Convict

As he entered her home, the scent of lemon hit him hard. It wasn’t offensive to him. Closing the door behind him, he saw the sitting room, which had one sofa, was neatly kept. There was a television, but she had more books than anything else. He counted six bookshelves that were filled.

Heading toward the noise, he found Scarlett in the kitchen. She hummed to herself as she put her groceries away.

“You don’t have a husband?”

“Nope.”

“A boyfriend?”

“Nope.”

“A kid?”

“Nope. I’m just me, and you’ve got nothing to be afraid of. Unless of course someone is after you, in which case, have a bath. I’ll make you some food, and you can be on your way.”

She brushed past him, and he followed her up a set of stairs, through one door. “Here’s the bathroom. Pass me out your clothes when you’re done. Are they even yours?”

“No. I took them from the guard.”

“Well, hurry up.”

Stepping into the bathroom, he began to remove his clothes, keeping the gun close. She really was crazy.

****

Scarlett washed the convict’s clothing, and every now and then she caught a glance of her reflection in the mirror. She shouldn’t be helping him, and yet when she finally looked him in the eye, she saw the desperation there. He’d wanted to get out of whatever trouble he found himself in, and, being the kind of person she was, she couldn’t just let it go. She knew what it was like to be trapped in a situation that she couldn’t get out of.

With his clothes now being washed, she made her way back toward the kitchen and began making them both a sandwich. Buttering each slice of bread, she watched the door for when he would enter.

She didn’t have to wait long. With a towel wrapped around his waist, Ryker appeared. Every time he looked at her, he seemed a little more confused.

“You can take a seat,” she said.

She was somewhat surprised to see that her hands were indeed steady. All things considered, she imagined she’d at least be nervous when faced with a man intent on using a gun.

This is why you’re weird, and no one wants anything to do with you.

“You know, this wasn’t how I imagined this would go,” he said.

“I’m sure there are a lot of things you’ve imagined over the years that have taken you by surprise.” She cut his sandwich into triangles and put it in front of him. “Enjoy.”

Taking a seat opposite him, she was able to glance at his body and stare at the many tattoos that covered him. They were just marks, ink woven together in large black lines. His muscles stood out as well, even though he had them covered by the ink. She ate her sandwich and watched as he did the same, only the look of rapture on his face intrigued her.

“You’ve not eaten in a while?”

“Let’s say it has been a long time since I’ve had a nice sandwich. Food on the inside leaves a lot to be desired.”

She didn’t respond, and kept on eating her food until her plate was clear, once again, moving from one thing to the next. Food done, dishes done, and normally she found something to clean, or weed in the garden. With Ryker here, she didn’t really know what to do, so trying to ignore him, she moved toward the sitting room. Picking a book off the shelf, she sat down, put her feet up, and began to read through the many pages without seeing a single word.

This was her life. Cooking, reading, cleaning, cooking, going to town, and rarely doing anything else.

Ryker entered the room, and out of the corner of her eye she saw him head to the fireplace and begin looking at each of the few photographs she kept up.

“Why does each one have a part missing?” he asked.

She looked up.

He held a single picture in his hand, his index finger pointing to the missing piece.

“Because … I don’t want that person in my picture.” Now her hand wobbled on the book, and she stood. “I’m going to go and see if your clothes are done.”

Leaving the room, she made her way into the washroom. Leaning up against the counter, she closed her eyes and counted to ten.

Scarlett placed a hand on her chest in an effort to calm her nerves, but still, that didn’t work.

“I didn’t mean to worry you,” Ryker said.

Forcing herself to relax, she turned to him, and his arms were folded, casually leaning against the doorframe as if he had a right to be there.

“You didn’t.”

“That looked to me like you were having a panic attack.”

“It was nothing.”

The washing had finished, and she pulled it out, placing it in the dryer.

“You have a nice home.”

“You can’t stay here,” she said.

“No one in town cared that you had a strange man in your car. In fact, they barely looked your way, putting their hand up in a single acknowledgement,” he said.