Chapter Forty-One
CHAPTER FORTY-ONE
LEENA
“ C olton?” I say, horrified as I watch him fall from his seat and slump to the floor. I throw off my headset and I’m on the ground beside him in a second.
Then I see the blood.
“Fuck!” I carefully pull the nearly unconscious man clutching at his hip to the open area behind our seats. “Move your damn hands, let me see.” I lay him flat on his back.
“You need to work on your bedside manner, boss lady. You’re oh-for-two here,” he says, his words weak.
“Well, stop fucking hurting yourself and you won’t have to keep dealing with it! Shit.”
“That bad?” He tries leaning up to see. I put a hand on his chest, pushing him back down.
“I don’t know, I can’t see it. I have to take off your pants.” I know for a fact he’s working on some sort of snarky remark to that, so I shoot him a glare before he can utter it. He chuckles, then groans from the motion. I roll my eyes.
Because if I didn’t, I would be in fucking tears right now.
This man I’ve grown to care about is hurt, and I don’t have a fucking clue what to do about it. The guys only taught me so much about first aid, and I’ve never had to put any of that knowledge to practice in a real-life scenario.
Please be okay. Please be fucking okay.
I push his shirt up as high as it will go, and as pretty as his abs are, I don’t like what I’m seeing. He’s breathing much too quickly. I frantically unbutton his pants, and carefully yank down the zipper. Holy fuck.
“Colton! Fuck! Do you ever wear underwear?” I lecture.
“Not if I can help it.” I don’t have to look up to know he’s smirking. I can hear it from here.
I shake my head, focusing on the task at hand. I remove his shoes, then try to ignore the pained sounds he makes when I peel the blood-soaked jeans off him, revealing the wound.
And… everything else.
He’s working on steadying his breathing, an arm draped over his eyes. And I’m too fucking worried about him to even think about the massive distraction between us, but I quickly pull off my sweater and toss it over his dick all the same. I use the sleeve of it to carefully start clearing away the blood.
I nearly cry with relief when I see that the gaping wound, although bad, is surface level. Which means there isn’t a bullet buried in there somewhere.
“Leena, you’re scaring me. How bad is it?” Colton asks.
“I think we might have matching scars after this, Colt. The bullet went all the way through. I just have to stop the bleeding, so stay with me, okay? Because I don’t know how to fly a fucking helicopter.”
He stills, realizing the severity of our situation. When we reach wherever the autopilot is taking us, he better be fucking awake to land this thing.
“Trauma kit’s under the seat.” He nods toward it.
I place the fabric over where the blood is seeping out, then hold his palm against it, forcing him to put pressure on the wound. He winces, and I don’t miss how his hand is shaking.
“You need a few stitches. I don’t know if it can wait,” I tell him warily.
“Do you… know how to suture?” He seems equally concerned.
“The guys made me practice… on a piece of pork.” I cringe.
“Oh great. I’m saved,” he huffs out.
“Maybe I can just butterfly it, then when we land, Lu and Seb can–”
“Leena,” he says, his thumb brushing the hand I still have on top of his. I watch the motion for a moment and when my eyes find his, he smiles wearily. “I trust you.”
I quickly avert my eyes. I can’t smile, not when he’s hurt.
I pull my hand away and quickly retrieve the kit, returning to Colton’s side to dig through it.
“All I see is Tylenol. You don’t have anything stronger?” I ask.
“I don’t want anything stronger, we can’t risk me passing out. But if I do, call the guys. One of them can talk you through how to engage the auto-landing, okay?”
“Colton, I’m scared,” I say, leaning over so I can see him better. “I don’t want to hurt you.” My tears finally fall, because he’s already in pain, and I’m about to make it so much worse. I know I have to do this, but I don’t want to.
“I know. I’ll be okay. And this would’ve ended a lot differently if you didn’t step in, you know that, right?”
The gratitude in his green eyes, and the realization that he’s right, has me crying again.
“No more tears,” he whispers. “I need you to stitch me up so you can tell me where in the fuck you learned how to shoot an AK like that. Can you do that for me?”
I chuckle and we smile at each other for a long moment, both of us thankful that he’s lying here right now, and not back on that rooftop.
“I can do that.”
—
“Fuck, Leena!” Colton shouts.
“Sorry, sorry! That was the last one.” I let out a breath, then work to tie off the end of the stitch before cleaning the area. “You doing okay?” I ask him, looking over my work one last time before securing the bandage over it.
“I’m fine, I’m used to it,” he breathes out, gesturing to his body, which is still mostly naked aside from my sweater and where his shirt is bunched above his chest. I furrow my brows, wondering what he’s talking about.
But then I look… really look.
And I see them.
I don’t know how I didn’t before. I guess on Christmas Eve, I was busy avoiding him. And on stage, these wouldn’t have been visible from where I was sitting.
Tears well in my eyes as I study his muscled form, and I can’t help but trace my fingertips over the tattoo on his ribcage. Because every one of his tattoos is placed strategically to disguise the scars underneath.
So many scars.
I keep touching him. It’s as if I can feel his pain through my fingertips. I’m crying now, I know I am, but I don’t want to stop the tears. I want to know what this man went through.
“Oh, shit. I’m sorry, Leena. I didn’t realize you’ve never noticed them before,” he says softly, grunting as he works himself into somewhat of a sitting position.
“Are these from–”
“My dad? Yup. Most of them anyway. There’s a few from my adrenaline junkie days.” He chuckles, then inhales a sharp breath through his teeth when it causes him pain.
Colton told me enough about what he went through before his father died that his attempt to lighten the mood doesn’t really work. And if I start thinking about that, I might never stop crying.
So I study his tattoos instead.
They don’t cover the scars per se, it’s almost as though they were designed around them, adding something to the piece that wouldn’t otherwise be there.
“Who designed these? They’re beautiful,” I say, ghosting my fingers along the ones on his chest before looking up to find him watching me carefully. I’m not sure what emotion I find there, but I’m unable to look away.
“I did,” he says so softly, I barely hear him.
I let more of my tears fall. Because this man took something horrible, something heart-wrenching and traumatic, and turned it into something beautiful that he shows off to the world on stage every night.
I’m in awe of him.
“Leena?” he says my name in a way that makes my heart skip a beat.
“Yes?” I ask, my breath stalled.
“You can’t look at me like this, or touch me like that, when my pants are off,” he says in barely a whisper. And I wonder at what point his playful flirting turned into… this.
I’m so busy staring at him, trying to figure him out, I don’t even realize that the fingers that lingered at his chest are starting to fall, brushing lightly down between his pecs, tracing his toned abdominals and lower until his hand snatches my wrist in a firm grip.
“What are you doing?” he hisses.
That snaps me out of it, and I decide to tease him for a change. “Distracting you from your injury and lifetime of trauma. Is it working?”
He stares at me for a long moment.
“Pants. Now,” he says firmly, letting go of my wrist.
I let out a breath, heading over to his bag. I unzip it, and oh my god.
You’ve got to be fucking kidding me.
Colton starts making some sort of pained attempt at a laugh from behind me.
“Is this?” I ask, looking over at him with wide eyes.
“My go-bag? Yes it is.” He smiles, and that quirky grin is finally back. Thank god.
“It’s–” I struggle to find the words.
“Bigger? I know.” He smirks and I blink several times before quickly heading to his other bag. Because I need this man clothed.
Right. Fucking. Now.