Devil You Know

by Max Henry

  I let the smile I feel on the inside, thinking about what we shared, show on the outside for a change. My lips curl at the corners, and I look back to find him grinning. My stomach flutters, and a fresh wave of heat races across my skin.

  “Your smiles are going to be the death of me.” I grab a pillow, and heave it as his chest.

  He catches it with a chuckle, and tosses it aside. “I can’t help it if you make me smile.”

  “Ditto.”

  He always makes me smile. Even when the thought of losing him kills me inside.

  • • • • •

  I WAKE, groggy and confused as to what that damn noise is. It sounds like a phone, but my phone doesn’t have that ringtone.

  Where am I?

  I look around the room, and the early evening sunlight streaming through the open blinds reminds me what I got up to this afternoon—what we got up to. Malice stirs behind me, and utters something under his breath as he heads for the source of the racket. I tug the sheets up, and watch him answer.

  “Yeah?”

  Whoever it is, they can’t be his favorite person right now.

  “When?” His brow furrows. “Can’t someone else do it?” My chest tightens as I watch him pace the room. “Yeah, okay. Whatever.” He sighs. “I’ll be right there.”

  The look on his face spells resignation, and disappointment when he turns to face me.

  “Babe, I have to go out.” Malice snatches his jeans off the floor, and tugs them on. “I’ll be back tonight—hopefully.”

  “Is everything okay?” Whatever the conversation was about, it sounded pretty bad.

  “Yeah. Everything will be fine. I need to head into work.” He throws a dark T-shirt over his torso.

  I turn my head, and check out the LCD display of the alarm clock. “Now? Who needs a butcher at this time of the day?” It’s near-on dinnertime.

  The way he sighs and rubs a hand over his head isn’t something I can misinterpret.

  “I didn’t think you were a butcher,” I mutter.

  He sighs. “I promise, I’ll tell you everything. But now, I need to go.”

  “Whatever.” I look out the window to see Rocco chasing a butterfly across the lawn. The happy sight is so clichéd, and the juxtaposition to how I feel has me laughing. A butterfly, of all things.

  “What’s so funny?” he asks.

  “Nothing. I’ll see you when you get home.”

  I stay looking out the window, at the sun on the leaves, at the flowers swaying in the breeze. I don’t need to look around to know he’s there; I can feel him watch me.

  After a time, the click of the front door echoes through the silent house. My shoulders loosen, and I consider having a shower. Fuck it all—I’ve seen a tub in his bathroom. Maybe I’ll have a nice, long soak.

  Malice’s sheet trails behind me as I walk down the hall, and let Rocco in the French doors. He follows me around, his nails clicking on the hardwood floor while I check all the doors, and windows. Satisfied a ninja couldn’t sneak in without me noticing, I head for his bathroom.

  The water laps at my ankles as the tub fills. I sit on the edge, looking around the sterile, white space for anything that gives me a clue on what kind of guy he actually is. Aftershave sits on the vanity, beside it a small bottle of moisturizer.

  So, he likes to keep his skin soft? Big deal.

  Great. His bathroom is as cleverly concealed as he is. Rocco slumps against the side of the tub, and looks up at me with his large, shiny eyes. I smile, and rough his ears. He always knows when I need company. He’s always there for me—unlike anyone else I know . . .

  I stay in the bath until I turn into a prune and the water causes my flesh to chill. I’m not one hundred percent certain on how much time has passed, but I’m positive it has to be hours. The water drains, the gurgle echoing through the quiet house as I wander through to my room. Only a clean pair of sleep shorts resides in my drawers, and I make a note to coax Malice into taking me shopping for the basics. I can’t live on the minimal amount of clothing I have forever. All my clean tops are in the load of washing I hung out on the porch this morning, and now that darkness has fallen, they’re most likely damp again.

  How did I slip from a well-oiled, housekeeping machine into this woman that doesn’t remember to get her washing in?

  Resigned, I head over to Malice’s room and pull a clean T-Shirt from his drawers. I’m sure he won’t mind me borrowing it considering I’ve done it before, and its not as though he’s here to ask, is it? The cotton hangs to my mid-thigh, and the sleeves sit baggy on my arms. I tuck one side into my shorts and head for the kitchen.

