The Bones Beneath My Skin Page 7

  He said, “You don’t need to use your fork for the bacon.”

  She looked at him, then down at the plate, then back at him. “Fingers?”

  He nodded.

  “But not for the eggs.”

  “No. Use the fork for those.”

  “I’ve had eggs before.”

  “I know.”

  “I had to use my fingers.”

  Alex’s jaw ticked as his mouth thinned. “I know.”

  “Okay. Just making sure.” She looked down at the bacon. Then in a move Nate thought was dainty, she reached down and pinched a piece of bacon between two fingers and brought it up to her face. She studied it carefully, turning it from side to side. She sniffed it. Eventually, she stuck her tongue out and licked it, a little flash of pink.

  Her eyebrows shot up behind the sunglasses.

  She stuck the whole thing in her mouth at once and chewed loudly.

  “This is pig?” she said through a mouthful of meat. “Holy wow, what the heck!”

  She reached for another piece, but Alex put his hand on top of hers. “Chew that first. Carefully. Swallow. Then you can have more.”

  She nodded, cheeks bulging.

  Nate gaped at her.

  “She’s never had bacon before,” Alex said quietly.

  Nate nodded, unsure of what to say.

  He had barely forked a bit of egg into his own mouth before Art gasped around a fresh piece of bacon, groaning as she shoved the whole piece into her mouth again.

  Alex ate too, but not quite in the same fashion. He was neat and quick, chewing perfunctorily before eating another measured bite.

  It was the weirdest meal Nate had ever been involved in. Even more than vegetable beef and toast.

  Art wasn’t as enamored with the eggs as she was with the bacon, almost looking forlorn when it was gone. She looked at Nate’s plate enviously, the bacon sitting next to his barely touched eggs. Nate thought about handing it over to her, but he wondered if this was part of their plan. If they were trying to endear themselves to him (well, endear her, because Alex was a fucking asshole) so that they could get on his good side before they… did whatever they planned on doing with him. He wasn’t sure if he was being held hostage. Or being robbed. Or was becoming the third person in their cult.

  The gun had yet to make an appearance.

  He was thankful for that.

  He ate his own bacon defiantly. He wasn’t going to fall for their tricks.

  She didn’t look very happy about that.

  He felt savagely pleased. And oddly guilty.

  Then he changed the subject in the worst way possible.

  He said, “Thank you for your service.”

  Alex’s fork froze halfway to his mouth with the last of the egg on it. It didn’t even shake.

  Art was staring at him.

  Nate cleared his throat, wondering how he’d made it this far in his life without being murdered.

  Alex set down the fork on the plate.

  He could probably use it as a weapon if he wanted to.

  “What was that?” Alex asked, voice hard.

  “Your tattoo,” Nate said as evenly as he could. “Marines, right? Semper Fi and all that?”

  Alex’s grip tightened on the fork.

  Nate didn’t want to die. He wished he’d kept his mouth shut.

  “How did you know that?” Alex asked.

  “Uh. I lived in DC. You end up knowing what grunts look like. And I mean, come on. Your tattoo says USMC. You don’t see those on someone who hasn’t served.” Right? That had to be right.

  Alex nodded slowly, though his grip didn’t loosen on the fork.

  Breakfast had been going so well too.

  Mostly.

  “Oh boy,” Art whispered, glancing back and forth between the two of them.

  Nate wasn’t sure of what else to say.

  Surprisingly, Alex said, “Yes.”

  Nate blinked. “Yes?”

  “Yes.”

  “Okay. That’s… thank you. For that. Clarification.”

  Alex nodded. He lifted the fork and ate the last of his eggs.

  It was as if Art had been waiting for him to finish. She took his plate and fork from him and stacked it on top of hers. She looked at Nate, down at his plate, then back up at him.

  He looked down.

  He still had eggs.

  He finished them.

  She didn’t look away.

  Neither did Alex.

  It wasn’t so bad.

