Chapter 8
Matt
From the way Aron grunts and groans as I help him inside, his injuries are probably worse than I first thought.
He’s likely torn his shoulder stitches again, and there could be other, less visible damage from the blasts than just the external cuts and scrapes.
I’ve been raising my voice so he can hear me, but I’m hoping that’s a temporary effect from the explosions.
I don’t know the first thing about treating busted eardrums.
A benefit to his hearing loss is that I can relax and do some of my own grunting and groaning. Dad’s beatdown is still fresh, and I ache all over.
Once inside, I slide the bolt home and lead Aron to the living room couch. It’s genuine Italian leather, but I don’t give a fuck if it’s solid gold; Aron needs a spot to lie down while I fix him up.
I get him situated with pillows and blankets, then rush off for supplies.
Since Dad thought this place would be used as a last-ditch escape if he and I were attacked by our own, it should be stocked up better than a trauma center.
Sure enough, I find more than I need in the hall closet.
I grab all the necessaries, dump them on the coffee table, then go to the kitchen to wash my hands before getting a bowl of hot water and clean washcloths to wipe the dirt and ash off the worst of Aron’s cuts.
Poor Aron must be exhausted. He falls asleep halfway through the stitching of his shoulder, so since he’s unconscious, I sit on the coffee table and ramble about things I could never say when he’s awake.
“You scared the shit out of me, man,” I say as I wipe at a deep cut on the bicep of his good arm.
Just in case he’s playing possum, I keep my voice low, so the hearing damage muffles my words.
“I was terrified you’d run in after Emily even though I said I’d do it.
You can’t do things like that to me, Aron.
I need you too much. I fucking love you too much, you gorgeous idiot. ”
He stirs a bit, mumbles something incomprehensible, then stills.
“Good. You didn’t hear that. You can’t ever know the truth, Aron.
Especially not now, not with Emily gone.
No, I’ve got to watch myself around you.
Watch what I say, how I act. The less you know, the better.
You can heal faster that way, get on with your life.
It’ll be hard, and I’ll always be here for you, but it’s just better if you don’t know. ”
I turn to get a fresh washcloth, and the leather sofa creaks as Aron sits up. I freeze in place, afraid of what he might have heard, but he just grabs a cloth of his own and starts cleaning my face.
“Fucking ash everywhere, Matt. You couldn’t take ten seconds to wash your fucking face off?”
“How long have you been awake?”
He snorts. “Long enough.”
Fuck. “Listen, Aron, I was just talking shit. Don’t mind what I said.”
“If that was just shit talk, then I’m the Queen of fucking England.” Aron grips my chin with his hand as he cleans the other side of my face. “And you and I both know that I’d make a terrible queen.”
“That was a dirty trick.”
A sad smile crosses Aron’s face. “You’re a dirty trick right now. Hold still.”
I don’t know what to do. I never thought he’d hear me, and now … “Aron, please, drop it. Just ignore what you heard.”
He clamps a hand over my mouth and stares into my eyes.
“Ignore what I’ve known my whole life? Please, Matt, you’re not as suave and cool as you think you are.
I’ve known for years, decades, and the way you blanche every time I say Emily’s name?
That gives you away more than anything.” Tears stream down his dirt-covered cheeks, and I realize I neglected to clean his face off while I was washing him.
He’s got a cut on his lower lip, and it’s split open. I should stitch that up.
Grabbing his wrist, I pull his hand away from my mouth. I can’t let this revelation just … go. I’ve got to know why. Why put me through all this, the torture of hearing his Emily stories, if he knew? “Then why didn’t you say anything? I’ve always been right here, Aron.”
“You deserve better than me, Matt. I’m just a bodyguard; I’m nobody special. I couldn’t limit you like that. That’s why I—” He chokes on his words, then stops to compose himself. “It’s why I married Emily. I thought that if you believed I was happy, then you’d find someone else to make you happy.”
It’s my turn to grab Aron’s chin, if only to hold him steady while I wipe his face with a fresh washcloth. I take extra care with his busted lip, assessing the damage. Yep. He’s going to need stitches if he wants to keep that gorgeous smile.
“Well, that plan backfired spectacularly. Why would I bother with someone else in any situation? There’s no such thing as ‘better than you’ in my eyes, Aron. You’re top tier. Aces.”
“Nobody says ‘aces’ these days, you goofball.”
“Anyway—” while still holding his chin, I artfully change the subject as I reach for a suture kit and open it one handed “—I’m going to stitch this cut, and then I think you’ll be as good as I can get you. Anything internal in pain? Stomach, lungs, ribs?”
“Nope.”
“Would you tell me if anything else hurt?”
“Nope.”
“Aron …”
He shrugs, then winces. “I’m trying to be honest with you, but I don’t want you worrying. So no, I won’t tell you if something else hurts.”
“You’re trying to be honest by admitting you might be lying?”
Aron cocks his head as if contemplating my question. “Exactly.”
“Well, your lip is done. Try not to yawn too hard in the next week or so.” I sit back and look at the mess we’ve made of the living room. “There’s, like, half a dozen bedrooms in this place. Seven if you count the panic room. You have a preference for where you sleep?”
“Where do you plan to sleep?”
“Me? I’ll probably take the master. I don’t think we were followed here, so there’s not really any need to use the panic room just yet.”
Wobbling slightly, Aron stands and rolls his injured shoulder to test it.
“Knowing Tito, that master bedroom has at least two couches and its own adjoining guest suite. Am I right? Yeah. So, I guess I’ll take one of the couches.
Oh, don’t give me that look; I’m not leaving you alone when you and Tito just got attacked. ”
I don’t know if Aron’s self-deprecating attitude is from shock or sheer stubbornness, but it’s starting to get irritating. “There are entire bedrooms you can have; even a whole wing or two. Why are you insisting on taking a fucking couch to sleep on?”
He turns away from me. “Gotta sleep light just in case.”
I put a hand on his shoulder and turn him back.
“You are not my bodyguard right now, Aron. You’re injured and grieving.
Right now, you’re my best friend first and a guard last. In fact, fuck it—You’re fired as my guard.
Aron the Guard is no more. You’re just Aron, and you’re sleeping in a fucking proper bed if I have to drug you and drag you into one. ”
Aron’s hand covers mine, and fresh tears glisten in his eyes. “Matt, please … I need this. I need a job, a task, something to keep my mind off—to keep me focused.”
“Your task, Mr. Martinez, your job, is to stay alive. You don’t need to guard me for that.”
“I can’t be alone, Matt. Don’t make me spend the night alone tonight.”
If it was anyone else, anyone living or dead, I would have forced them to suck it up and go sleep in one of the many guest rooms. It’s not anyone else, though; it’s Aron. He’s giving me no choice, and it kills me to do this when I’ve just admitted my deepest secret to him.
“Fine. But we’re sharing the bed. You’re not sleeping on a couch.”