  Rocco sleeps happily in front of the sofa, and I take the time to look him over. He’s adjusted so well, and I wonder if perhaps getting him wasn’t so bad after all? Sure, it meant I had to endure that horrific night, thinking he would die, but again, he was the reason Malice came over.

  Initially.

  My head hurts to think about it, to try and decipher the mixed signals Malice has sent me since I left Dylan. Utilizing my best skill of shutting down and operating on basic functions, I head to the kitchen to make a coffee. My eyes are vacant, and I stare at nothing when the sound of tires on the drive signals he’s home.

  I walk through to the living room, and place my hot drink on the table. Rocco picks his head up, and grumbles at the door as the lock rattles. My nerves peak, given that Rocco has never done that before now. What can he sense? It was Malice that came home, wasn’t it?

  Ty enters first, and blocks my initial view of Malice. He holds a hand up to me, stopping me in my tracks, and guides Malice to the sofa. “Take a seat, bro.”

  Malice sits with his back to me, only the tops of his shoulders, and messy hair showing. What the hell happened?

  Bronx enters next, and heads straight for me. “Jane, sweets. Can you please make us a hot drink?”

  “I’d like a beer,” Malice calls out.

  “You ain’t having anything of the kind,” Ty barks at him. “A coffee will be fine,” he repeats to me.

  I take my leave, more than able to read between the lines. Malice still hasn’t acknowledged me, and unease settles over my shoulders as I stir the drinks. Why are Ty, and Bronx with him? And where’s Tigger?

  The three men talk in hushed tones as I juggle the drinks in my hands, wracking my brain for what may have happened. It would damn well help if I knew what they truthfully did for a job. Butchers don’t come home looking that distressed. The mugs sear at my fingers while I carry them over, and Ty pulls out three coasters for me to put them on. I place them down, and take a seat on the chair opposite the boys.

  Holy hell.

  Malice has a split lip, blood dried over his chin. More stains his T-shirt, and bruising around the base of his neck already blooms. Bronx has the legs of his jeans rolled up, and he’s checking out a severe looking gash on his shin. Ty comes across as the cleanest of the three, but it’s clear he’s been in a scuffle as well.

  Malice’s eyes lift to find mine, and he drops his gaze as quick. What the hell does he have to be ashamed of?

  “What happened?” I ask softly.

  Ty leans into the sofa, and nudges Malice with his knee.

  “Not now, bro,” he snaps.

  Bronx straightens out his legs, and shakes his head. “Man, you have to own up to this soon, or you’re going to confuse the hell out of the woman.”

  “Like I’m not confused already,” I mutter.

  “I didn’t want to explain it all to you like this, Jane,” Malice starts.

  “But you kind of have to now,” I affirm.

  He nods. “Yeah, I do.” His fingers rub a section of his stained T-shirt between them, as though he can erase the blood through friction alone. “Tigger took a hit tonight.”

  I look over the three of them carefully, and notice the depth of their sullen expressions. He took more than a hit. “Who’s going to tell me why you all look like you’ve gone three rounds with a gladiat
or, then?”

  Bronx looks at Ty, who looks at Malice, who stares at the floor.

  Right.

  “Any one of you will do,” I say, shaking my head.

  Ty nudges Malice again, only this time he stands, and glares back at the guy. “Fine,” he growls. “Just stop fucking touching me.”

  “Easy on, bro.” Ty hold his hands up. “You want us to leave?”

  Malice glances at me, and them. “Not yet.”

  I stare at the four coffees on the table, wishing I had something not quite as hot to keep my hands busy. Silence hangs thick in the air as Malice strides into the kitchen, and grabs a beer. He cracks the top off, and guzzles half the bottle before re-joining us all.

  “Tigger liked to smoke,” he starts. “Weed, pot, whatever you want to call it. He did it everyday; it helped slow him down.”

  I nod, not sure why he feels the need to tell me. Surely that’s Tigger’s business? Hold on . . . liked. My stomach turns and my hand retracts from the coffee before me.

