by Rebecca Ryan
How does he know?
I cut the gauze, and tape it into place. This is how I use it on farms for large animals. "You'll be fine. It works immediately. Listen, I'm closing up the back, but flooding the front with antibiotics, I need you to roll all the way over."
His face gray, his arms tense, I help him onto his back. Instantly, he travels to another place, closing his eyes and patting me on the arm.
"Thanks for showing up," he says, and then without a gasp, he passes out. His body, so tense, so hard, is limp.
Quickly, working against time, I use forceps and probe the front of the wound, just four inches above that hip. Using my flashlight, I remove a large chunk of rust about half an inch wide and then dump about a cup of iodine inside. Tearing open another packet, I tape it to the point of entry.
Then I stand up, move to the little sink, and quickly wash my hands. Turning back to the bed, I unlace his shoes and gently take them off and his wool socks, tossing everything on the floor. Then I go for his jeans button, the zipper and slowly, gently, peel those pants off, trying hard not look. I pull the covers up. Doing some fast math, guessing his weight at about two-twenty, I fill a syringe of antibiotic and inject it, holding his arm, noting his skin—and his smell, and hating myself for it.
I step away as he moans—deep, guttural—and his eyes open, though he doesn't recognize me for a moment while I pile on more blankets. Stepping out into the hall, I try to adjust the zoned heating for the second floor.
"Doesn’t work," he mumbles.
I trip down the stairs to the thermostat on the first floor and set it to ninety. Heat rises.
Coming back into the room, I see he's got the blankets tucked under his chin, and those eyes are closed.
"Hey, you, did the chimney pass inspection?" I have to ask.
There's no answer. His tan complexion has gone completely gray now, his lips gently parted. I watch for a moment, the rise and fall of the blankets, assured he's still alive.
And then I start shaking. Badly. My legs feel like they're going to give out and I feel a sob coming up from somewhere deep. I am great in a crisis, like my mom, but fall apart later.
But I can't afford to fall apart. The crisis isn't over. I wad up newspapers from one of the other bedrooms, tent some kindling over them and then bigger split wood, and find a box of everstrike matches on the old mantle. The wood is so dry, it only takes minutes to catch. I drag the old, curved, fire screen over, the one with little doves across the top. It used to be Laurel and Devon's.
My dad and I had painted this fireplace. It wasn't fancy, an old iron fireplace, and we had used enamel paint along the sides, in muted greens and oranges and yellows. Now, I feel alone, lost, unmoored.
I catch another glimpse of myself in the dressing table mirror as I turn around. I need a shower.
Keeping the door open a crack so I can hear him, I tilt the shower head toward the wall, step into the clawfoot bathtub, and turn on the hot water. By the time the heat on demand work, my clothes are off in a filthy heap on the floor. Still shaking, my thighs quivering, I reach up and run water through my hair, goosebumps rising. Squeezing the shampoo bottle, I smell him around me.
I start weeping, softly, my thoughts and feelings and water running in every direction.
Chapter Ten
Finn
I fight my way to the surface. Like a man drowning, I focus on breathing, on finding my bearings. My side burns, and I’m not certain I can even lift the blankets. A wave of heat rolls down my body and somewhere, wood from a fire crackles. Slowly, I open my eyes and I'm alone, the light from the fire the only thing keeping me company.
Pipes whine off to the right with a change in water pressure, and as I slowly shift a little under the pile of blankets, there's a thud, like a foot against a door, and my pupils adjust to more light spilling in a shaft from the bathroom. Claire's in there. Before I can really understand what’s happening, she's bent over, her back to me, pulling off heavy socks. Stepping out of her pants she straightens and begins peeling off her sweater, a long sleeve shirt, a tight-fitting lacey tank top. Her arms and hands are shaking, mottled with cold, and her thighs quiver. A long smear of blood runs along her left side, which I see only in flash cuts as she moves in the small space, adjusting the water, grabbing the soap.
I close my eyes and try to control my breathing. I should not be watching her.
But she is right there. Right here.
