Her Eyes

Chapter 16: CAUGHT

After a short nap and a change of clothes, Alex headed over to the warehouse. He spotted Zane walking to his car and approached him silently. He reached his car and took out his keys, fumbling with them clumsily. "Hey," Alex greeted, hoping to surprise him.

As soon as he looked up Alex's fist hit his face. He held him down by the neck and ripped his gun out of the back of his pants, throwing both Zane and the gun to the dirt below. "Do you remember when I said I could be a real nice guy, Zane? You remember that? Till I break you?" He watched as the man spit his blood to the dirt. "Get up," he demanded.

He got up and met Alex's fist twice more. Alex grabbed him by the shirt and held him in place punching him again, than a last time sending the man back to the ground. "That's just a warm up," the sheriff spoke through ragged breath, cowering over him. "When you least expect it I'm gonna show up and I'm gonna bury you and your little business in the ground. And now you know I'm a man of my word, right Zane?" The memory of his burning house flashed in his mind. He kicked him in his gut and watched as he tumbled over before picking up his gun and taking it with him as he left.

When he got back to the motel, he noticed his room had been cleaned from top to bottom. He had only been there for less than a day and the woman had already come and cleaned up after him. He rolled his eyes at the thought of her going through his things. And then he noticed it—his clothes were gone, which only meant that she had taken them. He blushed at the thought of her doing his laundry. It embarrassed him. The thought that she was washing not only his shirts and pants, but also the things he wore underneath it all.

            The pain of revenge began to appear in his hand, so he left his room briefly to get some ice. Digging through the icebox, he heard the sound of tires on the gravel. The sudden silence caused him to look up. Mrs. Nosy Bates, of course. He rolled his eyes at the sight of her. Of all the people who had to see him a little helpless, it had to be her.

            She pulled him into the spot next to his SUV. He tried to sneak back to his room unnoticed, bucket in hand. She got out of her car and approached him. "What the hell happened to you?"

            This woman drove him crazy. "I had to kick the shit out of somebody." They stared at each other. He expected her to reply. "Where are my clothes?" He decided he'd interrogate her instead. He came closer to her.

            "Your clothes? You mean the ones you left in a heap all over your room?" she mocked in a motherly tone.

            "Yeah, those clothes." Who was she to judge him? They were both a mess.

            "They're upstairs I washed them," she said innocently. She began to take in his appearance. "You're sticking your hand in an ice bucket? Have you cleaned that cut?"

            He wouldn't listen to her interrogate him. "I don't remember asking you to take care of my laundry," he shot back.

            "Sorry. Next time I'll leave them on the floor." She shot him a look, clearly offended by his lack of gratitude.

            He shook his head in confusion. "Isn't that what happens at most motels. The motel owner doesn't come into your room, pick up your clothes, and do your laundry." He was still embarrassed by the lack of privacy he had received.

            "I know you." She rolled her eyes.

            He looked at her, surprised by her lack of boundaries. "How does that matter?"

            "Of course it matters," she smiled. "Come upstairs. That's gonna get infected." She turned to make her way up to the house.

            But he turned the opposite direction. He needed to avoid being alone with her. "It's fine," he mumbled.

            She turned around to find him leaving. "It's not fine. It's dirty and you need to clean it up," she bitched. He sighed knowing she'd won and followed her up the stairs. She led him to the kitchen and motioned for him to have a seat. "I'm gonna get the first aid kit," she stated, leaving the room. He glanced over at his neatly folded clothes seethed for a moment, waiting for her to reappear. "So why exactly did you need to beat up someone?" There she was with the questions...he knew it was coming. She took the seat in front of him and scooted in.

He began to feel nervous when he noticed their proximity...his knee was in between her legs. He felt his gut tighten, and everything else tighten. He needed to get out of there—fast. "Let's just say I had my reasons." He didn't want to open up to her—he couldn't. Not when he was sitting in her kitchen and she was inches away from him.

She filtered through the first aid kit. "Don't you get tired of being so stoic? Seriously, you never want to talk about anything. It's—it's a little boring," she admitted.

She thought he was boring. He had only lived at the motel for a few hours and they were already beginning to sound like a married couple. "So is being dead. They'll shoot your mouth off in this business." He needed to act tough—it was his strongest suit.

"Okay tough guy, whatever." She started to wipe the cut, but he pulled away in pain. He wasn't as tough as he thought he was. He leaned back in as she tried again more gently. "I get it," she shrugged. "Sometimes it just feels good to wail on someone. I whacked the shit out of the real estate agent who sold me this house when I found out that I couldn't unload it. I did it with my purse. I felt great." He smiled at the thought of her beating up a man. "Oh my god," she stated surprised.

"What?" He looked at her in concern. He was afraid something had happened.

"You smiled. I thought your face was paralyzed," she mocked, digging back through the kit.

"Ha-ha, pretty sure I didn't smile." He couldn't let her in.

"God you're contrary," she huffed.

"Oh and you're not," he shot back. He couldn't believe this woman.

She unscrewed the lid to the cream and spread it on her finger before leaning in and applying it to his cut. He stared into her eyes. He'd never seen them this close before. He knew they were beautiful, but he had no idea they were this beautiful. They were two sparkling glass windows to her soul. She was too busy cleaning his cut to notice him admiring her, but when she caught the look in his eyes her eyes dropped to her lap. He looked down ashamed that he even thought he could look at her. "Well I'm working on it," she broke the silence. "I'm making friends, trying to be more social. I met this guy recently." Now she was telling him about the men she was seeing. Could this day get any more worse for him? "I wonder if you know who he is...Nick Ford?"

He looked up at her protectively. "Where'd you meet him?"

"At a party at Christine and Peter Heldens' house. Why? What's going on?" She was beginning to worry.

He was beginning to worry. "Ford's in the drug business. You're not involved with him somehow?"

"No, I'm not involved in anything at all," she spoke a little too quickly. "I'm just wondering if you know who he is."

He needed to protect her. "You want my advice. Stay away from him at all costs."

"Okay." She bit her lip. He knew something was up. He stared at her trying to read her face. She looked away from him uncomfortably. "There's your laundry." She was asking him to leave.

"Don't ever do it again," he warned, grabbing the pile off the table.

She stared into his eyes. "Your welcome."

 He took one last look at her before leaving. He could never catch a break with her. This woman drove herself from one mess to the next and it was his job to help her out. He needed to—he needed her.