29 Kimmy
Stress-baking wasn't my thing, but I'd been on edge these past few days after the phone conversation with Seven and had been sleeping like shit.
One day I wanted to pass out in the middle of a work task, and then next it was insomnia. Today was the latter.
Trying my hand at recreating Margaret's pie recipe seemed like a good idea to exhaust myself, and I was elbow-deep in flour when the doorbell rang.
I wasn't expecting anyone, even less so at this hour.
My heartbeat stuttered first, then sped up. I was suddenly grateful for the new lock.
Slowly, I rinsed my hands in the sink and wiped them on the nearest towel.
The bell rang again, insistent.
The logical part of my brain spun up, wondering if this was a late delivery. The rest of my brain—the chunk that had been rewired by the last three years of constant anxiety—screamed that it was a bad idea to even answer the door.
Call 911, Kimmy.
But my gut told me something entirely different. If someone wanted to hurt me or scare me, they wouldn't ring my bell.
I headed over and checked the peephole.
The upper portion of the hallway was painted in that jaundiced apartment-building beige and the lower one was glossy black, so the figure slumped against the wall outside my door almost bled into the darker paint, looking like it'd grown out from there and into the beige.
It took me a second to realize what I was seeing.
Seven.
He was hunched, one hand pressed to his side. His other hand gripped the helmet, and his eyes were shut tight, lashes fused together by sweat. The lower half of his face was covered by a black bandana.
My heart, already on a slow boil, tried to punch through my sternum.
I reached for the door chain and asked automatically even though I knew the answer, "Who is it?"
He didn't reply right away. He lifted his head, turned it to look at the peephole, eyelids stuttering, and husked out, "You know."
I hesitated, counted to three, then undid the chain and turned the deadbolt, cracking the door open, but the next detail almost made me slam it closed again.
There was blood. Not dramatic Hollywood spray, but enough of it. A dark stain blooming under his hand, soaked through the fabric of his pants, trailing down his boot.
A few drops had already landed on my gray welcome mat.
The sight did something to my brain—made everything run in slow motion, like the blood itself was syrup.
"Jesus," I said. It wasn't a prayer. It just came out.
He tumbled forward, braced himself on the doorframe, and responded in the same scratchy voice, "Not quite."
I looked past him into the hallway—empty, thank God. Then back at him. I didn't think, just acted.
"Come inside." I grabbed his helmet and wedged myself between his torso and his free arm because he looked two seconds from dropping on my mat too.
"You're hurt pretty badly," I muttered, shutting the door with my foot.
"No."
But when I swiveled my head and tried to look at his face, I saw the way his eyes glazed, noticed the fine shake in his hand.
"Let's get you settled down."
He complied, one careful step at a time across my living room.
Each movement was rehearsed, like he was afraid to break himself.
He made it to the couch, and pointed at the throw blanket.
I hastily spread it over the pillows with one hand while trying to keep him upright with my other.
Once the blanket was in place, he carefully slid down and stretched his body across whatever it was that I'd made for him.
Then he exhaled loudly.
"Is this a bullet wound?" I asked, scanning the blood and the damage it was doing to my living room. Yet somehow, I didn't care about the furniture. I just cared about him.
"Knife," he replied.
I stared at his jacket, then at his hands, then at whatever portion of his face I could see. He took another deep, shuddering breath and started peeling off his gloves. I took them from him and set them on the coffee table. When I looked at my hands, his blood had been smears across my skin.
My stomach rolled.
"Take off my jacket," he said, snapping me out of my panic.
"What?"
I wasn't sure how he pulled it off in this condition, but he fixed me with a severe look. "It's not coming off by itself."
I swallowed, settled on the edge of the couch, and set to work.
The zipper stuck halfway. I tugged harder, and he made a sound. I eased the zipper back up and tried again. This time, it went smoothly. Underneath the jacket, it looked worse. The soaked T-shirt clung to his torso.
Oh God, he'd lost a lot of blood. It was trickling on the blanket now.
"T-shirt too," he said.
This was the weirdest self-serve striptease of my life. "Okay," I whispered. With trembling hands, I lifted the T-shirt, apologizing when I had to peel it off the wound.
He barely flinched.
I could see it now—a clean gash on his side, just under the ribs, at least an inch across, deep and gaping. There was a smaller cut, old and ragged, a little lower down. I tried not to stare at the rest of his torso, but it was impossible.
