I couldn’t imagine harboring a hate that deep. It must consume his soul. Rip the joy from his life and darken any light or happiness that tries to push through. I ran the soap over his chest, his abs, and his stomach, and I saw them. Felt them. Scars. Tanner had scars everywhere, routes of raised skin like road maps under the tattoos that hid them from view. I didn’t show that I was aware of them. Instead I kept cleaning his body. And the more I cleaned, the more scars I discovered. Most were on his back and chest. Places where most people would not have seen them. I didn’t need to wonder who had given them to him. After what I’d seen in the hallway last night, I knew it must have been his father. I knew in my heart it was him. Tanner had stood there, a grown man, and let his father beat him. That had to come from years of being conditioned to do so. Years and years of beatings and abuse.
The wave of sympathy that crashed over me in that moment gutted me. Invisible hands took hold of my heart and squeezed it like a vise, an iron grip. I sneaked a peek at his face, at the stony expression he wore, eyes focused as he watched me clean him—my sympathy for him only deepened. Tanner Ayers was domineering, intimidating, and, frankly, terrifying in both looks and personality. He had been made into this—the epitome of a hateful man. Bigoted. Racist, capable of evil things. Carefully molded by his father and his men into the perfect Nazi killing machine.
But right now, in this moment, with the discovery of hidden scars and the gentleness he had toward me, I let myself wonder—if only for a fleeting moment—if there was someone else inside of him. The promise of the man he could have been if not for the Klan’s conditioning. If there was a man who could love and laugh and feel . . . if there was a man who could share his smile with the world.
“There,” I said, putting the soap back on the rack, breaking myself from the rabbit hole I had found myself falling down. “All clean.” Tanner reached over me and turned off the shower. He wrapped a towel around me, and I had to close my eyes to rid myself of the butterflies that had started to spread their wings in my stomach.
Tanner released me and put a towel around himself. We stood silently, still not knowing what to do. The aftermath of what had just happened was awkward, cloying. Unable to take the tension, I said, “Come.” I held out my hand, waiting for what Tanner would do. I could see, as clear as day, the war on his face as he stared down at the simple offer of my touch as though it were an open flame. I was about to lower it, burned, when, with a long sigh, he reached out and slipped his large calloused hand into mine. The first touch felt so warm, warmer still when his fingers entwined with mine and he squeezed them tightly.
I led Tanner to the chair in front of the monitors. His attention immediately went to the screens as he lowered himself down. Reluctantly releasing his hand, I busied myself with getting the first aid kit together from where it had spilled over the desk and floor earlier. My skin heated again just from recalling how he’d pushed me back against the wall and kissed me . . . then took me . . .
Tanner didn’t even flinch when I pressed a cotton ball covered in peroxide to his wound. But he did turn his head from the monitors to watch me. I didn’t like the silence, or the weight of his stare and what it did to the rhythm of my heart. I didn’t like guessing what he was thinking. So I spoke to fill the awkwardness. “I used to do this for my father when I was younger.” I smiled at the memory, moving the bandages and gauzes to the table beside us. “When he still took matters into his own hands.” I shrugged. “Before he got older and decided his paid but loyal men should do his dirty deeds for him.” I dried the clean skin around the wounds. “It looks like the bullet went straight through.”