BARE HANDS - A Bad Boy Romance Novel Page 2

  I pulled my hand away from his knee and tucked it in my lap. I stared out the window, blinking back a single, stinging tear. Nevermind. Things would get easier, once we were married. I had on my favorite dress, the white and grey paisley one, with comfy shoes and freshly washed, freshly cut hair. Shorter than was ideal, sure, but as I caught sight of myself in the rear view mirror, dusty blond hair falling in swashes at my shoulders, I squinted my eyes and imagined myself as a fashion model, jet setting off to a lingerie shoot. My name would be Bianca and I’d have a Russian mobster as my boyfriend and captor…

  We’d be there in less than 20 minutes. My hand luggage sat on the floor at my feet. With one hand, I absentmindedly played with the ceramic rabbit pin Dylan had given me for our one-month anniversary. I rolled its cool curves over my fingers again and again.

  I’ve always loved rabbits.

  Chapter Three – Viktor

  I’ve always loved rabbits. There’s something just so beautiful about their eyes. They’re so wet and round, but somehow hidden in amongst this dry, fluffy pelt. Human eyes are never this wet. Never this round. A rabbit’s eyes, though, are always these neat, juicy little globes. Even when they’re dead.

  The worst fucking thing in this world is to be squeamish. I don’t care who you are, you are never too good for a little pain, a little hard work, a little disappointment. We all die. We all shit and cry and fuck and we all are born and we all die. Anyone who figures themselves somehow above that all can kiss my ass.

  That’s what all of this comes down to, really. Having grit. Having the balls and the guts and the fucking self-respect to live with just an ounce of responsibility, of self-awareness. All the years I’ve lived in this place and that’s the only conclusion I have for you: civilization is one giant, all-encompassing pillow. Just a big old cushion so that the people living on it never have to feel the rock of reality under their bare asses, never have to actually feel the world around them.

  And the cushion is soft and they’re soft, so soft that when they see me, they just about shit themselves. They’re squeamish. I’m too dirty. Too weird. Too sexual. Too extreme. Too much. You know what dirt and blood and guts are? You know what rough hands and sinewy arms and tanned skin actually are? They’re real. They’re fucking real.

  And now here I am, and there’s the rabbit, lying limp and lifeless in front of me, and this is real too. This is why I’m here. A rabbit’s eyes are clean and honest and glassy, even after it’s quit struggling, even after the kick has gone from its legs and its little heart stops fluttering in its chest. After it’s dead. A rabbit is never squeamish. They’re not full of bullshit, at the very least.

  I picked up the pipe and brought it to my lips, slowly. No need to rush. I opened my chest to it, and the hot smoke went into me, into my lungs, and even before I’d exhaled my head was spinning. I blew out two plumes through my nostrils, and the smoke rolled over my naked chest. The eddies and curls seemed to be moving in slow motion. The world blinkered out and then back in again, this time in full color, two realities superimposed over each other like a 3D movie without the glasses. I closed my eyes and sighed. This was some good shit.

  The rabbit. I looked at it and it looked at me. Wet eyes, dry fur. A little blood crusted on the gash at its head. A piece of grass stuck in one of its grey cat paws. When Mama Tembi learned that I was all the way out here in the boondocks, not only living in the shack I built but eating the local wildlife to survive, she had given me a stern talking to. There was room in Mama Tembi’s mind for a shaman figure, I guess. Enough space in her worldview for a wild man and enough space in these dark forests to accommodate even the most dangerous of ideas. Even if I was eating rabbits. Even if I was a “white man”.

  The others, though? Fuck ‘em. In fact, I’d take it all as a compliment. Let me threaten them. Let me freak them out. We could all use a reminder from time to time …a reminder of what’s real.

  Ok, here’s my confession: I actually hate rabbits. I hate how wiry and tough their little bodies are, and hate the sound their skin makes when you tear it off, and I hate the smell, holy fuck do I hate the smell. Rabbits are like a miracle to catch and then once you do, you wonder whether the few mouthfuls of dark meat are really worth it. The meat always tastes dark, too, like you can still taste the fight in it. They’re wild, like me, so they’re a little …intense. Their flavor is earthy and a little bloody. Raw tasting, no matter how much you cook them.

