6. Zee
You’ve Got The Love - Florence + The Machine
“He hurt you again,” I murmur, pointing to the bruise on his arm.
Colt scratches his jaw—he does that a lot since he started to get little flecks of hair growing there.
“Does it itch?” I ask, knowing he won’t comment on his injury.
“A bit.”
“Why do you scratch it so much?”
He rubs his chin on his arm, arms that are propped on his knees. We’re leaning against the wall of Loki’s stall. Some might say that it’s pretty dangerous where we’re sitting—right in front of him. If he stomped on us, it’d hurt. Might kill us. But this is Loki. He’d hurt himself first.
Here, we can hide so long as we keep our voices low.
When you look over the stall, all that’s showing is Loki’s big head and rump.
We’re tucked away here.
Safe.
Together.
“It’s a reminder.”
“What does hair remind you of?”
I prod his chin, unsurprised that he lets me. The spiky hair is somehow soft. Not like Daddy’s. His was like a wire brush. I guess it’s like Walker’s. They’re the same age, but Walker’s is a lot more blond.
“That I won’t be a kid forever.” He punctuates it with a bite of one of the sugar cookies I always bake for him.
I tut. “I could’ve told you that.”
“It’s a good reminder.”
“Why?”
“Because it’s getting full and bristly which means I’ll be old enough to fight back soon.”
He’s talking aboutClyde.
I shiver.
I hate him.
I saw him doing sex things with Mom last year and?—
“I want to watch you fight him.”
His grin does something to my belly. It’s like when I fall off Jezebel, my palomino. But in a good way. Or maybe when I don’t eat enough for breakfast and my head gets woozy.
“You think I’ll be able to get my good licks in?” he asks as he hands me the Tupperware of treats.
“Of course. You’re Colt.” Because he shakes his head and is still smiling, I tell him something to keep him happy. I love it when he smiles. “Do you know why my mom called the triplets Carson, Colby, and Calder?”
His brows lift as I nibble on the cookie. “No. Why did she?”
“Because Daddy hated Clyde too. He said there was no reason that only Korhonens could have names beginning with ‘C.’”
When he snorts, I let loose a giggle.
“He was a wise man.”
“He was the best man,” I agree, tone laced with pride.
“It’s a shame he didn’t give you and Walker ‘C’ names.”
“Mom calls me mischief.”
“‘Mischief,’” he repeats, grinning. “I like it. I’m going to call you that too. Even if it doesn’t begin with the letter ‘C’. Chaos does though. Maybe that should be your nickname?”
My cheeks flush with color. “You can. If you want.”
When his grin morphs into laughter, revealing his dimple, I don’t bother hiding my delight.
Mom told me once that I was put on this earth to cause mischief, but I don’t think I was.
I think I was put on this earth to make Colton Korhonen smile.