19. Chapter 13
Lorenzo
The elevator in my building doesn’t have music, which I’ve never really noticed until I’m in it with Dashiell. Forty seconds of silence, with Dashiell standing beside me with his arms crossed, staring at the floor.
Finally, the art-deco doors slide open, and we step into my foyer. Daylight filters through large windows and lands on us. That’s when I see it: the darkness on his forearm, dried blood tracking down from elbow to wrist. A wound caused by concrete—a blade will cut, but concrete will tear.
“You’re bleeding.”
He looks down at his own arm in something like surprise. “Oh.”
“Sit.” I point to the kitchen, and Dashiell sits at the kitchen island without argument.
The apartment is quiet, despite the roaring in my head. I find the first-aid kit in the second drawer from the stove and bring it back to the island. Dashiell watches me, a puzzled expression on his face.
“You don’t have to do this,” he says. “I’m a trained medical professional. A firefighter with EMT training, you know.”
I sit roughly on the stool next to him. “Humor me.”
Then, I take his wrist.
He lets me. Doesn’t pull back or tense, just lets me take his wrist, so small compared to my hands.
A scrape mars his smooth, pale forearm, the top layer of skin torn off as if with a rough piece of sandpaper. It isn’t deep, and will likely close in a few days. If he’s lucky, it won’t even scab. But flecks of dirt and grit cling to the tender, broken skin, and those need to be cleaned up.
“This might hurt,” I warn him as I open the first-aid kit and lay out what I need: antiseptic, wipes, some gauze.
“I’m a big boy,” he says through clenched teeth.
But I notice that his hands are shaking.
I’m not surprised. I can’t imagine he’s ever faced a gunman before, or that anyone has ever tried to kidnap him. Fuck, what have I gotten him into?
Carefully, I clean the wound. He hisses through his teeth at the sting, and I make sure to be as gentle as I can.
“Sorry,” he whispers. “It just stings.”
“You don’t have anything to be sorry for. You tackled an armed man without a second thought, like, ten minutes ago. That’s pretty badass.”
He cracks a small smile. “It was, wasn’t it?”
My hands work automatically, cleaning his arm and patching him up. I try not to think about the fact that I’m touching his bare skin, try not to dwell on the electricity I feel in that touch.
He’s twenty-two. You’re thirty-seven. He’s a firefighter. You’re a mobster. He’s under your protection. You swore to protect him.
All reasons I shouldn’t feel the way I feel.
“You’re really good at this,” he says, and I notice that his gaze is locked on my hands. “Have a lot of experience with battle wound care?”
It’s a loaded question, I know it is. “I’ve had some practice,” I admit. “Occupational hazard.”
Gently, I lay the bandage against his arm and hold it there…maybe longer than I need to.
Finally, I let go of his wrist, my fingers lingering just a beat longer than necessary, the pad of my thumb resting against his pulse, which runs fast.
From lingering fear, of course. His pulse wouldn’t be raised for any other reason right now.
Unlike mine.
I clear my throat, shaking those thoughts away. “There. I think you’ll live.”
“Well, fuck. I was already planning my extremely dramatic death scene.”
I pack up the first-aid kit and feel myself smiling unconsciously. “Can’t say I’m surprised.”
He leans gingerly against the kitchen island, keeping his weight off his wounded forearm. “You know, you were terrifying today. I’ve never seen anyone like that.”
Snapping the kit shut, I nod slowly. “Did I scare you?”
His hazel eyes are almost round when he answers. “No. No, it’s like I should’ve been scared. I know that. But I wasn’t scared.”
We’re both silent for a moment, then he clears his throat. “I should shower. I probably stink right now.”
I don’t care how you smell, my thoughts chorus.
“The clean towels are—”
He stands, pats my shoulder. “I know where they are. Thanks, though. Thanks for today. Sorry for trying to ditch Wolfe. That wasn’t cool of me.”
“Just keeping my promise,” I tell him.
Maybe if I keep saying it, it’ll become true. It’ll become the only reason I was so fucking terrified when Wolfe said that Dashiell was in danger, why I was already on my way to find him as soon as he turned his phone off.
After he’s gone, after I hear the shower start, I can still feel the ghost of his pulse in my fingers as I put the first-aid kit away.
I won’t touch him, I had told myself earlier. I made myself a promise, and while this isn’t necessarily breaking it, the shock I felt at the touch of his skin reminds me why I so desperately want to break it.
Then, I take out my phone and call Wolfe. I have one question and one question only: where is he?
Because when I get my hands on the man who almost took Dashiell, he will wish that I had ended him right there on the sidewalk.