Chapter 9: Zayna

Chapter Nine

Zayna

I ’m stuck in a murder cabin with a racist killer. I know race didn’t motivate his previous murder, but it could motivate his next one. I need to use my shower to think. To calm the fuck down. To clear my mind. Once I close the door, Ruger knocks on it.

“I’ll wait for you right here.”

“No need!” I yell back, feeling oddly relieved by the rainforest energy in Ruger’s bathroom. I can still see his shoes on the other side of the door. I don’t know why he feels the need to be this close to me. Why would any racist?

I can hear Ruger’s low, deep chuckle. Which I find very irritating.

“I need a shower too, little brat,” he says. “And you’re going to watch me take it.”

I freeze. And then I ignore Ruger’s ass and turn the shower on. I’ll just pretend I didn’t hear him. That’ll work…

His back thuds against the door and he slides down to sit on the floor – I imagine. Even if I know he can’t see me, I know he’s there. He also built that door. It stands to reason he could take it down.

Unfortunately, Ruger is correct. I smell terrible and I need to do something about it. So I take my clothes off. A shiver of excitement runs through me as I take my shirt off. I get to be clean… I’m tempted to look at my body in Ruger’s small fogged up bathroom mirror. But it has been a long ass time since I’ve seen myself and I know my ass is filthy and torn up from the road.

Before everything happened in Massachusetts, I would have never walked past a mirror without looking. Now, how I look feels like a burden. Something that just puts my life in danger. Look at what happened here with Ruger. How long did it take before he asked to see me naked… because I’m black. Because of how I look. I avoid the mirror and get the rest of my clothes off, but I can still see my body.

Looking down, there’s nothing flat or “perfect” about my physique, but what I’ve seen on TV or my phone has never managed to make me feel bad about how I look. My thighs look thinner than I remember and whatever nail polish I last had on my toenails has chipped completely. My skin looks… thin. I hope this white man has some lotion in here… although I find that unlikely.

The water is hot enough – maybe too hot – but I step inside the shower, letting the humidity, the fog and eventually the stream of water envelop me completely. Once the water touches my body, feeling returns to all my extremities. I don’t realize how numb I am until the hot water makes my toes tingle. Then my fingers. Then my thighs. It’s like I’m coming awake. I take a deep breath of air as I feel the warmth all over my body. I feel alive, which isn’t typical for me.

Scouring the shower for any product, I see a lonely ass 5-in-1 shampoo, conditioner, body wash, dishwashing liquid, and carpet cleaner. Carpet cleaner ?! The lump in my throat turns into a ball of thick, sticky dough. I have to use this in my hair. I feel like Nair would have been a better product.

But I bite my tongue and use the damn product in my hair. By the end of my shower, I’m much cleaner, and I smell like a sexy male werewolf stuck in a pine forest. This is how I imagine Jacob Black from Twilight smelling… But I have towels and Ruger says that he has clothes out there for me. I’ll take his word for it. When I turn the shower off, Ruger moves noisily on the other side of the door.

My heart drops as I get this strange sense that he’s going to shove the door open to the bathroom. But he doesn’t. He knocks.

“I got you some clothes. They look fucking stupid but… I think they’re gonna fit.”

I throw my hair up in one towel and then wrap the other tightly around my body. I can practically hear him panting against the door. And I know it’s not Zeus. Ruger has a very distinct sounding breath, as strange as that seems. It’s just noticeable how oddly slow his breathing is. When I open the door, seeing Ruger up close reminds me that he’s just a weird, fucked up and murderous racist who openly admitted to me that he used the n-word.

I wish I could put a wall between us instead of a towel.

He makes no efforts to hide that he’s looking me up and down. He smiles at my angry expression, which he seems to enjoy.

“Why did you put the hair up?”

“Because it needs to get dry.” And I don’t need his racist ass comparing me to any animals, foods, or any other racially charged items.

Boldly, Ruger reaches for my head towel and unwraps it. I freeze. I don’t stop him, because I’m clutching the towel covering my ass and boobs for dear fucking life. But no, he doesn’t go for that towel. He wants to see my hair.

If my hair had any chance of not looking a mess later, Ruger just ruined it. His 5-in-1 danger-product was bad enough to lather in, but now all this messy humidity will mess up my curls. Ruger scowls with disappointment. Or maybe confusion.

He explains himself quickly.

“It’s longer.”

“It’s wet.”

Ruger smiles. I don’t like that smile. I keep one hand on my body towel and try to snatch the head towel from him, but he throws it into the bathtub so it gets wet and I won’t even want it anymore. If I ever forget for a single second that he’s a maniac, Ruger reminds me. What type of people name their child after a fucking firearm brand? Crazy ones. And the crazy ass apple doesn’t fall far from the crazy ass tree.

“It’s pretty,” he says.

“My hair doesn’t need your approval.”

He sighs. “You get offended by everything. ”

“Who said I was offended?”

“My hair doesn’t need your approval,” he repeats in a mocking, high-pitched voice. I want to smack him across the face, but I’m in a high risk situation. It’s hot in here, and I already know Ruger wants to get naked.

“It doesn’t.”

“I just said that your hair was pretty. I don’t like fake hair.”

“Black women don’t have to wear hair that you like.”

“You’re right,” he says, instead of arguing with me like he normally does. Maybe the beast is teachable after all. “I just said your natural hair was pretty. Does that somehow make me a racist?’

“No. Saying the n-word as an insult makes you a racist. Holding creepy opinions makes you a racist. Being a bigot makes you a racist.”

“What’s a bigot?”

“Give me the clothes.”

Ruger reveals the contents of the bundle he has wrapped beneath his other arm. He has to be out of his mind.

“Please tell me this is a joke.”

The grey sweatpants are fine. I can roll the waistband and pull the strings tight. But that t-shirt?

“It’s not mine,” he says. “Listen… Either I get the shirt or you get the shirt.”

“Isn’t this your house?” I yell at him. “You have to have more than one shirt.”

“My house sitter cleaned me out.”

“I don’t believe you.”

“Fine. I’ll wear it.

“I’ll be damned if I’m going to sleep next to a white man wearing a shirt with a Confederate flag on it.”

“It’s a Lynyrd Skynyrd shirt. And it’s not mine.”

“It has an evil racist symbol on it.”

Ruger shrugs. “I don’t even understand all the arguments.”

“Did you not go to high school?”

“I did some,” Ruger snaps. “Not all of us have the brains for sitting around listening to bullshit. Not all of us have parents who give a shit what we do. I joined the Army. I served my goddamn country…”

He seems to catch himself. Because there is real anger running through this man, and all I did was push his ass a little bit on the confederate flag. He’s racist, I haven’t changed my mind about that. But this man is also deeply confused.

“Okay,” I tell him once he trails off. He hates losing control. I store that little piece of information for later. “Take your shower.”

“You want the shirt or not?”

“You have other clothes.”

“I don’t,” he says. “But if it makes you mad, I’ll throw it out and get you some new clothes tomorrow.”

“I’m not wearing that shirt. I don’t care which Skinny Lenny made it or whatever the fuck you just said.”

“Lynyrd Skynyrd…” he said. “They don’t teach you about good music in high school?”

I don’t want to risk triggering this demon again.

“Shower,” I tell Ruger, hoping he’ll just get in the shower and give me time to adjust to my new life of imprisonment with a racist. It’s bad enough that he killed his ex-wife. It’s bad enough that he’s crazy…

“Okay,” he says. “I’ll get clean. Check on Eden. Then we’re getting our asses to bed.”

Bed.

I don’t even want to think about that.

Surviving a night in bed with that beast.

With any man.

I don’t know how I’ll handle it.