  Let me describe my cabin to you, so you can really understand just how big of a deal it is to deal with this thing, even though its carcass is so tiny. It’s one room, essentially. There’s only me here, so why bother dividing it into separate rooms for separate functions? I have nothing to hide, especially not from myself, so the bathroom and the kitchen and the bedroom and the store room and the rabbit killing room are all essentially one. It’s all just “living”. A living room.

  I have a loosely quilted mattress in the corner and when its colder I have a rabbit pelt blanket. But these days I prefer the floor. No cushions. My cooker is in the other corner. That was the first thing I built. As with everything else in this place, I did it with my bare hands. I still go into town and get paraffin on occasion, although I’m wondering if I do it just to chat to Mama Tembi and keep up with the gossip. You never know who might come in handy one day, although god knows I’m not the world’s most sociable guy, as you can imagine.

  Above the cooker are my two pots, although I only really ever need the one. I keep my knives under the cooker. Hidden in an easy access latch is my rifle, and I keep the axe in the same place. There was a time that I had a few bits and pieces on a shelf in the third corner, but in my second year here, I had gradually lost them all. I didn’t need photos of fucking people I didn’t want to see. I didn’t need a clock. I didn’t need a decorative box to keep my herbs in. And after all of that went, the shelves themselves seemed kind of pointless, so I got rid of them too, except for one, and they went to fire wood, and I could taste the wood in the meat of the rabbit I cooked on that fire.

  It might not be much. I imagine Mama Tembi raising her eyebrows at it, and basically every other human being, if they’ve been raised in the “Western world” at least, but again: fuck ‘em. All that matters to me now is what’s real. Me. This rough cabin I built with my bare hands. And the rabbit.

  I put down the pipe and cracked my neck, once to one side, once to the other. The tendons and meat inside me …the same tendons and meat inside the rabbit. All the same. One thing, two different forms. I hate killing. But that is only one part of me. The other, darker part of me …well, let’s say you need a particular mindset to kill and then skin a rabbit. To do it properly, at least.

  First, take a rabbit’s body in your hands, your bare hands, as though it’s the relaxed arm of a lover. Stroke its fur down, and remember that this rabbit had secrets, had a life and hopes and dreams, like you. Like you will have had, after you’re dead as well. Feel its meat under the fur. Touch it gently, like you love it. You have to love it. You’re an alchemist: you’re going to turn rabbit into food, and later, turn food into you. Its muscles are your muscles. See this. Really see it.

  Cut off its feet. Cut off its head. Don’t think too much while you do this. Put a long, thin and sharp knife into its neck and slice cleanly down along its belly like it’s just a steak wearing a rabbit’s costume, and this is the zip. Because that’s what it is. Think about your own zips. When the line reaches the crotch, put the knife down and take off the pelt, firmly, like pajamas. Feel bad that the rabbit will be cold without it. Slice open the abdominal cavity and remove the tubes inside there, all of them. Hang the rabbit long and let it bleed out.

  The blood and bones are good for the soil. The skin is now your skin. Its eyes …I haven’t figured out what to do with the eyes yet. The jackals eat them.

  While you’re cutting and dressing a rabbit, you shouldn’t think of other things. You should honor the rabbit and fucking pay attention. But toda
y, my mind was all over the place. I was being sloppy. Making small mistakes. The blade was too blunt. Unfocused.

  I kept having a thought: it’s time for a fresh batch of missionaries to arrive from the states. If they weren’t here already, they would be very soon. I didn’t need paraffin or anything else. But I could go into town anyway, just to sniff around and see if there were any hot young things floating around. I’m a man with principles. But I’m still a man. And a man has needs.

  I finished with the rabbit and poured some fresh water over my hands, my little steel basin singing as the water hits it. A basin is a good thing to have. A basin isn’t bullshit. I smiled and washed my hands, the warm feeling in my head spreading out over my body. The blood never really comes off completely, even after the water runs clear. I shook them off and dried them quickly, then collapsed back on my mattress, legs propped up casually.

  The rabbit hung in the corner. Good. I hated that part. But death is necessary, for life.

