Chapter 43
Verity had no doubt she was going to regret sneaking Reed up to her room.
But not as much as she’d regret not doing it.
Once he and both dogs were behind her closed bedroom door, she hurried down the stairs again. In the kitchen, she filled a glass with water and grabbed an ice pack from the freezer, then went back upstairs, ducking into the bathroom to get the first aid kit and wet a few washcloths.
Thanks to the skills she’d learned waiting tables at Binge the past few years, she was able to stack and carry it all without much hassle.
She crept back down the hall, and it was so quiet, the events of the night so surreal, when she slipped back into her room, she half expected it to be empty. For Reed to be nowhere in sight, as if she’d dreamt up this whole interaction and his presence in her yard.
God knew she dreamt about the boy more often than she should.
But he was here. He was real.
Real and big and taking up way more than his fair share of space.
Having him in her bedroom, all six feet of battered, tatted up man/child, made it feel too small. Cramped and chaotic.
Childish.
And she had a very adult dilemma on her hands.
Because he was hurt worse than she’d thought.
His hair was down, a tangled mass surrounding a face mottled with bruises, the skin around his left eye a deep purple, his eyelid swollen almost shut. A deep cut slashed through his right eyebrow and his lower lip was split. He had blood on his shirt, splattered, like someone had dipped a paint brush in it and flicked it there, trying to cover as much of the fabric as possible. A few larger dark spots were on his shoulder and sleeve, as if he’d used it to wipe the blood from his face.
His hands were puffy. His knuckles cracked.
And covered in dried blood.
She turned her back to him, not just so she could set the items on her nightstand, but because seeing him this way, his uninjured eye filled with wariness, about killed her, and she needed a minute. Time to gather her thoughts. Her wits.
And get her emotions under control before she burst into tears.
Unfortunately, time—as she’d only recently discovered—went by way too quickly, and what she got was the approximately fifteen seconds it took for her to set everything down, open the first aid kit, and take out a packet of ibuprofen.
She picked up the water, the dogs watching from where they were curled up on her bed—just two BFFs for life, snuggling at a sleepover—then crossed to Reed. She handed him the pills and glass.
After he washed the medicine down, he lowered his arm, swaying on his feet as if it took everything he had to remain upright, his breathing shallow. His hands shook, one still pressed against his left side, the other holding the glass, the liquid threatening to spill over.
She took the glass from him, then wrapped her free hand around his wrist and guided him to her bed. Turned to set the glass on the nightstand, then straightened.
Only to realize how close they were.
As close as they’d been that night at the lake when she’d touched his chest. When she’d told him he could kiss her.
Too close for her comfort.
Reaching up, she took her hairband out, then slowly lifted her hands to his hair, giving him plenty of time to stop her should that be his preference.
But in keeping with the surreal theme they had going on he didn’t jerk away or jump to the side—things he’d previously done when she got too close.
He leaned his head down, his knees bent slightly so she could reach him.
And if she just so happened to notice how soft his hair was as she scooped her hands through it, or how scratchy his stubble as her right inner forearm brushed against his cheek as she gathered the strands on top of his head into a messy bun, it wasn’t on purpose.
Or something she’d allow herself to dwell on.
Swallowing, she took a small step back, pulled a pair of gloves out of the first aid kit, and tugged them on. Then she girded her loins for what she was about to do.
Breath held, she took a hold of the bottom of his T-shirt and sent him a questioning look.
Is this okay?
His hesitation was palpable. Reasonable.
Smart.
Under no circumstances should one of them ever be undressing the other.
He nodded once. Stood incredibly, perfectly still, gaze on her unreadable and so freaking intense as she began to peel his shirt up his body, she wanted nothing more than to rip it off as quickly—and with as little contact between them—as possible.
But that wasn’t happening. Not when he was in pain.
And now her hands were trembling.
Easing the material up, the backs of her knuckles accidentally brushed against his lower abs. The muscles twitched and he sucked in a sharp breath, his belly curving inward.
She stilled, her face heating so hard, so fast, she felt sweat bead at her hairline. “Sorry,” she mouthed.
Pulling the material away from those hard muscles and that surprisingly soft skin, keeping her gaze at a point just over his right shoulder, she pulled his shirt up to his chin, stepped back again while he bent forward, allowing her to tug it over his head and down his arms.
Red marks and scrapes and scratches covered his torso and chest, and a huge bruise bloomed along his left side, from the bottom of his ribcage up this chest.
As if he’d been kicked there.
Clutching his dirty shirt like a lifeline, she pressed her lips together, hard, to keep them steady. Blinked rapidly to clear the sudden moisture from her eyes.
“Don’t,” he said, the word more breath than sound, low and harsh with a desperate, pleading edge to it.
As if he wouldn’t be able to handle her crying.
Sucking it up, she nodded. Sniffed. And gently pushed on his shoulders until he perched on the edge of her bed, tense and bloody and way too masculine against the softness of her mattress, the crisp white of her sheets, the femininity of her frilly purple and white quilt.