  Once his plate was clean, Art cleared her throat. “May I clear your plate, sir?” she asked politely.

  Nate nodded, wondering where the sir had come from.

  She looked back at Alex. “Did I do that right?”

  “Yes.”

  “Cool.” She turned and grabbed Nate’s plate. “I hope the meal was to your satisfaction.”

  “It… was?” Nate said, because what.

  She stacked his plate on the others, the forks on top. She got down from the chair first before reaching back up for the plates. She took them to the counter and set them next to the sink.

  Nate stared after her.

  “She met a waitress for the first time a couple days ago,” Alex said, and Nate looked at him, disbelieving that Alex had volunteered information. “She liked her.”

  Nate didn’t know what to say to that.

  Because how had she never met a waitress in her entire life? She had to be ten years old if she was a day.

  He said nothing, because now he was thinking that this man, this crazy fucking man, had kidnapped this girl when she was a baby and kept her prisoner her entire life, and only now was letting her out in the world and—

  She came back to the table and climbed into the chair. “Thank you,” she told him. “For the bacon and the eggs. But mostly the bacon.”

  “You’re. Welcome?”

  She grinned at him.

  She looked at Alex.

  He sipped his coffee.

  She coughed.

  He ignored her.

  She coughed louder.

  He side-eyed her.

  She poked his cheek.

  Strangely enough, she didn’t lose her finger.

  “What?” he asked.

  “You know what.”

  “You said it already.”

  “Be polite, Alex,” she said. “You told me that you have to be nice when you can because you don’t know when it could mean everything to someone.”

  Alex sighed. He mumbled something under his breath.

  Art frowned. “None of us heard that. Do better.”

  “Thank you for the eggs,” he muttered.

  “And?” Art asked.

  He scowled. “And the bacon.”

  “Especially the bacon.”

  “I’m not going to say that.”

  “We’ll work on it,” she said, patting his hairy forearm. She looked back at Nate expectantly.

  “You’re… welcome.”

  She beamed.

  There was a knock at the door.

  The gun was out even before Nate could blink. He didn’t know where it’d come from. One second there was no gun, and the next there was all the gun, that massive thing that looked straight out of a Dirty Harry movie that he and his brother had snuck into without their mother knowing.

  Alex was standing and scooping up Art in his arms. She went quietly, hands going around his neck, face buried in his throat.

  “Who is it?” Alex whispered furiously. “Who else knows you’re here?”

  The gun wasn’t pointed at him, but at the door.

  “No one,” Nate managed to say. “No one knows I’m—okay. That’s not true.”

  Now the gun was pointed at him.

  Nate felt his eyes bulge. “No, no, not like that. Not… whatever you’re thinking. My brother knows. Or at least I think he does. Big Eddie from the gas station. Th
e lawyer who gave me the keys. I told you that last night. But I swear, that’s it. That’s all.”

  “Then who the fuck is at the door?” Alex hissed. He was backing away from the table slowly, arm wrapped protectively around Art’s back, holding her close to him. The gun was again pointed toward the door.

  “I don’t know,” Nate snapped back. “Why the hell do you think it’s something I did? For fuck’s sake, maybe they’re here for you.”

  And he felt instantly guilty when Art whimpered against Alex.

  He rose from the table. He raised his hands, placating. “Just… stay there. I’ll see who it is. Okay? It’s fine. I swear it’s fine.”

  It was absolutely not fine if the thunderstorm on Alex’s face meant anything. Minutes ago, he’d been begrudgingly thanking Nate for eggs and bacon, looking rather put out at even having to say the words.

  Now he looked terrifyingly like a killer.

  Nate thought back to the question he’d asked almost first thing this morning.

  Are you on the run because you murdered someone?

  He moved toward the door. He heard Alex following him closely.

  He didn’t look back.

  The knock came again.

  “Coming,” Nate managed to say.

  He reached the door.

  He breathed in.

  He breathed out.

  He put his hand on the doorknob.

