Chapter 10
Lauren
We pulled into the driveway, and I already knew the house would match every other one on the block. Gray siding, white trim, a lawn cut sharp enough to make the whole place look unlived-in.
Kevin cut the engine. “This is it.”
He came around and helped me out because my ankle still refused to hold any weight. I leaned on him while he pulled my duffel from the back seat. Jackson had packed it for me back at the bar. Everything I owned fit in one bag.
Yeah. Really crushing it.
Inside smelled like fresh carpet and nothing else. The living room had a gray couch with throw pillows still creased from the store. The coffee table had nothing on it. Not a book, not a remote, nothing that said anybody actually used the room.
“Kitchen’s through there,” he said. “Help yourself to whatever.”
The kitchen looked untouched. An espresso machine sat on the counter with the buttons still covered in thin plastic. No dish soap by the sink. Neat stacks of takeout containers in the trash. A pair of running shoes by the back door. A pile of unopened mail on the counter.
He lived here. Barely.
“Basement’s this way.”
He opened the door and flipped on the light. Stairs dropped straight down.
My ankle took one look and said absolutely not.
“I can carry you,” Kevin said, calm as hell.
“I’m good.”
I gripped the railing and started down one step at a time on my good foot. By the fourth step, my arms were shaking. Kevin stayed right behind me, close enough that I could feel the heat off him if I lost my balance.
The basement room looked better than any place I had ever lived.
“I set this up a few years ago,” he said, hands in his pockets, eyes on the floor. “Thought I might get a roommate.”
“What happened?”
“Never got around to it.”
Yeah. That tracked.
He pulled out his phone. “WiFi password is FairviewGeneral2023.”
Of course the password was hospital. Everything else came second with him.
“Thanks.”
He showed me the bathroom. White tile, towels still folded sharp from the package. “Shampoo’s under the sink. Let me know if you need anything.”
“This is great. Seriously.”
Kevin nodded and shifted his weight.
“I should let you settle in,” he said. “I’ve got clinic in an hour. I’ll check your ankle before I leave.”
“Okay.”
“I’ll be back around seven for another check.”
Morning and night. Jesus.
He left and closed the door.
I sat on the bed. The room stayed quiet. No street noise, no upstairs fights, no early garbage trucks. Kevin’s whole house felt like that. Clean. Quiet. Barely lived in.
By tomorrow, half the block would have a version of this that made me look like a mistake he brought home.
Around seven, I heard footsteps on the stairs.
Kevin knocked once, then opened the door. Still in his work clothes, tie loosened, shoulders tight from the day.
“How’s the ankle?”
“Better.”
“Let me check.”
He rolled the desk chair over and sat in front of me. I kept my leg stretched out on the bed.
He unwrapped the bandage slowly, careful where the tape had stuck.
I watched him work. Bad idea, watching him work. Worse idea, noticing how good his hands felt doing it. Doctor hands. Clean nails. No calluses. His hands were too clean for the bar, more like a private office door shutting, soft sheets, and trouble you didn’t get to blame on the liquor.
He set the bandage aside and pressed his thumb into the swollen spot.
“Hurt?”
“Yeah.”
“One to ten?”
“Three.”
He pressed somewhere else, then turned my foot left and right, all business.
“Swelling’s down,” he said. “Keep icing it. Elevate it when you sit.”
“Okay.”
He slid one hand under my heel to lift my foot, and heat shot straight up my leg. Every time he touched me, my body took it the wrong way. I bit the inside of my cheek and kept my face straight.
He rewrapped it. Gauze over the bruise first, then the elastic around my ankle, over my heel, back around. His hands moved quicker now, sure from repetition.
He was the doctor. I was the girl in his basement trying not to think about his hands on me.
“I’ll check again tomorrow morning,” he said steadily, still wrapping it. “Before clinic. Eight AM.”
“Got it,” I said.
“And every night when I get home. Around seven.”
Twice a day for three weeks. That was a lot of chances to start wanting the wrong thing.
Fuck. That wasn’t helping.
He stood and pushed the chair back under the desk.
“You need anything? Food?”
“I’m good.”
“Yell if you do,” he called back.
He left and closed the door behind him.
I stayed there staring at my ankle. Wrapped tight. Elevated. Still throbbing a little.
Except now all I could think about was those hands doing filthy things to me.