And she’d thought he looked out of place just standing in her room?
She loved how life just kept right on proving her wrong time and time again.
Dropping his shirt, she picked up a damp cloth, then stepped between his legs. He went rigid, his hands—his poor bruised and bloody hands—clenching her sheets on either side of him as she gently wiped the dried blood from his eyebrow. With it clean, she saw how deep the cut was, the edges of the skin jagged and, more than likely, in need of stitches.
Though she doubted she’d be able to talk him into going to the E.R.
Plus, she wasn’t so sure she wanted him to leave.
Didn’t want someone else taking care of him.
Something to ponder later.
She smoothed antibiotic cream over the cut on his eyebrow, then did her best to close the wound with three butterfly bandages. Wiped the blood from his cheeks. Pressed a clean cloth against his split lip. Trailed her fingertips over his ribs even though she had no idea how to check if they were broken or not.
The entire time he remained silent and still. Watchful. Without so much as a wince or a sharply drawn breath.
As if he was immune to pain.
Or just used to it.
Which made her want to cry again.
She got a clean cloth, lifted his right hand with her left one, and wiped the blood from his knuckles. Still holding his hand, she leaned forward so she could speak directly into his ear.
“Did you start it?” she asked softly, telling herself if he’d started the fight, if he’d provoked someone, she wouldn’t let him stay.
But while she told herself she needed the truth, she kept her gaze down as she eased back.
Afraid to meet his eyes. Afraid of seeing a lie there if he denied it.
Afraid she’d let him get away with that lie if it meant keeping him here.
But though he was always more than happy to hide—his thoughts, his feelings, what he truly wanted—he wouldn’t let her do so.
He shifted, bringing his knees inward until they bumped against her outer thighs. Held them there, the material of his jeans stiff and scratchy against her bare skin, until she finally looked up.
He slowly shook his head.
She believed him.
She believed him because of the way he easily held her gaze. The way his expression remained clear. Honest. She believed him even though he didn’t often tell her the truth.
And when he did, it usually hurt.
She switched to his other hand. “Are you in trouble?” she whispered. “With the police?”
If he’d done something illegal and she was aiding and abetting a criminal, she was going to be mighty ticked off.
She didn’t even want to think about the lecture Miles would give her.
Reed shook his head again.
It was easier to believe him this time.
He’d have to be an idiot to hide from the law with the assistant chief of police’s sister.
Done with his hands, she pulled off the gloves, then wrapped the last clean cloth around the ice pack. Held it against his lip, her other hand on his cheek, ostensibly to keep his head still, but really, she just liked touching him.
With her hand on his cheek, his skin warm under her fingers, the stubble there scratchy, it helped her remember that though he was hurt, he was here. He was safe.
He’d be okay.
She’d make sure of it.
Drawing her hand away from his cheek, she nodded at the ice pack, and he took it. Kept it pressed against his mouth, watching her as she cleaned up, putting the first aid kit back to rights, tossing the gloves and other garbage into her trash can—including his shirt.
No way that was ever getting clean.
But there was also no way she could do what she was about to do if he remained shirtless.
She crossed to her closet and eased the door open. Draped the dirty washcloths over her hamper to dry, then went to her dresser and pulled out the large Drillers T-shirt she sometimes slept in.
The Drillers T-shirt she used to sleep in, she amended after she’d taken the ice pack and then helped pull the shirt over Reed’s head. She was never going to be able to wear it again.
Not without thinking about him wearing it.
Too bad. She really liked that shirt.
Palms sweating, nerves racing through her, she did something else she didn’t normally do, at least, not at night.
She locked her bedroom door.
The click of the lock engaging sounded overly loud to her ears. Piercing and ominous, like a death knell ringing through the night, warning of her impending doom.
Chewing on her lower lip, she frowned. Huh. Guess her brothers were right.
She really did have a dramatic streak.
Then again, she was about to get herself into a real pickle here. The biggest, pickliest one she’d ever been in. A little drama was required.
Refusing to so much as glance Reed’s way—despite the way she felt him watching her—knowing if she accidentally met his eyes, the light blush suffusing her cheeks would turn nuclear and possibly engulf her in flames, she crossed to the bed.
“Down,” she whispered, giving the dogs a shooing motion.
Titus, being the good boy Reed claimed, hopped off.
Bella didn’t even lift her head.
“Bella,” Verity grit out from between clenched teeth, not worried about Urban hearing this particular conversation as it was one she had with her dog nightly. “Get. Off.”
Bella lifted her head far enough to turn her face away from Verity.
To be fair, this was usually the point where Verity gave up and slept on whatever space Bella allowed—her dog liked to stretch out, and she especially liked to stretch out next to, or on top of, Verity.
Before Verity was forced to physically drag Bella off the bed, Reed faced her dog and snapped his fingers.
