Chapter 2 #2
I drop my hands and lean forward, intent on snatching the box from him, but the movement sends an onslaught of fresh agony through me.
I stiffen and try not to scream instead.
Why the hell does it hurt so bad now? I had gotten decently good at ignoring it, but now it feels like my entire side is lit on fire.
“No, let me.” He sets the box to the side and pops it open. “Stop moving, you’re gonna make it worse.”
For some reason Sam’s still all in instead of kicking me to the curb, and I gotta be a little grateful for that. He peels the towel away from my side—the fluffy white terrycloth’s already got a large bloodstain—and grimaces, but hey, at least the bleeding’s slowed way down. It’s the little things.
“Who the fuck did this?” he asks me. “And when? Shouldn’t we call the cops? Like, is there some madman out there looking for you?”
Well, I’d never thought Mr. Bigshot was a madman until tonight. Does shooting someone for stealing money out of your safe constitute insanity? Probably not to the cops. A spike of anxiety shoots through me. “Can you just help me?”
“I am. I’m trying.” And though I try to avoid it, his dark gaze manages to snag mine. “Are you going to answer any of my questions?”
“Maybe when I’m no longer bleeding all over the place,” I lie.
“And what about the—” He flails his hands. “The fuckin’, you know…the bullet?”
I give him a strange look. “It’s just a graze. The bullet isn’t inside of me.”
“Well, how the fuck am I supposed to know that? I’m not a gun guy.”
He swears in Spanish, I think, under his breath. And then he pops open the lid of his cute little first aid kit and dumps it all out. “I don’t know what to do,” he mutters. “Fuck it.”
Before I can make a suggestion, he tears open a packet of antiseptic gel and starts squirting it directly onto the wound, which does not feel good, not even a little.
My shoulder blades collide with the tub rim in my desperate attempt to escape the torment he’s just unleashed upon me, but oh, no, he’s not fucking done yet.
He’s trying to scoop it all directly onto the runnel in my flesh and I bite down on the inside of my cheeks to keep myself from screaming.
My eyes tear up. I suck in a few quick breaths and let them go, slowly.
“So it doesn’t get infected,” he informs me, his own teeth gritted. He’s totally grossed out.
“Did you even wash your hands?” I grit out.
He doesn’t answer me. Because the answer’s no. But whatever, fuck it, I guess he’s trying. And he’s got a big patch of gauze that he’s now taping onto me, and when that’s all done I guess I feel a little better. It’s better than nothing. It’s better than bleeding everywhere.
“There.” He’s real dubious. “I dunno, man. I think it needs stitches.”
“Nah.” I go to stand and then remember I’ve got nothing but a towel. He took my clothes and it’s not like I grabbed anything when I left, a fact I conveniently forgot. I settle back onto the floor mat. “Thank you,” I offer, because he’s still watching me with something like suspicion.
“Oh…” He turns, picking up the wad of clothing he brought in with him. “Here. I sort of figured you didn’t have anything.”
“Good guess.” I take the proffered shirt and shorts from him. The tee is heather gray and cheerily orders me to Do It In the Sand! I pull it on over my head and it swamps me. Sam isn’t that much taller than me but he is pretty fit, all biceps and broad shoulders that strain beneath his own shirt.
In fact, now that I’m not in immediate fight or flight, I can take the time to appreciate just how good looking he is.
Not that it matters…but he is: light brown skin and high cheek bones with those oh-so-dark eyes.
His black hair is wavy and cut in that popular curtain style I see every heartthrob wearing on the front of Teen Vogue and Tiger Beat.
He’d fit right in on a cover like that. He looks like a heartbreaker.
He’s watching me, and then, realizing maybe it’s weird, averts his gaze so I can tug on the shorts. They are also comically big, but they’re clean and comfy, and I’m not in the habit of looking gift horses in the mouth. I’m also not in the habit of being a choosing beggar.
“Thanks for that,” I tell him. It’s maybe the first sincere thing I’ve said to him.
“Sure.” He averts his gaze, as if suddenly shy, and begins wadding up the bloody and discarded towels. “What the fuck are we gonna do about this?”
“Burn them,” I suggest, half-jokingly. “Who cares? It’s the hotel’s problem.”
He makes a face. “It looks really fucking bad, Ash. What if they call the police about it?”
Fucking hell. Why didn’t I think of that? I’m so damn drained from the events of the last day that I think all my basic survival instincts are slowly powering down. I turn, stiffly, and plug the tub, then start running the cold water. “We’ll soak them. It should get the worst of it out.”
“Guess you’re used to this kind of thing?”
I catch Sam’s eye. “Everyone knows cold water gets blood out. That’s basic.”
He shrugs one shoulder. “Sure.”
But he’s all sketchy on me now, which isn’t good, and I’m kicking myself for not taking care of this before, somehow, so I didn’t have to reveal all this to him.
Before limping into a bar. Before begging a ride off of him, certainly, but jeez, it’s like serendipity that he was there at that precise time, talking about going to Miami.
It doesn’t have to be Miami.
No. It doesn’t.
I don’t say anything else, don’t bother trying to defend why I know you can soak blood out in cold water. I learned it early on from my mother, and I thought it was pretty universal knowledge. I take the towels from him and spread them out in the shallow water before I turn off the tap.
“I don’t get it,” Sam’s saying in that same weird voice. Casual, but pointed at the same time. “You’ve got all this cash, right? Why not go to the hospital? Even without insurance—”
“Because they ask questions.”
“And you’re not gonna answer mine either, huh? Even though I’m the one giving you a friggin’ ride.” He sounds hurt, almost.
With some effort I get up, grab my bag and walk out of the bathroom. I don’t want to talk anymore. And if he wants to kick me out of the room and call off our deal, then he needs to nut up and do it already. I’m too tired to even care at this point. I’ll sleep on a fucking park bench if I have to.
My chin drops to my chest. Once. Twice. Blink and you miss it, but it’s a seizure, all right.
The flying thing was pretty much bullshit, to be honest. The kinds of seizures I have would probably go unnoticed by anyone on a plane. But it’s a risk I can’t take—not since that Trans World 747 blew up in the sky over Long Island in July. Can’t afford the extra scrutiny.
I climb into the bed closest to the door, tuck myself in, and shut my eyes.
And I’m so tired that I do actually fall asleep in the time it takes for Sam to clean up the puke and get ready for bed.
I’m dimly aware of him, rising to the surface of consciousness just enough to watch him get into the other bed.
He’s shirtless, wearing just a pair of boxers, and his back is a muscular expanse that ends in those dimples that peek just above his waistband.
He pulls the covers back and gets under them. Snaps off the light between us. There’s only the glow of the digital alarm clock, floating red in the darkness.
I expect to sink back to sleep immediately, but I don’t. After a long moment, I say, softly, “I was somewhere I wasn’t supposed to be. That’s why I got shot.”
Silence. A rustle of blankets. “Like trespassing?”
“Yeah.” Something like that. Something close enough.
He’s quiet for a moment longer and I’m worried he’s going to keep probing.
Thinking of what I’ll tell him, because it can’t be the truth.
Now or ever. Unless I do want him to call the police, because I don’t know if I can trust he’s not a snitch.
Just because he says he isn’t doesn’t mean it’s true.
I hear him roll over. “Goodnight, Ash,” he says.
And that’s that.
For now, anyway.