29 Kimmy #2
The hallway was empty. The blood was exactly where he said it would be—fat, dark drops soaking into my mat, a few errant smears at shin height along the wall by my door.
I wiped it quickly, scrubbed as hard as I could to at least get rid of visible evidence.
While I worked, my mind cycled back to the look on his face while he stapled his own flesh, the way he braced himself, as if the pain was a distraction from something worse.
I thought about how his body had felt next to me when I helped him to the couch.
Hot, solid. The next word that came to mind was real.
This is not what you should be thinking about right now, Kimmy.
By the time I finished, my knees hurt from kneeling, and I was sweating through my clothes.
I double-bagged the mess and took it to the trash chute, then jogged back to the apartment.
I scrubbed his jacket and boots by hand in the bathroom.
I knew some of the blood still remained but at least it wasn't obvious anymore.
I half-expected to find Seven unconscious or asleep, but instead, he was exactly where I'd left him, on the couch. Still somewhat lucid.
His chest rose and fell with each breath and I found myself glued to it, the outline of his muscles beneath his skin, to the tattoo on his pectoral.
It'd been a very long time since I was in a proximity of a man in the state of undress.
And considering that his face was covered, I should have been panicking. That's what my brain told me.
My body felt something else entirely. I couldn't identify the feeling. It was new and hovering, like a butterfly beating its wings in front of you and making it hard to see the design on them.
Seven looked up when I moved through the room. "Did you get it?" His eyes were hooded but alert.
"All of it," I confirmed, trying to stay in the present moment, trying to stop my thoughts from wandering.
"Good."
I realized I was still wearing the cleaning gloves. I stripped them off and tossed them in the kitchen sink, then I sat on the chair. "Can I ask what happened?"
He shifted his gaze and stared into the distance, then started talking like it was the weather.
"I was working a lead at The Lux on Field Avenue.
Not far from here. There's a woman who lives at that complex whom I need to talk to.
" He paused, then rolled his shoulder, wincing at the motion.
"Someone was following me, and I didn't spot them until I was inside.
" He flexed his hand, the knuckles whitening.
"They knew what they were doing. Waited in the lobby, went straight for the kidney. "
"And you're sure it has something to do with Valmont?"
He tipped his chin. "It has to be. He's getting nervous. He hired people, probably to look for me."
I felt sick. "So I got you hurt."
"You paid for a job," he said, voice flat. "You're not responsible for the hazards. That's on me. I knew the target had acted but didn't take extra precaution."
There was something in the way he said it—so absolute, like he'd drawn a circle around the event and nothing outside could ever touch it.
He picked at the edge of the gauze over his wound, eyes unfocused. His body was trembling now, the adrenaline wearing off, the pain setting in. I wanted to help, but didn't know how.
So I did the only thing I could. I stood up from the chair and sat next to him on the couch and took his hand in mine. It just seemed natural, something you'd do for your family member or a friend who was in pain. Certainly not for strange man whose face you'd never seen.
He didn't say anything, his gaze traced my movements, dropped to where our hands were now locked together. He was just there, propped against my pillows, shirtless and dangerous.
His skin was smooth, but palm a little calloused. And there was no reaction. No desire to pull back. No aversion. I marveled at this calm in me that seemed almost unnatural in his presence.
Time ticked by. Seconds, then minutes of silence. His eyelids grew heavy and started to droop, then closed completely.
I didn't realize I'd reached out until my fingertips brushed the edge of the burn on his abdomen. It was uneven and warm, the heat under his skin alive and electric. I half expected for him to tell me to cut it out. He didn't.
"When did this happen?" I asked.
He was quiet for so long I thought he wouldn't answer because he'd fallen asleep.
"Before I was adopted," he replied, at last. "I don't know how. I just woke up with it one day, in a hospital."
"How old were you when you were adopted?"
"Seven."
I traced the outline of the scar, gentle. "It must have hurt."
He shrugged, but I felt the way his whole body tensed under the contact.
"I don't remember," he repeated.
"Not even a little?"
"I don't have any memories of who I was before my adoption."
I had so many questions for him, but I also felt such sadness all of a sudden that negated my curiosity.
For a while neither of us said anything again. The apartment was quiet, but I was acutely aware of the warmth from his body, the way it radiated across the few inches between us.
I wondered if he could sense my pulse, too. It felt like the only thing in the room louder than my thoughts.
"I'm sorry," I said, not sure if I meant about the scar, or the fact that I couldn't stop staring at his perfectly sculptured body, or the fact that he'd been hurt.
He took his time to answer. Maybe the painkillers were kicking in, or maybe he was just so far inside his own skull that I couldn't reach him. "Don't be." His opened his eyes and looked at me.
"Don't you remember anything at all from before? Not even the smallest details?"
"No," he said, voice low and grating. "I doubt there was anything good, though."
"Do you want to remember?"
"Sometimes forgetting is the wise option."
I understood that better than most.
"When I was thirteen," I said, "my parents died in a car accident.
It was a long time ago, but I still think about it every day.
" The words surprised me. I almost never said them out loud.
"Some days I wish I could forget. It'd make everything easier.
But then I remember… I don't want to lose them. "
He watched me, eyes calculating as always, but I saw the way his breathing changed.
"I'm a little envious of you that you don't remember. Because it erases the pain of missing them. I know it's twisted but…" I never finished that sentence. Instead, I moved on to talk about my foster mother. "After that, I lived with Margaret. She was…a godsend."
His head tilted on the pillow a fraction. "You like her?"
"She is the best." I blinked, felt the old sting under my eyelids. "She let me be a mess, and never once made me feel guilty about it."
He was quiet for a long time, just breathing, then he whispered, "I don't always like Father, but he's given me a second chance. I respect him for that."
I wanted to ask more, but he seemed so tired. The exhaustion, the pain, the blood loss. It was catching up to him. His body slumped, and his eyes started to drift close again.
So I just sat there, watching him.
After a while, his breathing slowed even more.
I don't know how long I remained on the couch, but at some point I knew he'd fallen asleep.
Eventually, the urge to see him—really see him—overcame everything else. I leaned in, slow and careful, until my face was only inches from his.
With a shaking hand, I reached for his bandana, fingers brushing against the side of his neck.
He caught my wrist before I even touched it.
His grip was iron. Not painful, but final. Like a door slammed shut before a tornado.
I stared at him, caught in the act. His eyes were open, pupils sharp and dilated.
We froze there, me bent over him, one hand on the blanket, the other trapped in his. My breath hitched. His was shallow and even.
It should have been awkward.
It wasn't.
My skin tingled everywhere we touched.
"Sorry," I breathed. "I won't do it again."
His eyes didn't leave mine. He didn't let go.
For a moment, we just stared at each other as if this was an exchange of body heat, a recharge. Then I eased my hand away from his chest and moved it to the blanket, let his grip slacken around my wrist, and carefully pulled away from him and then slid from the couch.
The apartment was quiet, but my ears buzzed. So did my entire body.