“Pull my top… You want me to…” Sputtering, her pearl-clutching indignation doesn’t quite match the sparkle in her bright blue eyes.“I’m trusting him to stitch me up. I’m trusting him not to rape and murder me.”Unbuttoning her expensive top with shaking hands, she avoids my eyes.“He saved your life. He could’ve tag teamed with that other jerk. He didn’t. He gave your license back. He’s going to stab you with needles. Oh my God.”The shaking in her hands moves to her voice. I watch her, study her. Standing in silence, I unsnap my belt and smile when her eyes open impossibly wider.“Oh my God. Trust. Trust. Trust. He won’t kill you. Laine, where are you? Why didn’t they give us telepathy?”
I slide my hands along my belt until it’s taut in front of my chest, and when she’s transfixed, when she holds her breath, I snap it with a loud crack and laugh when she squeaks.
“Do you often talk to yourself?”
“I think…” She licks her bottom lip. “Um… I think I might be a little delirious. Blood poisoning. Maybe a touch of shock.”
With shaking hands, she pushes her jacket and blouse back to reveal a lacy baby-pink bra. It’d almost be a sight I’d weep for – except for the blood smearing her china-doll skin.
Fuck, I’d slit his throat a second time if I could. “I think shock, too. I really fuckin’ hope there’s no blood poisoning.”
“What…” Her eyes flip between mine and my belt. I push her back to my bed and arrange her like she truly was a doll. “What are you doing with your belt? Why are you getting undressed?”
“Lie on your side.” I press the belt into her hand and move back to my first-aid kit. “That’s for you. You’re gonna need something to bite down on. I’d rather it wasn’t my hand or yours.”
“Bite down on?”
I pull out a bottle of hydrogen peroxide and set it on the bedside table. With fast and practiced moves, I move to my rusty sink and wash my hands, then move back to my kit and take out a pair of latex gloves. “Uh-huh.” Snapping them on, I open the bottle and meet her eyes. “This is gonna hurt. Get ready.”
“No, wait! I’m not r–”
I pour anyway. I pour excessively, because the pink and red edges of her wound are meaner than I want them to be.
Stuffing the leather between her teeth, she screams loud enough that, in a respectable neighborhood, someone might actually call the cops and help her.
But not here.
My neighbors would rather pull up a garden chair and watch me hurt a woman.
The hydrogen peroxide sizzles and bubbles against her skin. Body taut, she stretches as long as she can manage, points her toes, and clutches at the belt until her hands and lips turn white.
“I’m sorry, Jess.” I pour again for good measure. I don’t want her to die in three days from infection. “I’m sorry. I’m not trying to hurt you.”
“It hurts,” she cries out. Fat tears roll from her eyes and stain my navy-blue bedspread. Changing direction yet again, instead of spreading lengthwise, she pulls her legs up and in, flashing her panties for the second time in as many days. Her wound, stretched wide and then pressed together, fizzes and sizzles for the longest minutes of my life.
Reaching into my kit, I take out a tube of Lidocaine. I unscrew the cap and smear an extra helping of the numbing ointment in way of apology for the peroxide. “This’ll numb it, okay? Give it a minute.” I pull my gloves off and toss them aside, then take out a plastic wrapped box and carefully pull open the edges to reveal a paper wrap.
Every move I make, I’m careful not to touch the supplies inside.
I’ll be damned if I pour that shit into her, only to contaminate the shit I use to stitch her up.
Setting out the little green tray from within, I take the plastic tweezers supplied and set out the gauze, needle, and the thread that’ll hold her together. With my clean, but not yet sanitized hands, I take the bottle of Chlorhexidine and pour a little into the end of the tray.
Drawing a deep breath, I take out the pack of sterile gloves and work meticulously to make sure I don’t fuck it up.
Like she knows shit could get dicey if I put an infection into her, Jess holds her breath and watches me. Her lips are white, her cheeks red.
A contradiction.
As contrasting as my skin and hers side by side.
Carefully pulling the sterile gloves on, I touch nothing except what’s in my tray, not even her. Taking the antiseptic soaked gauze, I move it along her skin and glance up. “Can you feel that?”
She bites her lip. Nods. Shakes her head. “Um… I can feel it. But it doesn’t hurt.”
“Okay. Good.” I go back to work and rub the sterilized gauze over her cut. Leaning closer, I study the wound. It’s not all that deep, maybe a quarter of an inch. He slid it over her, but he didn’t do too much damage.
Infection is her enemy, not the actual cut.