  A grunt came from behind him.

  He looked over his shoulder.

  Alex shook his head, holding up the hand with the gun, raising one finger.

  Nate waited.

  Alex looked through the window next to the door. The blinds were drawn, and he lifted a wooden slat the barest amount. It lasted only a second.

  “A truck,” he muttered. “White. Yours is blocking it. I can’t see who it is.”

  “What should we do?” Nate asked.

  Alex looked at him.

  “What?”

  He shook his head. “Just… open the door. If I think there’s even the slightest chance something is wrong, I’ll put a bullet in the head of whoever’s out there. Remember that before you speak.”

  Nate felt his hands shaking.

  Alex pressed his back against the wall, Art still in his arms. He raised the gun and nodded at Nate.

  The knock came again.

  Nate opened the door.

  chapter five

  There was a man on the porch.

  Nate blinked against the bright sunlight. The cool air caused his skin to break out in gooseflesh.

  The man was wearing jeans and boots and a polo shirt under a light jacket. His dark hair was thinning away from his forehead, and he had wire-framed glasses that sat perched on the tip of his nose.

  There was a badge hanging from his jacket.

  “Nathaniel Cartwright?” he asked, his voice a little reedy.

  “Yes?” He hoped this man didn’t die in front of him.

  “Douglas County Public Works.” He held out his hand. “Name’s Randy. Had an appointment this morning to get your water hooked up, right?”

  Nate had no idea what he was talking about. Then he did. “Right,” he said quickly. “I wasn’t—I thought… You’re early. You weren’t supposed to be here until this afternoon.”

  Randy shrugged. “You’re the farthest out on my route today. Decided to start way out here and work back in. Don’t have a lot of people up here. At least, not this early. Don’t see some of these cabins start to fill up until June or so. Usually still snow on the ground. Mild winter, don’t you know.”

  “I heard,” Nate said, skin buzzing just a little.

  “Shouldn’t take much time, no it won’t. Valve’s supposed to be near the meter. Know where that’s at?”

  He nodded. “I can show you.”

  He started to step out, shutting the door behind him. “Whoa,” Randy said, holding up a hand.

  Nate stopped.

  “Little cold out here. Gotta jacket? Don’t want you to freeze.” He smiled.

  “Give me just a second.”

  “Oh sure,” Randy said. “Gotta get a couple of things from the truck. Take your time.”

  He stepped off the porch, whistling as the gravel crunched under his shoes.

  Nate closed the door.

  “Did you call for him to come here?” Alex growled.

  Nate nodded. “Yeah. It’s—made the appointment days ago. It’s—he’s supposed to be here.”

  Art peeked at him over her sunglasses, secure in her place in Alex’s arms. “I don’t like him.”

  Alex looked down at her. “Why?”

  Art glanced at Nate, then back to Alex and said a strange thing. Well. Another strange thing. “Is he the Macho Man?”

  Even Alex looked confused, eyebrows rising. It took only a moment for him to sigh. “No. That’s not him.”

  “Who?” Nate asked.

  “The Macho Man,” Art said. “Randy Savage.”

  “I don’t—are you talking about the wrestler?”

  She nodded solemnly. “He hates Hulk Hogan. And I like Hulk Hogan.”

  “Who the hell are you people?” Nate asked fervently.

  “I’m Artemis D—”

  “Darth Vader, yeah, I know. And he’s Alex Delgado.” Nate threw his hands up. “That doesn’t explain—you know what? It doesn’t matter. I’m going outside with the water guy, and he’s going to turn on the water. And then I’m going to come back in and take a shower because I am still wearing the same goddamn underwear—”

  “We used your dish soap in the lake,” Art said, patting Alex on the cheeks. “Alex said it was the same, but the water was cold. You could have borrowed some of his underwear.”

  Nate made a wounded noise. “I’m not—that’s not the point. Jesus Christ, I don’t—I’m going outside!”

  He put his hand on the doorknob and was about to jerk it open dramatically.

