On aching legs, I carry her out of my shitty bathroom and into the bedroom, placing her onto my meticulously made bed – though I left that fucking thread there. My father would kick my ass and make me run drills for six hours straight if he knew.
But for her, I left it there.
Laying her on her side the way she was just a few nights ago, I move up the bed to catch her gaze.
Glassy eyed, shocky, she stares into space.
“Jess? Can I take a look at your stitches? I won’t hurt you, I promise. I won’t look at your body, just your ribs. But I need to get that bandage off and check them.”
When she doesn’t react and I begin to think she didn’t even hear me, I lie on my side and brush the hair off her jaw. “Hey.” I stroke a thumb over her bottom lip. “Jess, look at my eyes.”
Like I said the magic words, her gaze snaps to mine.
“There you are.” Grinning the way I haven’t since kindergarten when a girl picked a daisy from the garden and gave it to me, I stare into her eyes. “Did you hear me? I need to check your stitches. They’re all wet, and I need to get the bandage off. They need to stay dry. Have you been taking good care of them?”
She nods and clamps her bottom lip between her teeth.
“You’ve been using the ointment?”
She nods again.
I declared my love to that flower-wielding little girl way back in kindergarten. She was my girlfriend for three days. We held hands once. But by Friday, she pressed a kiss to my cheek and broke up with me.
She wanted to give flowers to other boys on Monday.
It was amicable and I hold no grudges against that beautiful six-year-old. She’s married to a banker now and has two and a half children. She’s happy, and that makes me happy.
“Did you think of me while using the ointment?”
Jess’ eyes well with tears, but with a wobbling lip, she keeps it together and nods.
Yes, she thought of me.
“Can I take a look? I need to make sure they’re okay. I won’t let you die from infection. I’m too fucking stubborn to let you get away with that shit.”
“Yes.” Clearing her throat, she nods. “Yes. You can look. But I took care of them. They’re okay.”
“Alright.” Leaning forward, I drop a gentle kiss to her forehead, and when her bravery escapes on another sob, I close my eyes and absorb her desperation. “Relax, Blondie. I’m here now. I won’t let you hurt again.”You’ve just earned yourself personal protection from the most competent enforcer you’ll ever meet.“No one will touch you again. I promise.”
I sit up and stiffly cross my bruised legs, and when my knee touches her belly, she doesn’t complain. She does nothing but blink away silent tears.
Leaving the towel secured at her breasts, I pull the fabric up her legs and work hard not to look at her toned thighs or the swell of her ass. I try not to notice her bony hip, the tiny Dr. Seuss tattoo, or the cute fold of skin as her belly ignores every single abdominal muscle she owns.
Peeling back the waterlogged bandage and taking care not to pull on her skin, I study the stitches I branded her with and nod in approval.
Even after everything she went through tonight, even after that shower, they’re in perfect shape. Not a single drop of blood. The swelling is going down for the most part. The red edges that once threatened infection are now pink and work to marry up and pull her back together.
“These look perfect, Blondie. You’re a great patient.”
“No time to die,” she croaks out. “I have shit to do. Exams to sit. Criminals to lock up.”
The corner of my lips twitch at her jab. Terrified, in pain, in shock, she still has enough sass to take a swipe at me.
Good for her.
She won’t ever win. She literally can’t. But she might break me while she tries.
It’s both win-win, and terrifyingly, lose-lose.