Bella not only lifted her head—immediately—but when he pointed to the floor, she scrambled off the bed and sat at his feet so he could pat her head while she looked up at him adoringly.
Guess female dogs didn’t quite get that whole solidarity in sisterhood thing.
Or understand why it’s so dangerous to do something just because a boy tells you to.
Especially a boy as good looking and broken as Reed.
Hoping he didn’t notice how unsteady her hand was, she turned off the lamp. The soft glow of the moonlight through the window kept them from being plunged into complete darkness. More like everything was softer. Muted.
Shades of gray when she much preferred things to be black or white.
Wrong or right.
But maybe this was one of those times when you had to do the wrong thing for the right reason.
Surely her brothers would understand that.
With that hopeful thought firmly in mind, she climbed into bed.
Covers clutched to her chest like a trembling virgin—which made sense as she was literally both those things—she stared up at her ceiling. Spent the next few moments not breathing, her palms sweating, every muscle in her body tense, waiting for Reed to make the next move.
It was only fair. She’d made the first one.
Again.
He could decide what happened next.
There was a soft thud, followed by another which she figured was him toeing off his shoes. Another minute passed. Then two. Reluctance and indecision rolled off him in waves. Whatever internal battle waged inside of him was unable to be contained. It poked at her nerve endings. Prodded her conscience.
Soothed her worries.
She wasn’t the only one who was afraid.
Rolling onto her side facing him, she pressed her fingertips to the middle of his back. He stiffened, but she heard the slight catch of his breath. Felt his shiver as she trailed her fingers up the soft cotton of the shirt over the hard bumps of his spine. Reaching the collar, she withstood the temptation to discover how soft his skin was at the nape of his neck and instead, skimmed her hand over to his shoulder. Slid it down the rounded curve of his bicep, imagining how her fingers looked against his dark tattoos. Wishing she could trace the swooping lines. That she could ask why he chose a Celtic tribal tat and what the rose on his other arm represented.
But she’d spent too much of her summer wishing for things with this boy that were never going to come true.
Plus, she didn’t want to admit that the only reason she knew his full sleeve was Celtic was because she’d spent hours looking at tattoos on the internet.
She continued sliding her hand down past his elbow. Curling her fingers around his forearm, she gave it a gentle tug.
He made a soft sound, not quite a groan but more than a sigh.
Then he scooted back and laid next to her. On top of the covers.
She wasn’t sure if that was for her benefit or his, but either way she was grateful.
Grateful and nervous and more aware of him than she’d ever been aware of anyone else in her entire life.
Letting go of his arm, she rolled onto her back.
Even with the arctic-like temperature Urban kept the A.C. at, she was sweaty and itchy, her sweatshirt too thick. She wore a sleep tank underneath but getting that comfortable in this particular situation seemed like a bad idea.
And she’d used up her quota of bad ideas for one night.
The sweatshirt was staying on.
She had no idea how long they lay there, side-by-side, neither moving, the only sounds an occasional snorty breath or the rustling sound of one of the dogs shifting on Bella’s bed in the corner where they’d once again curled up together.
She should go to sleep. The sooner she did, the sooner it would be morning and she could send him on his way and go on with her life as if none of this had ever happened.
But there were still some things she needed to know.
“Why didn’t you go home?” she asked softly.
He was silent for so long, she wondered if he’d fallen asleep. Half hoped he had. But then he let out a long breath.
“I was afraid to.”
His words, quieter than her own, echoed in her ears. Her stomach turned. She’d heard the rumors about his parents, of course. That his mom was an addict. His dad abusive.
But as a kid, she’d never thought about why he’d miss school for a week and then show up with a faded black eye or a cast on his wrist. Why the school’s guidance counselor was so often pulling him from class. Why, as each year passed, he’d become sullener. More rebellious. Angrier.
And while she could try and tell herself she’d never thought about it because they hadn’t been friends, the truth was, she’d never thought about it because she hadn’t had to. Because she’d had her brothers and Willow and eventually Kat. She’d lost her parents, but so many people had stepped up and taken care of her. Had loved her.
Had kept her safe.
It would have been inconceivable to her that the people who were supposed to love you the most could ever hurt you.
But what had been inconceivable to her had been reality for him.
Was still his reality.
And she couldn’t help but feel like she’d let him down. She hadn’t been there for him. Hadn’t seen anything outside of her own little bubble.
Tears welled. Knowing he didn’t want them, she fought them back. Made sure when she spoke again, he couldn’t hear any evidence of them in her soft tone. “Why me?”
The covers tugged tight around her as he shifted. Again, he was silent, but this time she knew he wasn’t sleeping.
He was evading.
“I don’t know.”
She winced. Not evading.
Hiding once again.
He’d never be truly open with her. Would never give her as much as she wanted from him.
Swallowing her disappointment, she rolled onto her side, facing the wall. Curled into a ball, her hands tucked under her cheek.
And finally, let her tears fall.