Chapter 12
Twelve
I've lost track of time when we finally stop in a mostly industrial area of Virginia.
The car pulls into a warehouse, and we park off to the side.
York pulls an old, dirty canvas up from the concrete floor and tosses it over the car before pointing to a sign hanging sideways on a rusted chain that says Stairs.
“Up.”
Pushing through the heavy wood door beneath the sign, I climb up the stairs with York on my heels.
At the top of the first flight of stairs, I push through another door and look down a long hallway.
Brushing past me, he continues down the hall and walks through a door to his left.
It has a large, dirty glass window with a crack in the bottom corner, but I push it open and enter a single large room that runs the width of the building.
My footsteps echo as I look around. You’d never know this was here by looking at the outside of the building. The open loft is comfortably furnished, with leather couches and rugs. There is a kitchen against the back wall and a bedroom space at one end.
“This is the safe house?”
“In a manner of speaking.” He lays his gun and car keys on the kitchen counter.
There are no walls closing anything off—except maybe the bathroom—and the exterior wall has large, grimy windows every ten feet or so along it. Moving further in, I set my bag on the coffee table and rub my arms absently.
The kitchen is nice, modern but masculine, minimal with concrete counters and dark wood cabinets. There are no knickknacks or other decorations anywhere. A few books, an old record player—that’s it.
“Bathroom.” He points to the opposite end of the space, and I turn, seeing a solitary door. “Get cleaned up.”
Across from the bathroom door is a console against the wall, a punching bag in the corner, and some weights on the floor. I think this might be his actual house . . . or maybe just one of them. My eyes crawl over every detail as I walk through the big room and then go into the bathroom.
Everything is white and stark, from the cold marble floors to the ample tub beside the large glass-enclosed shower.
My fingers trail over the fluffy towels hanging on stainless steel hooks, and without a second thought, I draw a bath.
I should shower, but the thought of soaking feels better right now.
It takes me a little time to remove the bandages and then get my shirt over my head with my sore shoulder, but everything else falls to an easy heap on the floor after that.
The hot water stings every bit of skin it touches as I sink down and recline, letting out a shaky breath as I settle.
When the water laps up around my chest, I turn it off and sigh.
“Fuck’s sake.” His growl startles me upright, and I instinctively cover my chest.
What the hell is he doing? He sets a glass of wine next to the sink and grabs the small wooden stool in the corner, setting it down beside the tub. I watch him sink onto it, and then he’s reaching for me, and my heart starts racing.
I lean away, but he lets out a sympathetic hiss as his fingers graze my shoulder, and I look at it. The swollen skin is black and blue, and I hadn’t dared to look in a mirror yet. His hand moves down my arm, prying it gently from across my chest so he can examine my wrist.
“You shouldn’t be getting these wet yet. Keep them out of the water.”
Releasing the grip across my chest, I rest my other arm on the opposite edge of the tub and watch him disappear for a moment, returning with a cup in his hand.
He moves the stool behind me and then scoops up some water and trickles it over the back of my head.
I wiggle my toes in protest when the heat of the water makes it sting, but he keeps going until my hair is soaked through, and then he massages soap into my hair.
“It looks like you cut your head open on someone’s teeth,” he says quietly.
“I thought it was just a bruise.”
“No.” He begins rinsing out the soap. “The hair is matted with blood.”
Great.
After a few minutes, he gathers my hair into a rope and wrings it out as I look at the blood-tinged bubbles floating around me now.
Moving the stool back to the side, he grabs a washcloth and asks me to sit forward.
I do, hugging my knees as I stare at the wall and wonder about this strange turn my life has taken.
When he finishes scrubbing my back, he goes over my shoulder gently and then works down each arm, stopping before the wrists.
Finally, he cleans my face, wiping away the concealer from the edge of my mouth and swollen lip.
There is no more talking, and when he seems satisfied, he wrings out the cloth and lays it over the side of the tub before setting the glass of wine on the stool and pulling the door shut behind him.
Alone again, I pick up the wine and take a small sip as I stare off into space.
I’m so confused.
***
The apartment is bathed in dull light as the sun gets blocked out by a line of trees on its descent.
The warm glow from a lamp in the bedroom and the flicker of candles on the coffee table in front of York break up the dimness and draw me forward.
Soft music is coming from the record player as I grip the towel around me and pad to the coffee table where I left my bag.
“Clothes are on the bed,” he says without looking up from a folder he’s flipping through.
Taking my bag, I walk past the kitchen to the bedroom area and find a set of gray thermals laid out.
Glancing over my shoulder, York is still on the couch with his back to me, so I remove the towel and pull the long-sleeved thermal top on.
It lands partway down my thighs, but I can tell the pants will be too big on my waist, so I set them aside and pull out a small package of cotton panties I bought this morning and tear them open.
Comfortable and clean, I pull the throw off the foot of the bed and return to the living room, where I curl up on the other couch under the small blanket.
“What are you reading?” I set my wine down.
“Data.”
“On?”
“A job.” He sighs and closes the folder, looking at me. “I shouldn’t have handled you so roughly in the car. You are in no condition, so I apologize.”
“I shouldn’t have been such a bitch,” I reason as I pull at a thread on the blanket. “But I have no intention of apologizing for that. Besides, I’m fine.”
“You are far from fine.” He stands and goes into the kitchen, coming back with a small case.
He sits next to me and opens it, pulling out a flat silver pack and crushing it in his hands before fitting it between my shoulder and the couch. The cold seeps through the thermal layer into my shoulder.
After a moment of sifting through the case, he takes one hand at a time and applies ointment around my wrist before rewrapping each one in gauze and finishes by handing me a couple of painkillers.
“I’ll make dinner,” he says after a moment. He closes the case and goes back to the kitchen.
Thirty minutes later, I’m cradling a bowl of pasta in my lap and watching him read his file again.