4. Mila #2
Once he’d set the sling on the counter, he turned back to me. “I’ll pull the T-shirt over your head and right arm first, and then we’ll ease it down the left, okay?”
I nodded as my face flamed with embarrassment. As badly as I wanted to shoo him out, I’d been lying to myself when I thought I could do this on my own.
At least it was only a shirt.
It wasn’t until he’d gotten it off and had dropped it to the floor that I recognized the flaw in my plan.
Eyes squeezed shut, I whispered, “Can you unhook my bra?” Without waiting for him to answer, I turned and faced the wall. Cradling my left arm over my bra-clad breasts, I fought back tears again.
This overwhelming need for modesty was unwelcome. He had, after all, already seen me naked.
“I can do the rest,” I said when he’d undone the clasp, keeping my back to him.
“I’ll wait outside. yell if you need me.”
I grimaced. I’d be fine, and even if I wasn’t, the last thing I’d do was ask for his help.
When the door clicked shut behind me, I let my bra straps slide down my shoulders.
The fabric was gray with sweat and dirt.
There was no saving it after what I’d been through.
So I picked it up with my toes and deposited it in the trash.
I pushed the sweats down and shimmied out of them, then stepped into the shower.
He wasn’t wrong about the water pressure. The way the water pelted my back was incredible. I tilted my head up and let the water cascade down my face. Every inch of my being hurt, but the sensation of clean water running over me made going through the motions of bathing worth it.
With my bad arm clutched to my chest, I reached for the body wash, desperate to scrub away the grime and dirt.
But as my fingers brushed the bottle, it slipped off the shelf and crashed to the floor.
I bent over, grasping for it, but as I did, my injured arm bumped the wall.
White-hot pain shot through me, and I was hit with a wave of dizziness.
I threw my good hand out, steadying myself on the wall, and hung my head.
God, I couldn’t even wash myself. This was so pathetic.
I thought a nice hot shower and a good night’s sleep would be enough to allow me to keep going. But I was so far away from fixing this.
Without my permission, tears sprang to my eyes again. Because of pain, because of humiliation, and because of defeat.
Doing anything more than existing felt impossible.
The door creaked open, adding insult to injury. “Are you okay?”
I wanted to say yes. I wanted him to go. But I was mid-sob, so when I tried to speak, a hiccup escaped me, followed quickly by a wail.
The door shut, and when he spoke, his voice was closer. “Are you hurt?”
I forced my head up, noticing then that he was standing only a foot or two away from the steamed-up glass of the shower door.
“I’m fine,” I said, still crying.
“Can I help you?”
Unable to form a response, I leaned against the wall and gave in to the sobs racking through my body.
When the door swung open, I was too defeated to even try to shield my nakedness.
Jude was all business, methodically removing his glasses and placing them on the vanity, then pulling off his T-shirt and shucking his jeans. He tossed his clothes into the hamper, and then he was standing on the bathmat in nothing but a pair of black boxer briefs.
My heart lodged itself into my already clogged throat. “What are you doing?”
He stepped inside the shower, careful not to bump into me. “I’m helping. But if you want me to go, I will.”
I turned away, hiding myself from him. I wasn’t sure what was more embarrassing: my nudity or my pathetic sobs.
“Don’t go,” I said. “I can’t wash my hair, and I dropped the body wash. My stupid arm hurts too badly to even move.”
“I can help. I’m going to touch you, okay? I’ll start with shampooing your hair.”
Still facing away from him, I nodded.
With a touch gentler than a man his size should be capable of, he scraped my hair back, ensuring all the strands were wet.
Then he squirted shampoo into his cupped palm.
Its honey lemon scent hit me before his fingers were massaging my scalp.
This was my shampoo. I couldn’t move to check the label, but I’d know that scent anywhere.
He moved in gentle circles, sending a cascade of bubbles down my neck. Eyes closed, I leaned into the sensation, hints of tension oozing from my body and swirling down the drain with the suds. I bit my lip to hold back a sigh. The last thing I needed was to add weird moans between my sobs.
He rinsed the shampoo out and picked up another bottle.
“Conditioner?”
“Yes.”
He worked that in next, taking his time, then carefully rinsing.
I shouldn’t be surprised. From the moment I met him at the dojo, I’d seen the gentle-giant nature he possessed.
I’d seen those fingers work the strings of his guitar.
I’d felt them work me over as well. I knew what they were capable of.
“Can I bend down and get the body wash?” he asked gently.
“Yes, please.”
“Would you like me to help with the dirt and iodine on your skin?”
No. I didn’t want that. I didn’t want him scrubbing every inch of me.
I didn’t want to turn around and give him a full-frontal view of my unkempt bikini line and sad, deflated breasts.
I wanted a time machine to magically appear so I could jump into it and go back to a time before I stepped into this shower.
Before I woke to the pounding on my door.
Before the day my brother was assaulted.
But want had nothing to do with it. I needed his help. “Okay.”
He leaned over and picked the bottle up, his arm brushing the curve of my ass.
Once he’d dangled the body wash over my shoulder and I’d snatched it from him, he stepped back. The shower door opened, and I was hit with a wave of cool air. Then he was back with a washcloth.
He knelt next to me, gently washing my legs, which were no doubt caked with dirt and grime. He cleaned around my cuts and bandages and worked his way up to my back. The lemon scent that had faded after he’d rinsed the conditioner from my hair returned even stronger this time.
“Do you want to turn around?” His deep voice echoed off the tile walls.
I wanted to say no, but while I’d stood here, mortified, I’d discovered how badly my ribcage and arm were bruised. There was no way I could get rid of all the grime on my own, and the mottled bruising ensured there was nothing sexual about this.
“It’s okay. Nothing I haven’t seen before.” He let out a deep chuckle.
Unable to hold back a grin, I turned slowly.
As much as I dreaded showing him how much I’d changed in the months since my brother had been hurt, I was more afraid of seeing him.
All the muscles and chest hair with a few small tattoos.
If memory served, Jude was a delicious specimen of a man who was very, very hard to resist.
I kept my chin tucked and focused on my breathing while he washed the iodine off the areas on my knees that Willa had treated.