I steel myself. The fire pops loudly and a log settles. Ice continues to pelt the roof.
In several minutes, after I've heard her detach the hand-held shower head, she sighs, and the sound is so sweet, rising up deep within her diaphragm, that what I have left in reserves, evaporates. It's seduction by sound.
Steam begins to fill the gap in the door. She's standing in there, naked, the shower wand in one hand, the other wiping conditioner or soap or something out of her hair. I hold my breath, knowing I shouldn't be looking, shouldn’t be spying on her. But she is so beautiful, so pure, just standing in a porcelain tub, that water streaming down her body, and I can't help myself.
She's still quivering, still frozen to the core, her dark rosy nipples are hard, her small breasts—round and flawless—in perfect ratio to her ass which is high and curved. Every inch of her looks strong, tight, and her skin turns red, the hot water trying to penetrate those layers of cold.
My trying to look and not look leaves my breath ragged, and within seconds I'm so fucking hard.
So. Fucking. Hard.
I try to adjust, move, do something, but my legs are leaden. All I can do is feel my shaft throb in time, stiffly, with my heart.
The water cuts off, and she crosses the tiny bathroom out of sight, then again in flash cuts—my blue towel, her arm, the sounds of drying off, another little sigh, clothing being slipped on. And then there's Claire, coming through the doorway. Her gaze lights on me for a moment and I'm afraid she sees me watching her, but it's too late. A rush of heat breathes down my chest.
But no, she's leaning in the door jamb, pulling on clean socks and moccasins, dressed in faded blue jeans, a white turtleneck, and a heavy black pullover.
It's so hot in here, how can she dress like that? And then I see her shiver. Still cold. After dragging a rocker from the corner, she sits by the fire, drying her hair for a few minutes.
Still, I say nothing. My dick is smooth as glass and just as hard. Now she starts finger combing her curling mane of hair and twists it up into itself, into a bun, and the firelight catches the blonde strands as she rises, pauses, and then crosses the small space to me.
I need to move, to adjust myself. To feel her, to be in her.
Never, ever have I felt like this.
It's as if my body can't take one more sensory input. I feel her small weight on the edge of the bed as she settles next to me and I can smell peppermint castile soap on her skin. I stiffen even more. I can hardly control my breathing and when she turns on the lamp by the nightstand, an involuntary moan escapes me.
"Finn," she says, her voice soft, "do you need morphine?"
I find my voice. "What? No. No, I'm good."
Her silence makes me feel guilty. She wants to do something.
"I'm damn hot though," I admit.
"You must burn hot. It’s not that warm in here," she says, and I see that the tips of her fingers are still white. She stands up and reaches for some stuff on the nightstand. "Do you think you can stand? I still need to clean that cut on your shoulder, and I want to change the sheets."
I look down and there's blood everywhere, dark stains mixed with dirt. After raising my arm, I grab the edge of the last blanket in the layers—a green comforter—and with her help, I manage to swing my legs to the floor.
Claire comes around, slips an arm around my left side, and her touch— her hand on my skin—makes my dick rub against the blanket. Pain shoots down my right side and I pitch forward slightly, afraid I’ll make her fall. Then I lean against the nightstand with
one hand, the other still holding the comforter around my waist.
Jesus.
She lets go and within minutes, she's pulled off the bloodied linens and the shower curtain and smoothed on clean charcoal gray cotton sheets. As soon as the bedding is ready on my side, I ease myself down on the edge of the bed.
Claire snaps on rubber surgical gloves and cleans my shoulder blade, rubbing antibiotic cream on me. "Here," she says. "Stand back up for a sec. Over here, by the bathroom door.
I must not look eager because she adds, "I'll be fast."
And she is. With my back to her, she takes a small bowl of hot water and a little blue washcloth and cleans my back in long movements, like she’s wiping down a horse. Then she comes around to the front but decides she needs to get fresh water first.
When she comes back from the bathroom, her hair is nearly dried. Her eyes, startling blue, look almost crystalline.
