, but I am the one who prepares his arguments and notes,” I return, carefully avoiding his eyes, in case he can see the lies on my face. “Do we have water and you know, maybe some soap?” I finally ask, to divert him. I need to stop talking about this. I’m afraid of what more I might give away.
“Over by the old basin.”
I look in the direction he gestures and see an old, silver, antique wash basin and pitcher and beside it is a gallon jug of water. I wash my hands quickly and come back to the bed and grab the food that Max gave me earlier. He has a similar-looking plate on his bed, and I’m secretly excited as a teenage girl over Justin Bieber. Inside there’s a part of me squealing that I get to eat breakfast with Max Kincaid.
I take a hesitant bite of the eggs. It’s definitely not five-star cuisine, but passable. The bacon is very disappointing, but I manage to swallow down a couple of strips. The toast is…yeah, I’m not touching whatever that is.
“Umm…what are these things?” I ask looking at my plate dubiously, after tasting the cardboard…err…bread and putting it back down quickly.
“Kind of a homemade version of an MRE,” he says, having downed all of his and finished his drink from the box. I carefully puncture mine and stick the attached straw in it. It’s not horrible, I’m not sure you could call it orange juice, but the flavor is kind of there, so I drink it.
“A MR what?”
“A MRE, Meal ready to eat. The military feeds them to astronauts or soldiers overseas. National Guard also…”
“They feed our soldiers this? That’s horrible! They deserve real food. Why…”
His laughter stops the beginning of my tirade. I freeze. It’s a beautiful sound, and it’s a sound that if I never hear it again for the rest of my life, I will still never forget it.
“There isn’t really restaurants or even ways to cook in times of war.”
Okay so he’s right, but still.
I stop thinking at all when Max gets down on his knees in front of me. Heck, I’m not sure I can find my voice. For the first time, I allow myself to look at Max Kincaid, and I mean really look. He’s wearing a worn, faded white t-shirt that looks bright next to his dark skin. He’s got jeans on that seem a little tight, but he wears them perfectly. His five o’clock shadow gives his face even more depth and somehow highlights those dark, soulful eyes of his even more. I can see the tattoo he has on his shoulder peak out from under the t-shirt, and I wish I could see the rest of it. His file says he has eight tattoos, and I’ve always wanted to see each one personally. Certifiably insane.
“What are you doing?” I ask, eventually finding my voice even if it comes out hoarse and croaky like a bullfrog. I shouldn’t have asked because he’s taking my shoes off, so I know. Still, I’m nervous. These thoughts of Max I keep having, combined with what happened yesterday…what my body keeps craving more of…Maybe once I get free, I can sign up for therapy. I hear it can do wonders, and I think it’s pretty clear I need it.
He reaches over to his side and gets a box, handing it to me. First-Aid Kit, I read on the lid. Guess that was his answer. He works in silence, taking the old torn pieces of cloth off my feet and setting them with my shoes to the side. He puts my feet down and goes back to the basin, bringing it over, with the water and an old towel that he throws over his shoulder. I hiss in pain as the cool water flows over my poor feet. There are so many open raw spots from blisters that have burst; I want to weep. He works, quietly efficient, making sure my feet are clean and padding them dry gently, but with a firm hand.
“Hand me that roll of gauze,” he says startling me out of the semi-trance I was in, watching his hands.
I open the lid and quickly grasp it, handing it to him.
“And a few of those cream packets, the antibiotic ones.”