  Now, I could finally focus on this weird thought that wouldn’t leave me alone today. A disturbance in the force, if you like. Every time I closed my eyes, it appeared: a face. I lay back on my mattress and tried to focus on the face. The features were blurred and fleeting. I breathed in deep and released. Felt the tension sinking out of me and into the mattress.

  I’ve been living in these forests my entire life. The human face has started to look different to me. I’ll go back into “civilization” just as soon as it makes sense to. But till then, I need nothing that I haven’t made on my own. With my own body, and my own mind. How many men can say that? There’s just one problem though. One thing a man can’t provide for himself.

  I adjusted myself on the mattress and opened up a fold in my sarong. Easily, my cock jumped out at me. It had been a while since I’d been compelled to hide this part of myself. I’m often naked. I’m often alone.

  I put my hands round the shaft and stroked gently. Forest living was good for the system. While my time in this cabin had whittled my body down to muscle and bone, my cock seemed only to have pick up the slack, getting bigger and meaner. My hands were rough from work. I was a little sun burnt. But morning or night I could easily go from soft to hard enough to cut glass in just a few seconds. When you live in a virile forest, teeming with life, you become potent yourself.

  Fine. I’d go into town. Maybe there’d be someone interesting for a change. Maybe not. No big deal.

  I rolled my coarse hands over the swollen tip. A woman would be better. There’s nothing soft about me. I liked it that way. But a woman …I could use just a bit of softness. I shut my eyes and saw the face again. In my foggy mind, I saw, and felt, something indescribably warm. Something hot with life. It pulsed all through me, parting my lips. I kept stroking.

  I saw lips, a soft face. Something tender there, just out of my reach. Jolts of pleasure were shooting up and down my body. My hand froze, I clenched the mattress and a slow, gooey orgasm rushed over me. Wet globs landed on my hands. My bare hands. Fine, no man is an island. I’d go to town. It couldn’t hurt.

  Chapter Four - Penelope

  It was great, actually, when you just shifted your perspective. It was all fine. This was why I was here, right? To learn all about the different ways of the world and how all God’s people go about their business.

  I stared down at the brown muck in front of me. The tap had been running for a full minute, I was sure of it, and it still wasn’t getting any clearer. I would never dream of telling the mission leaders this, but the place was a dump. I’m sorry, but it was.

  I had a long, fitful dream all on the plane trip here, and was tried as all heck now. Every time I shut my eyes, I saw a face. So I kept my eyes open. Now, they were still red and raw, and I was jet lagged for sure.

  Sister Dora had collected me from the airport, if you can call it that, and we had taken a bus here. It made me feel so bad to see my awful heavy bag hoisted up on her frail shoulders. She must have been ninety in the shade, and her shoes looked a decade older than even that, yet she said nothing and just hauled all my stuff off, telling me how excited everyone was to meet me.

  I would share my room with Valerie, a girl who’d arrived a few months prior to me and was transplanted from the next town over. She and I would oversee the community garden project. The land was ready, the funds had cleared and now they were all waiting for me.

  “Married?” she asked on the bus ride.

  “No ma’am, not yet, although when I return home I’ll be marrying my fiancé, Dylan.”

  She smiled. “Any children?”

  I shook my head. What a weird question. She had on a really old fashioned habit and a wooden cross round her neck, but every time she stroked at my hair (she really seemed to like my hair) I couldn’t help feeling that her fingers reminded me just a little of a gorilla’s.

  Now, I know what you’re thinking. If Dylan had told me that, I would have straight up told him he’s a racist, and he kind of is, but I just couldn’t shake the thought, and it was my first thought, and it just sprang up without me even doing it on purpose, you know? And I felt so guilty. Man, did I feel guilty. She was kind to me, and here I was thinking she reminded me of a gorilla. How terrible was that?

  “You’re so pale,” she said, taking a strand of my ashy hair in her fingers. “Like a tiny little mouse!” She laughed, a little mockingly, if I’m honest.

  I guess that made us even.

  The drive to the room was agonizing. Mchinji was …how can I put this? Low key. I had my work cut out for me for sure.