When she touches me, my chest quivers.
"I'm sorry. Did that hurt?” she asks.
I shake my head.
"Let's get this over with," she says, and with the lightest touch, Claire cleans the blood and dirt off. Her cold hands spread against my chest.
I ache at my core.
Fuck, fuck, fuck.
I let her help me back to bed because it pulls on my side too much to try and lift my legs. She's made a pile of pillows so I don’t have to lie down—sitting up feels so much better.
It's not until that top sheet comes down that I’m ready to let go of the green comforter, and she pulls it out and shakes it down on top of me again. I clumsily try to re-layer the blankets back over my legs, my stomach, and most critically, my groin.
And though she helps, her face is scrunched in preface to a question. "I thought you were too hot?"
I am. That's the whole problem.
Small, cold hands ease me down under the covers and pull them across my chest, but she's careful not to let any weight touch my right side. I can’t look at her anymore. Somehow, though, closing my eyes and trying to feign sleep is almost worse.
I smell her—mint and soap and something clean but earthy. Real.
Hearing her move across the room leaves me picturing her skin in the firelight, her hair, her face, her eyes.
Fuck it.
"Claire."
Chapter Eleven
Claire
He flinches when I touch him. Or maybe I flinch first. My hands are shaking so badly when I try to clean him up. The fact that he can stand there, after practically bleeding out, leaves me nerveless. Earlier, when I left the bathroom, I thought for a fleeting second he was watching me, a thought that proved so completely unnerving I had to push it away. And that's what I've continued to do.
I grab my instrument bowl and run the water hot, grab a washcloth, and try to clean him quickly. Even though he says he's warm, the moment my hands touch his chest, goosebumps rise. His nipples, dark and tender, tighten.
Just looking at his chest makes me wet. I don't know where to look—his skin, his pecs, and his ribs are so beautiful. Muscled, perfect, brown dark hair swirling in all the right places, with a thin dark trail down between his abs to the other side of his navel diving somewhere below. Broad shoulders, with delts to die for. When he flexes to push off from the edge of the bed, the movement of leveraging his own weight engages every muscle. The guy is ripped. It's why he moves the way he does—with the easy grace of a top athlete.
It isn't until a log falls and a wash of sparks fly up that I see what looks like a bullet scar. I try to act like I don't notice and keep the washcloth moving, avoiding his eyes, the water turning a muddy red.
A smooth, nickel-sized scar sits flat, up by his collarbone on his left side just a few inches above his heart. A bullet leaves this kind of scar. I've seen them on cattle, shot by nasty teenage boys out having a bad weekend. And a dog once, whose owner accidentally let go of a forty-five-caliber bullet while cleaning his handgun.
I want to talk to Finn, to find out what happened, but the bathroom lights flicker for a moment and blink out in sync with the lamp on the nightstand.
In preparation for any more bleeding, I run some more warm water in the bowl and set it by the nightstand. When I help him to bed, the firelight catches another scar—a thin, three-inch streak on his right arm, just below his bicep.
Carved by knifepoint?
He rolls slightly onto his left side, so his hurt side is up, and I check for any seeping.
Then I throw some more logs in the fire, figuring the generator won’t be working. It died the year Travis went off to college. At least this room will stay somewhat warm.
He's sleeping now, and he seems okay, but I still can’t get warm. Maybe it’s the adrenaline. Maybe it was being in a freezing ice storm for an hour with no coat, but either way, I'm still shaking. The glass windows are wiped black with the night. The power is out all over Echo Bay. Ice continues to crash down against the roof, though with the shingles it's a muffled sound.
It’s not until I turn around that he calls me. Not asleep then.
"Claire."
His voice is thick, dark, and my name on his lips is such a turn on. He's staring at me. His face—lit only by the firelight—seems darker, and my thighs tremble. He takes a hand and smooths a spot next to him on the bed. Not the edge of the bed. The center. Trapped in that gaze, feeling his purpose, I sit on the other side, facing him, one leg bent on the bed, one on the floor.
