21. Ruby
It’s too hard to be mad at Samuel. Especially when he has his hands on me. I’ve swapped numbers with Nikolai, not because we can’t wait to go on another date, but because it is always better to stay in contact, even if it’s just briefly.
From what he told me, he isn’t the biggest fan of his father and the associated lifestyle that comes with his line of business. Who knows, maybe he could be of help one day. Or the other way around.
Making Sam jealous was just a bonus.
I interlock my fingers with Sam’s and to my surprise, he doesn’t pull his hand away. I don’t understand him at all. To say that he’s giving me mixed signals would be an understatement. One second he has his hands all over me, telling me I belong to him while he makes me come on his fingers and next thing I know, he acts like he can’t stand me.
It doesn’t matter, though. I rather spend my time with someone who treats me like he does than with people like Brian or Sarah, who may act like they care about me only to backstab me.
We spend the rest of the drive without talking a lot, and as we reach the freeway, I doze off. I missed my afternoon nap, after all. Sam’s hand is gone when I wake up, just as he drives through the gate of our driveway.
He looks tired and slightly annoyed and I wonder how many almost-accidents happened while I was asleep.
“Would you be mad if you had to eat yesterday’s leftovers tonight?” I ask as we get out of the car and walk towards the house.
I know I promised to cook healthy stuff for the rest of the week, but I’m not hungry and I need a bit of time for myself to think about everything that happened today and what it means. Or could mean.
“But I can make you a small salad if you want something green,” I offer when he doesn’t answer me.
“No, I can do that myself,” he replies, somehow lost in his thoughts as he walks up the stairs to his room.
“Your choice. Let me know if you change your mind.”
He just mumbles something in response before his door closes. Someone like him should come with a goddamn manual.
The rest of the day, I keep on lounging on the couch until the sun goes down. I’m uneasy, and not even the hundredth rewatch of one of my comfort shows is enough to make my mind shut up.
Samuel comes down sometimes, reheating the leftover pizza under my watch, but at least I’m close enough to intervene in case he starts another fire. We don’t talk much and after he’s done eating, he trots back up to his room.
Two episodes later, I decide to continue watching from the comfort of my bed. Another two episodes later, my stomach starts growling. I still haven’t eaten anything and apart from that, there are still two glasses and a plate I need to carry down to the kitchen.
In case Samuel comes back to my room, I catch myself thinking. Since when do I clean up because of a man? Something is really off with me.
Deep in my thoughts, I put on my slippers and grab the dishes before I make my way downstairs. Mentally, I’m already preparing my dinner, and maybe that’s the reason I miss a step.
“Ouch!” I yelp as I tumble down the remaining flight of stairs. Thankfully, I was almost all the way down, doesn’t make it any less embarrassing though. Shards are scattered everywhere and just when I thank God that Samuel is asleep, he storms out of his room.
“Can’t leave you unsupervised,” he says as he rushes to me. I wonder if he’s worried about me and a warm feeling spreads in my stomach at the thought.
I want to get up, but a sharp pain shoots through my palm.
Samuel kicks one of my slippers out of his way as he crouches down in front of me.
“That’s it, you’re getting grippy socks.”
“No,” I protest, still refusing to look at my hand that pulses with pain.
“You’re such a fucking moron, you could have killed yourself,” he says, trying to collect the biggest pieces of ceramic and glass.
“Are you hurt?”
“I’m not sure.”
He looks me over, his eyes widening for a second as he reaches for my right hand. Carefully, he grabs it, bowing over it as if he wants to shield it from my view.
“Shit,” he mumbles, as I look the other way.
“Is it bad? Oh God, Samuel, say something. Is it bad?”
I start to freak out, panic rising behind my chest and now I’m grateful I haven’t had my dinner so far because I’m pretty sure it would have been back out by now.
“Maybe we should drive to the ER,” he says, and I finally find the courage to look at my hand. A big glass shard is stuck in my palm, not right in the middle but closer to my thumb, and it hurts like hell.
“I don’t want to go to the ER, fuck. Pull it out, put a fucking bandaid over it or something, but please get it out.”
“That’s not a bandaid situation.”
“I’m not feeling well,” I whisper in a shaky voice.
“I can take care of it,” he says after what feels like an eternity. I breathe out in relief, but then he continues to speak. “But it’s going to hurt. Really hurt. I need to stitch that.”
I cry out as he touches my palm, and he gets up, looking for his jacket.
“ER, now.”
“No, please, I promise I can take it. Just, I don’t know, choke me unconscious first? A nice, well-placed blow to the temple? Anything, just no ER, please.”
I don’t want to risk anyone in the hospital calling my father, causing him to come back, and I also don’t like sleeping anywhere else, especially not in small hospital beds.