  “You’ve never been to Malawi before, have you?” she asked. I shook my head. I’d never been to anyplace, really.

  “It’s beautiful, you’ll see,” she said, as I stared out of the grimy bus windows.

  It was as I imagined. Kind of.

  Dusty. Pretty hot. Not a whole lot going on. More stray dogs than I had imagined. Google had told me that that the population was less than 2000, and that most people here had no running water, no schooling, no nothing.

  Bu they had me now. I adjusted my eyes to make out my own reflection in the bus window. I was pale. It was hard to imagine that I was an international lingerie model, not with how the bus was smelling right at that moment, but I let my imagination go anyway. I would be like Jane, and find a Tarzan, and we’d live on a ranch and adopt all the stray dogs and care for them, so that nobody ever had to suffer again…

  “We’re here my dear” Sister Dora said, and she sprang up like a sprite and before I knew it she had hauled my bag out of the bus and plonked it down just as the tires skidded off and left us in a cloud of red dust. Home sweet home. More dogs, broken down houses.

  “Valerie is out today, you’ll see her tomorrow. But she’s very excited to meet you. I think there are three or four others arriving today and Mama Tembi is arranging a dinner this evening to welcome everyone. Just sleep now. I’m coming this way tonight and I’ll come get you, ok?”

  I panicked. That’s it? I would be alone?

  “Just lock the door, ok? You came a bit early. Pastor will be there this evening, you can speak to him and arrange everything. I have to go though, it’s getting late. Ok?” she smiled at me.

  “Ok.”

  And now I was here, looking at this water. It had been two minutes. Still dirty as heck. I turned off the tap. I’d have to freshen up some other way. The room was …not good. And it really was just that – a single room. I don’t mean to be ungrateful, but how could you live in just one room like this? I could see Valerie’s bed …but where were all her things?

  With one big motion I unzipped my bag. Thank God. Everything was still here. Losing a few pairs of Toms would have been fine, but I don’t think I wanted to admit that Jeff had been right, just this once. As I looked down into the bag though, I was struck by something odd: the scent of flowers. I lifted a tank top with my fingers and discovered it was laced with white goop. What the…?

  Shampoo. My jumbo shampoo bottle had exploded. I rum
maged through the bag. Yup, everything was covered in a slimy layer of pearly white. Damn! It was uncanny. Even the clothing right at the bottom layers was drenched. Who knew there was so much shampoo in a single bottle? I examined the bottle. Empty. The Lord giveth and he taketh away. Not only were my clothes dirty, they were dirty with what I needed to keep myself clean.

  On some stupid whim, I looked up to see if I could find any sign of a washing machine. Of course there was none. I was in Malawi. Why would they have washing machines when hardly anyone had running water? I imagined Jeff laughing at me, and the fact that I had thought about whether to give the kids here milk chocolate treats, and now whether or not there’d be a washing machine. In any case, he was an idiot. Google had told me plain as day that many people in Africa do, in fact, suffer from lactose intolerance, and my idea to not give them milk chocolate wasn’t a stupid one at all. I had let him have that one, I guess. The man is the head of the household.

  I sighed loudly and looked around for a wardrobe. There was no wardrobe. I slid a curtain to the side and found Valerie’s clothes on a few plastic hangers. There were no extra hangers. I picked up the slimy tank top again to check that I wasn’t dreaming, and that this really wasn’t all a nightmare, but it slid out my fingers and landed on the bare flor, splat, picking up a layer of red dust.

  And I’ll admit it. I’m big enough to admit it. There and then, at that moment, I wished I hadn’t come. I felt dirty. I was dirty. And there was nobody here to welcome me, and everything was so damn quiet, like, creepily quiet, and I could manage whatever Jesus threw my way, for sure, but did I have to do it in the same crumpled sundress I had been wearing for almost a full 24 hours now?

  I wiped away a tear and squared my shoulders. I wouldn’t be any help to anyone if I was a crying wreck. I sniffed my armpits and recoiled. Yikes. I slid my bag to the far side of the room. I’d deal with that later. I fished out the least soiled shirt and ferociously tried to rinse out the shampoo glob down the front of it, using the same brown tap water. Luckily, the shampoo became its own detergent.