The warmth from the fire is linear and does little to fill the rest of the room. Involuntarily, I shiver.
"Claire, you're freezing."
"I'm fine." I move from the bed and stand in front of the fire, shivering again as my body tries to catch the heat. My legs are so cold, and my chest and back seem to have a cold that comes from within. My fingers and toes begin to sting.
In one movement, he's flicked the covers back. "Your hair is wet and you look like a ghost. Come here and lie down before you freeze to death."
"Oh, I'm fine, really. That seems weird to do, I mean, its nice of you to offer—"
Those lashes close and he sighs, then catches himself in pain. "Get in bed," he says between his teeth.
"But—"
"Don’t argue. I'll stay under the sheets, you get on top. It’s a military move."
I flash to those scars.
Is he ex-military?
He doesn’t seem to be.
But what does that mean? Am I profiling?
Travis would be on me in a minute.
The next "Claire," comes thick and sloppy with a soft flick of the blanket. I can tell he’s about to go under. It’s now or never. My pulse flutters, though. To be that near him. . .
I kick off my moccasins, leaving my socks on, and climb in next to him before turning on my side to face the window.
He sighs again, deeply, this time without a catch. "That's better," he says with such familiarity, almost as if to someone else, and I feel him relax. There's another shift from him and I feel weight from more blankets, but within minutes his breath is even and strong.
My face, though, is freezing. I try pulling the covers up over my head, but the little spot where I breathe feels like I'm breathing through a funnel of ice. It’s the single pane window—it’s just letting heat escape and the cold rush in. I wait another five minutes to be sure he's hopelessly lost in sleep and then I start scooting, turning, trying hard to close any space between us. I turn around so my back is to the window.
But it's impossible.
I accidentally roll close and waves of heat roll off his body. He's just inches from me. And now I see why the second hit with the blankets.
He's doubled them on me. The only thing covering him is the thin sheet. Completely out, slightly elevated from the pillows, his gorgeous chest rising and falling, his right arm is flung above his head, pulls that pec flat. His nipple looks so dark and soft in the firelight, ringed with soft black hair. When he stirs slightly and swallows, his throat working, he shudders slight
ly with pain finding him somewhere, and hot, wet, cream seeps into my mound.
Fuck, what's wrong with me?
Am I that much of a control freak I can only be turned on by an unconscious man?
But it's true. I can’t take my eyes off him. When he moans slightly and his lips open, I’m desperate to kiss him. To take that pain away, suck that pain away. To make him shudder from me on him, my mouth on him, have him weak from what I will do to him. To have him collapse on this bed because of me.
Sitting up, I take the blankets and pull the two back across him, being careful not to jostle his bandages. Gently, very gently, I lift his arm, momentarily surprised at how heavy it is, and I lay it next to him on the pillow. As I pull the covers all the way up over his shoulders, I listen for a moment, but he doesn't stir.
I roll back to face the window, cover my head and try to recreate that funnel of icy air. My heart thuds so hard it skips a beat or two and ricochets around in my chest for a moment, trying to find its rhythm. When I punch the pillow under my head, I realize I’m lying closer to him than before, and he slips the arm I so carefully positioned, around me. I hold my breath.
He wasn't kidding, he does burn hot. His heat rolls over me in a steady stream, reaching up into my cheeks, and my back. My poor thighs—which have been trembling since the moment I found him on the floor upstairs—slowly relax. I soak him up and the tension in my neck allows me to echo his sigh.
He's alive.
We'll sort out the rest tomorrow.
The weight of his arm around me and the feel of the warm length of his body against my back makes me feel like I've arrived someplace familiar. Gently, he rubs my stomach, and instead of being tense, I relax.
And somewhere, as sleep descends, I fuzzily realize I am home.
***
The little battery-powered digital clock beeps. Flinging a hand out to hit the off button, I see the red digits flashing eighty-eight, eighty-eight. I move under the covers, bringing my arm up and peering at my own watch. It's exactly one hour before one of those eights, though it's still dark out. Cloud cover must be really thick.