  “Don’t forget your jacket,” Art said.

  Nate almost screamed.

  Instead, he turned and stomped to his duffel bag. He pulled it open and found a sweater with a zipper down the middle. It would do. He pulled it on, left arm and then the right, all the while glaring at the two people he’d known for less than a day who had already upended his life.

  He stomped back to the door.

  “If he says ooh yeah,” Art told him as he threw open the door, “you need to watch out for his signature move. It’s called the Savage Elbow, and it will take you down.”

  He slammed the door behind him, the wood rattling in its frame.

  A head poked up near the white truck. “All right?”

  Nate forced a smile on his face. It came more easily than he expected. “Yeah. Fine.”

  “Good, good. We’ll get you all set up, and everything will be right as rain.”

  Nate sighed. He doubted that very much.

  “There she is,” Randy said, pointing at the meter on the side of the house. The sky was already a deep, wonderful blue, with only traces of clouds. It was cold, and Nate could see his breath with every exhalation. The lake was flat and almost still.

  Randy put his toolbox on the ground near a small metal grate. He sank to his knees, then opened the toolbox, staring at the meter. “So what brings you up here?”

  Nate saw movement out of the corner of his eye. He looked up. A window, with the drapes drawn. It was in the second bedroom. At first nothing happened. And then the drapes moved again slightly, a finger pulling them back.

  Nate glared.

  The drapes closed again.

  Randy turned back to look at him.

  Nate said, “Sorry. Um. What was the question?”

  Randy chuckled. “A little early for ya, is it?”

  “Yeah. Something like that.”

  “Early riser, I am. Always have been. Early to bed, early to rise, as my ma used to say. More things to see in the daytime, I suppose.”


  “Uh. Yeah. Sure.” He looked up again in time to see the drapes shaking furiously. He didn’t know what the hell was going on until Art poked her head through the curtains, sunglasses askew, mouthing at him and pointing at her elbow, then down at the man. Savage elbow, she overenunciated.

  Nate choked.

  Randy looked at him again.

  Nate scratched the back of his head to cover it up.

  It wasn’t very convincing.

  “You all right?”

  Nate nodded. “Yeah. I’m—it’s early. Like you said.”

  Randy moved the grate. He pulled a long thin wrench from his toolbox. “Hold that for me, will ya?” he said, handing Nate a flashlight. “Keep it pointed down, if ya don’t mind.”

  He did exactly that.

  The beam was shaking.

  He steadied it with his other hand.

  Randy leaned down toward the opening. “Like I was saying, what brings you up here?”

  “Oh. Uh—just—it’s my cabin. I guess.”

  “You guess? It either is or it isn’t.”

  “Right. Yeah. It is. I… inherited it. Recently. From my parents.”

  “They pass on?” Randy asked, grunting as he leaned lower to the ground.

  “Yeah.”

  “Real sorry to hear that. They’re with the Lord now, having earned their just reward.”

  Nate didn’t do religion. He never had. He didn’t even know what he believed in. The idea of a supreme god and heaven and hell and judgment seemed almost like a fairy tale. But he learned early on you didn’t say such things out loud to the religious sort, so he said, “Sure.” It was easier that way.

  He looked up again.

  Art’s face was pressed against the glass. When she saw him watching, she blew as hard as she could, lips spreading wide, eyes bulging.

  Nate coughed explosively.

  She looked furious as a big hand pulled her back, the drapes closing against the window.

  He looked back down.

  Randy was staring at him.

  “Swallowed a bug,” Nate managed to say. “Big fucker.”

  Randy nodded, rubbing his jaw. “Oh sure. They get huge ’round the lake. Usually in the summer, though. You’ll want to get some bug spray if you’re gonna be around that long.”

  It felt like a question that he didn’t know the answer to. “Maybe.”

  Randy was back in the ground. “What do you do that you can stay out here, if you don’t mind me asking? You write books? You look like the type.”