  “He went out on a job tonight, but it was all a set-up. Turns out the fuck-head owed a shark for money he borrowed to buy his stash.”

  My unease sits heavy in my chest. “Where is he now?”

  Ty stands abruptly, and walks over to the French doors. I’ve got no idea what he thinks he can see out there, but obviously it’s easier to look at than this room.

  “He’s at the hospital,” Malice says.

  I draw my knees to my chest.

  “In the morgue,” he finishes.

  Shock pulls the color from my face; numbness chasing the blood to my toes. I can’t begin to imagine how they all must feel. I glance at Bronx, but he’s staring intently at the leg of the table between us. Malice clears his throat, and looks to the ceiling.

  Ty stands in silence like a bloody statue.

  Nobody utters a word. I don’t think there would be any that could do the moment justice. These boys lost a close friend, and the grief hangs so heavy between them that I feel like I could reach out and touch it.

  “What happens now?” I ask.

  Ty finally turns from the doors, and looks at me with eyes so cold I could swear he’s not the same person. “We show them we won’t sit back and take it.”

  “Revenge?”

  “Exactly.”

  I look at the three of them. They’re big guys, but really? Who are they thinking of going up against? “Is it worth the risk? Who are these people he owed? I mean, I’m sure you’d all give them a hell of a fight, but are you a match for a gang, or whatever they are? Surely they do this kind of stuff everyday?”

  “Yeah, they do,” Malice says. “But we do, too.”

  JANE BOLTS from the room. Her eyes tell me she’s a million miles away. I look to Ty and Bronx. They both nod their understanding.

  Telling her what I do for a job was never going to end well.

  I should have done it sooner.

  “Are you going to be okay with that?” Bronx asks, tipping his chin to gesture up the hall.

  I nod. “Yeah, man. All good.” If anything, it’s the distraction I need to forget about what went down tonight.

  I look down at my blood-soaked shirt, and my stomach lurches knowing that most of it isn’t mine.

  “I need to get cleaned up,” I mutter.

  The boys watch me as I strip down to my boxers right there in the living room, and put my stained threads in the bin. Wearing those clothes a minute longer didn’t sit right. It was like saying I was proud of what had happened, happy to share it with the world.

  I’m anything but.

  It should never have gone down.

  Tigger should still be alive.

  “Did either of you know anything about this?” Ty asks.

  Bronx and I shake our heads.

  “Fuck,” Ty grits out. “Carlos, of all people. Why didn’t he tell us?”

  “Perhaps he thought we’d be hard on him,” Bronx offers.

  I look up the hall, eager to check on Jane.

  “No more jobs for Carlos until this is sorted,” Ty instructs, pointing at us in turn.

  “I don’t think you need to tell us, brother,” I say. “I wouldn’t disrespect Tigger like that.”

  “I need to head out, and call his parents.” Ty moves for the door. “You want a lift, Bronx?”

  “Yeah, man.”

  I see them out, talking about when we’ll meet up next to discuss this, but my head’s not in the game. My torn mind can’t decide if it should be paying attention to Bronx and Ty, grieving Tigger, or worrying about Jane.

  I swear the fucking thing will implode if I don’t simplify this shit out, and soon.

  The guys head down the drive to Ty’s car, and I close the door. The silence is welcoming to my overworked brain, but it also leaves me with a heavy heart knowing that Jane is here, equally as quiet.

  I head up to my room, and pull on a clean pair of shorts. The door to her room sits ajar, so I head over and knock. “Can I come in?”

  “It’s your place,” she says. “Do whatever you want.”

  My anger spikes, but I push it down. Now’s not the time to argue that bullshit again. She wriggles across on her bed, giving me room to sit on the edge.

  “Did he suffer for long?” she asks.

  I close my eyes, but the images of tonight assail me with crystal-clear horror. Snapping them open again, I lie back on her bed, across her feet. “It could have been easier.”

  She sucks in a breath, and shifts beside me. “Are you okay?”