He was too close. There was nowhere else to look.
His skin was pale, slick with sweat and blood smears, but under it I could see the way muscles corded around his bones.
There was a tattoo over his left pec—angel wings, rendered in fine black lines.
It looked more like a pencil drawing rather than ink.
Below it, the ragged burn scar ran across his abdomen to the waistband of his pants.
I wondered how big it was and where it ended and how he'd gotten it.
I shifted my eyes back to the wound. "I think you're gonna need stitches," I said just to distract myself. "A bandage alone won't do it."
He nodded. "Suture kit or a regular needle if you have it."
I shook my head.
"Stapler?"
"You're kidding?"
He held out his hand, palm up, as if I had it ready for him. "I'm not."
I backed away, opened the office cabinet, and pulled the heavy-duty Swingline from the shelf.
"You can't—"
He cut me off. "Disinfectant."
I tried to think if I had any left in the first aid kit. "Will vodka work?"
He nodded. I wasn't a drinker, but I always kept a bit of alcohol at home. Except for a once a year cocktail, I didn't know what for. Well, until today.
I grabbed the bottle from the kitchen cabinet and set it on the coffee table next to the couch. He popped the cap open and poured a handful of it over the wound, then exhaled slow, the way some people blow out birthday candles.
Then he took the stapler from my hand, set it next to the bottle and doused it with vodka too.
He glanced at me, eyes dead calm. "Don't faint." Then he readjusted a little on the blanket to be able to see what he was doing.
"I can't make any promises," I whispered, averting my gaze a little.
Still, from the corner of my eye, I saw how he lined up the metal teeth over his own skin.
Then he squeezed the lever.
The sound was exactly like a regular staple—sharp, metallic, final. The flesh puckered together and a single line of silver shone against the red.
He did it again.
And again.
Then he switched hands—was he ambidextrous?—and continued on.
Each time, the skin closed tighter my pulse hit a new gear. The worst part wasn't the blood or the violence—it was the control. He didn't even grunt. I would probably be screaming and then passing out.
The man was made of steel or titanium.
When he finished, he fell back down, and doused the closed wound with more vodka. The scent stung my nose.
"Bandages?" he asked. His voice sounded weaker now, like he'd used all of his strength.
"Let me check." I rushed over to the bathroom and found gauze and tape. I brought them over to him. He cleaned his skin, and wrapped himself with the efficiency of a surgeon.
My hands shook.
He noticed. "You okay?"
I nodded, but the world felt rubbery. "Do you need Tylenol?" I offered. "You should probably drink some water too." I had no clue how to fix blood loss but water always helped with anything.
"That'd be nice."
I went back to the bathroom to retrieve the pills from the medicine cabinet, made a detour to the kitchen and grabbed a bottle of water from the fridge.
He swallowed Tylenol and chased it down with several big gulps of water, then looked at me for the first time in minutes. Really looked.
His eyes—gray, endless—locked on mine and he studied my face.
"Sorry for the mess," he said. "And about your furniture."
"It's not a mess," I said, and maybe I was talking about more than just the blood on my linoleum and carpets.
He was quiet for a long minute before, in a tone so gentle it was almost unfamiliar, he said, "You need to clean your place."
I blinked at him. "What?"
"There's a blood trail from the front door and on your mat." He pointed at the wet footprints I'd missed in the shock. "If anyone sees it, it'll make things complicated for you. And you don't want the police to get involved. Also, I may have left some on the wall outside."
He was right. Of course, he was right.
"We need to wash your boots," I suggested and rushed over to pull them off. "And probably your clothes too."
"Blood is hard to come out."
"I know, but the longer you wait, the harder it will be to remove it. I can toss the T-shirt in the washer and try to clean the jacket by hand."
"Okay," he agreed.
I took the boots to the bathroom and put them in the tub. Tossed the T-shirt in the washing machine. Then I grabbed the bottle of all-purpose cleaner, a handful of paper towels, and some gloves from under the sink. I hesitated on my way back.
Seven watched me go, his eyes now hooded. The weirdest thing was, despite everything, I trusted him completely. He could have gone anywhere but at his most vulnerable he'd chosen to come to my place.
"I can wash your pants too," I offered gingerly, but to my ears it sounded strange, like I was trying to get the injured man on my couch naked.
He just shook his head.
I nodded and rushed to the front door.