Chapter 6 #2
I can’t believe I’m doing this. I open the cap and then clench my teeth. “Ready?”
“Yup.”
I cringe, turning my head toward him, keeping my eyes open to make sure I’m hitting the wound. As soon as the liquid touches the cut, bubbles fizz the length of the slice, and I gag. Brooks watches the reaction on his skin, with little response at all.
“Does that hurt?” I ask, breathing in the scent of his cologne mixed with his sweat. It shouldn’t smell this good—especially considering the circumstances.
“I can think of things that feel better.”
My gaze snaps to his as that same fizzy reaction happens inside my body. His dark eyes are hooded as he searches mine. He’s too close and far too exposed to ignore the way he’s looking at me. My lips part as I drag in a breath.
“A bit more,” he says softly, still holding my gaze.
“What?” The peroxide! “Oh. Right.” My cheeks flush as I pour more of the fluid onto him.
“Okay, grab me a white towel and a wash rag.”
I step away quickly, setting the bottle on the side of the tub beside my thread, and grab the items he requested. He plucks the rag out of my hand and wets the corner with peroxide. With a tenderness that I didn’t know he had, he cleans around the cut and wipes the blood off his arm.
“Get your needle ready,” he says, swapping the rag for the towel. “Give it a quick wash and then hold it under the lighter for a minute.”
This is ridiculous. Still, I do as he instructs me.
“Pink or green thread? Do you have a preference?” I ask.
“Pink.”
I look at him over my shoulder.
“Reminds me of you.”
I think I’m delirious from the stress and proximity of his half-naked body. “Pink it is.” I have no idea how much thread to use, so I take a long piece and ready the needle with it, then I grab the scissors and turn back to him. “This isn’t rated for body repairs, you know.”
“It’ll work.”
“You seem overly confident, if I’m being honest.”
He sits on the toilet seat and rests his arm on the towel spread across the vanity. It looks like his skin has popped open in a perfect line. I force a swallow, hoping the bile in my throat goes down and not up.
He takes a piece of tape and attaches it to one side of his arm. He grimaces as he tugs on it, closing the hole as best as he can. “Fuck.”
“If there are any bacteria in there, we’re going to trap them. And the scar … it’s not going to look good, Brooks, not to mention that the odds of this holding are minimal. There’s a lot to think about here.”
His chuckle fills the room. “Do you ever just do shit and think about it later?”
“Me? No.”
“I do. It keeps things interesting.” He blows out a breath. “Ready?”
“Oh, my stars.” I groan. “I mean, it’s your arm, I guess.” I start to touch him with the needle and then yank my hand back. “What about pain medicine? Or a shot of something? I’m sure Gray has tequila around here somewhere.”
Brooks licks his lips. “I can handle it. I’m a big boy.”
A shiver rips through me, sending a flurry of goose bumps across me like wildfire. It’s the perfect moment for a flirty comeback. Naturally, I’m speechless.
He stifles a laugh. “If you’re worried about bacteria, the longer it’s open, the better chance it has of getting infected.”
“Where do I start?” I ask, looking at the mess on his forearm. “This end seems a little less … ripped?”
“Yeah, that’s what I was thinking, too. Start back here and work your way to the tape. I’ll take it off when you get to it.”
I scoot to the right to get a better angle. My hip presses into his side, and his face is level with my chest. I force a swallow and try to block that out. But every breath he takes ripples across me, pulling my attention right back to the wrong part of him.
“This needle is not the right one for this,” I say, touching him with the tip. My shoulders sag as his skin dips, and I look down at him, pleading for him to just go to the doctor. But he smiles with so much calmness, so much certainty that this is what he wants, that I give up.
We’re doing this.
“I’d like to mention that I never said I was a good seamstress,” I say.
He laughs. “Now’s a helluva time to make that known.”
The needle presses into his arm. He sucks in, barely a breath, but remains perfectly still.
“How deep should I go?” I whisper.
“Isn’t that my line?”
I bite my bottom lip, loading that innuendo into the back of my brain for later.
“Go deep enough so it doesn’t pop right back out,” he says. A snort follows the words. “I didn’t even mean that one.”
“It would behoove you to keep my attention on the task at hand.” I squint, leaning closer to his arm as I pull the thread through. I can see a layer of what I’m guessing is fat, and I throw up a little in my mouth. Just don’t look. Keep going.
“Are you saying that your mind is elsewhere?” he asks.
I tug the thread until the wound closes as well as it can. “No.”
“Well, that’s disappointing.”
“It wouldn’t be if you knew me very well.” I make another stitch. “Can you pull the tape off?”
He grimaces as he gently removes it.
“You look like that hurts worse than the stitching,” I say, teasing him. “Did I miss my calling?”
“What can I say? Having your hands on me distracts me from the pain.”
I don’t know how to follow up on that. Do I say that touching him, even in such a gross situation, turns me on?
Do I tell him how wet I am and that if he touched me in just the right way, I might be able to check off a Whimsy List box?
Or do I say the heck with the stitching and put my hands where I want to?
“There,” I say, finishing the stitch and snipping off the thread with the scissors. “You’re done.”
“And you said you aren’t a doctor.” He holds up his arm and inspects my work. “It’s kind of crooked, but I’ll live.”
“Hey,” I say, laughing and washing my hands. “I warned you that it wasn’t going to look good.”
I step away as he stands and gathers the bloody towels. I’m not sure what to do with the needle, so I wrap it in tissue and throw it away.
“I’m going to take these home and throw them in the washer,” he says.
“You can use the washer here.”
He grins. “Nope. It’s my mess. I’m not leaving them here for you to clean.” He studies me. “You look pale.”
“Yeah, well, I didn’t expect to be stitching anyone up today.”
“Come on,” he says, nodding for me to follow him. “Let me get you juice and a snack.”
I laugh, stepping into the hallway behind him. “What are you talking about?”
“I don’t know. When you give blood, that’s what they do. Juice and a snack.”
“But you lost the blood. Not me.”
He shrugs, flashing me a mischievous smile that knocks me sideways. My body is on fire—flames licking every inch of me, and I’m completely off-kilter. I just stitched Brooks Dempsey’s arm, and now, he’s making me a snack.
Who am I?