I remember sleeping cuddled against my mom in one of those things when I was around eight. She had split her eyebrow; fainted, and hit her head.
At least that’s what my father told me, and back then, I still believed him. Couldn’t understand why my mom glared at him, flinching when he softly touched her arm as we waited for the doctor to arrive. Maybe that’s why I don’t like hospitals.
I wasn’t a na?ve kid, but maybe I just didn’t want to see it like it was. I thought adult relationships were supposed to be like this.
Complicated, with a lot of silence between the parties. Interrupted by brief moments of affection, which were followed by mostly one-sided screaming until everyone acted like all was well again.
“Your mother has a migraine. She needs her quiet,” my father had always told me when things got weird again. Sent me off with one of his men. For hours, at first. Then for days, until days turned into weeks.
Until the day my mom was suddenly gone.
“Fine, we’ll try it. But if you squirm too much, I’m going to drag you to the hospital, and I don’t give a shit if you want to go there or not.”
Sam rushes upstairs to his room to search for his first aid kit. I should wonder why he has one in his luggage, but hey, someone who brings a gun to a job should probably also bring a first aid kit.
When he comes back, the box in his hand doesn’t look like the kits they put in cars, but I don’t have the energy to question his almost doctor-like setup right now.
The edge of the stairs presses into my back and maybe that’s a good thing. It is, I realize as he sprays disinfectant on the wounds.
“It hurts,” I say, and he looks at me with tired eyes.
“Told you it”s going to hurt,” he says as he pulls out the shard. Every time I think we reached the maximum level of pain this whole ordeal causes, I’m proven wrong. Blood seeps out of the wound, and I have to look the other way.
I never had a problem with seeing blood. I just don’t like it when it’s mine.
“Can you move your fingers?” Sam’s voice seems so distant, as if I’m hearing him through a wall of cotton.
“Mhm,” I mumble while the edges of my vision slowly get dark. Only to be pulled back to reality by a harsh burn. Apparently, disinfectant stings even more if it’s applied to a wound without a shard sticking in it.
“I’m gonna use absorbable sutures,” he explains before he warns me he’s starting to stitch me up.
“How do you—” I frown, praying to God that it won’t need many stitches. “How do you know all this shit?”
He doesn’t answer me. Instead, he keeps on taking care of my wound, explaining what he’s doing from time to time. Like doctors talk to kids, and I’m embarrassed to admit that it’s working on me too.
It feels like he’s stitching a straight line through my entire palm and as I look towards my hand, my vision gets blurry. I think Sam senses it, either that or he notices my body going slightly lax again.
“Hey, stay with me,” he says, patting my cheek as he takes a break from stitching me up. “You’re a real drama queen, you know that?”
I groan, flinching as he continues to work on my hand.
“That’s not even a bad wound. You know what’s worse? Getting shot in the ass.”
I laugh tiredly, only to be scolded for moving.
“Who shot you in the ass?”
“Not me. One of my—friends.”
“You have interesting friends.”
“Mhm.”
“So, why was your friend shot in the ass?”
“Bar fight.”
“Did you pull a bullet out of his ass?”
“Yep.”
“Cool. Did he keep it?”
“What kind of question is that?” Samuel asks as he wraps a bandage around my hand. That was quick. “And yes, he kept it.”
As he gets up to wash his hands, he almost trips over one slipper I lost. He curses under his breath, kicking the slipper through the living room.
“I’m gonna burn those fucking things.”
“Don’t you dare. I’ll order new ones.”
“And I’ll burn those too.”
I glare at him, swaying on my feet as I try to get up. I hold on to the railing of the staircase for balance, quietly whimpering as it sends jolts of pain through my right hand.
“I look like one of those UFC fighters with the bandage,” I laugh weakly as he rushes back to help me stand up.
“You look like a moron who”s too clumsy to walk down the stairs.”
My attempt to give him the finger only results in more flinching because my brain still hasn’t accepted that I can’t move my hand the way I want it to.
Slowly, Samuel guides me back up the stairs. He groans as I trip, but his grip on my waist is firm and keeps me from falling down a second time this evening.
“Jesus, we should get you one of those stair lifts,” he says, walking even slower than before.
“Or a slide.”
“Care to explain how you get up here on a slide?”
“I’ll crawl.”
“That’s a horrible idea. I’d shoot you if you came crawling up a slide in the middle of the night.”
I laugh, leaning against him as he continues to guide me back to my room.
“No more stunts tonight, alright?” he says, watching me as I get into my bed.
“Pinky prom—ouch.” I groan as I pull the blanket over me. Maybe I”m acting as if I’m in a bit more pain than I actually am, but it works. Sam rolls his eyes, adjusting my blanket before he walks back to the door.
“Goodnight, dipshit.”