Chimera (The Korsak Brothers #1)(28)
Sighing, I thought for a moment, then gave him a crooked smile. “Okay then, pick one.” His expression was understandably dubious, but I persisted. “Go on. Choose one. I’ll take it and you can take the other. They’re harmless, Michael. Honestly.”
The honesty didn’t matter, but my offer to take one did. Hell, I had a raging headache coming on anyway and I swallowed the indicated pill without complaint. Cautiously, Michael waited twenty minutes to see the result before he took his. He was many things, this kid, but stupid was not one of them. The warm water had sluiced most of the dried blood from his feet by then and I finished cleaning the rest of it with gauze and peroxide. Drying them with a towel, I slathered antibiotic ointment liberally on both soles and then presented him with a pair of clean socks from my bag. “Cover them up. God knows what you could catch off this carpet—Ebola, the plague, there’s no telling.”
He’d sat military straight on the bed while I’d performed the first aid and watched my every move. Furrowed brows said that care such as this wasn’t exactly what he was expecting, but he said nothing as he straightened and pulled on the socks.
“Go ahead and crash, kiddo.” I cleaned up the first aid kit and shoved it back in my bag. “We’ll sleep a few hours before we hit the road again.” It wouldn’t be much of a rest, but I wanted to make sure those *s weren’t going to pick us up somehow. If they had government ties as we suspected, it would be easy enough for them to have a finger dipped into the local authorities’ pie as well. There could be an APB out for Michael at this moment. No one had seen my face or Saul’s, but it was safe to say they had an excellent description of my brother, both inside and out.
Once again I saw a glimpse of a shadowy and jaded humor as the last word passed my lips. “You really have no idea what I am, do you?”
I was going to have to adjust to his denial, at least for a while. Doing my best to massage out the pang of tension stabbing at the base of my neck, I answered with weary quiet. “You’re my brother, Michael. And I’ll prove it to you, I swear. Now get some sleep.”
Bicolored eyes were as opaque and vigilant as those of a wild animal, but he stood to turn down the blankets. Sliding under them, he pulled them up to his neck and shifted over onto his side. It wasn’t too long before he drifted off, his hair a brown tangle on the pillow. He was tired, I knew, but as had happened in the car, questions were passing through my head. He didn’t trust me; as far as I could tell he didn’t trust anyone, including those with whom he’d lived. Even factoring in exhaustion, it was unsettling how quickly he dropped off. It was as if he were so used to a life filled with menace and uncertainty that it was the norm for him.
I stood by the bed and watched him sleep for a long time. To look away seemed like the worst invitation to fate . . . as if he were only a dream conjured by nothing more than years of guilt. Stupid, but my gaze lingered on him as I turned off the lights and went over to recline in the garish orange chair by the window. I left the world inside the room and turned my attention to the one outside the window. If I wanted to keep my brother, I had to act like the professional I was. Arranging the blinds until a small space showed between each slat, I kept watch on the parking lot until the sun came up.
It was about then that I realized what Michael had said before he’d gone to bed. “You really have no idea who I am, do you?” That’s what I’d assumed he had said, but my assumption had been wrong. It hadn’t been the word “who” that sat in the middle of that sentence. No . . .
It had been “what.”
Chapter 11
Michael woke without help from me. Rolling over, he tossed around for a few minutes before murmuring something. It sounded like a name . . . Peter. The sound of his own voice must have stirred him from sleep, because his eyes opened and the firm grip he had on a wad of sheets loosened. Blank and confused, his face smoothed out when he saw me. I didn’t fool myself into thinking the sight of me was reassuring in any way. My image simply triggered his brain into catching up with the events of last night and letting him know how he’d ended up in a strange hotel room.
“Hungry?” I stretched my legs as the twinge in the small of my back reminded me of a night spent in a chair designed by the most sadistic carpenter alive. “We can get some drive-through later, but I have jerky or peanut butter to tide you over until then.” Running a hand over fly-away hair, he sat up and slanted me a less-than-thrilled look. I supposed even institutional food was better than what I was serving. Giving a tired but heartfelt grin, I added, “Or there are still some Oreos.” Our mom had to be spinning in her grave over my idea of nutrition for the teenager on the run. The mention of the cookies went over much better than my other offerings. Blankets pooled on the floor as he climbed out of bed to give me a demandingly expectant look. “Good morning to you too, sunshine,” I said, snorting. Within minutes Michael was munching his way to hopefully a more communicative mood. At seven he’d been a morning person, but then again, who wasn’t at that age? There were lands to explore, dragons to slay, worlds to conquer.
“I’m going to grab a shower.” I hesitated. “You’re not going to take off, are you?” He wouldn’t have gotten more than three steps outside the door if he had, but I wanted him to feel as if he had choices. He’d been a prisoner so long that I didn’t want him feeling the same way with me.