  I turn my head to find her staring straight at me. She’s lain down beside me, mirroring my position. “Not really.”

  “Would it help to talk about it?”

  “No,” I say with certainty. I want to forget.

  Her fingers brush my temple, and I feel sick at the guilt of hiding so much from her and still having her care for me. I don’t fucking deserve it.

  “Can we just lie here for a bit?” I ask.

  “Sure.” She nestles in to my shoulder, and wraps an arm over my chest.

  Being with her settles me. Problem is, it’s the first time I’ve been anything near relaxed all night. The weight of what happened out there hits me like a truck, and I struggle to contain all the emotions swimming through my head. I have to stay strong.

  I reach over, and hoist her onto my body. She startles at first, but soon settles in on top of me. My arms bind her tight, and I bury my nose in her hair. She always smells so good.

  She smells like home.

  My eyes shut, and tears threaten as the memory of Tigger plays behind my lids like a damn silent movie.

  • • • • •

  I WAKE up later on, hot and uncomfortable. Jane has slipped half off, and her leg and arm still drape across me. She stirs a little as I shift from underneath, but soon drifts into a deep sleep. Rocco follows me to the bathroom, and sits at the door while I take a leak. I wash my hands, and glance up to find my reflection. Blood still dots my face, and I choke back the urge to vomit.

  I scrub, wipe, and near on try to peel the top layer of skin off me. Clean as I am now, Tigger’s blood still stains my conscience. The thoughts I tried to ignore on the drive home come back to haunt me, and I slump onto the closed toilet.

  Why didn’t he share this burden with us? We’re his brothers, and yet he didn’t tell us.

  The part that sickens me the most is the thought I could have easily been in the same shit. I don’t tell the boys as much as I should. I don’t ‘burden’ them with what I feel they don’t need to know. So how different am I to Tigger? We’re one and the same when it comes down to it.

  All these years I’ve thought that keeping the worst to myself would be the best way to preserve the relationships with those around me. But has it worked? I can feel the unspoken tension between the guys and I. Plus I fucking well know what my inability to share has done to Jane.

  I’m living a lie.

  I stormed over to her house that night, thinking she need
ed a hero: someone to fight her battles, someone to save her. But really, all she’s ever needed was support. All Jane has ever needed was a person to stand behind her and catch her when she fell, climbing out of that dark fuckin’ hole she was in.

  Yet, all I’ve done to her is leave her in there on her own, and turn my back on what she needs while I try to lead the way.

  I need to step back. I need to let her take the lead.

  Rocco moves from the door, and returns to the bedroom. I watch him go, and laugh at how fucking odd it is to think that I need to be more like him. He’s her constant, and why? Because he offers her unconditional love and support. The total opposite to what I’ve laid on the table.

  I rise, and follow him through to where Jane still lies, sound asleep. She murmurs as I slide my hands beneath her and shift her around so she lies the right way up the bed. I shirk my shorts, and slip in beside her.

  My chest feels heavy, and pity settles in at the fact it took me losing a good friend to realize what has been in front of me all along.

  To realize that I’m not the one who’s right here.

  I never have been.

  THE BED shudders with his silent sobs, and I have no idea what to do. He didn’t wake me, so do I say anything? Do I offer support, compassion, and understanding? Or do I give him his space and pretend to sleep?

  Rocco clears the situation up by trotting to Malice’s side of the bed, and making snuffling sounds. I can’t see what the mutt is doing, but he’s done it enough to me that I can imagine Rocco’s licking his face. Malice tries to laugh, but his chuckle sticks in his throat, and he ends up spluttering out a cough. I take the opportunity to fake waking, and roll over to look at him.

  His complexion is drained, and he lies with an arm thrown over his face. Rocco rests his big head in the crook of his armpit. Brave dog. I reach out, and rest my hand on his chest.

  He stiffens, and removes the arm from his eyes. “How long have you been awake?”

  “I woke up to you coughing,” I lie. “What’s the matter?” I lift myself up, and prop my head on my hand.

  “I feel like such an asshole, you know?” He puts his arm over his eyes again. “The last time we talked, I punched him.”