by Kristie Cook
When it was finally quiet, I lifted my face and immediately smelled the night air, mixed with lingering exhaust fumes. The orange car sat quietly only a couple of feet inside the shop—right where Mom and I had been only seconds earlier. The ladders lay on their sides, part of one under the car, along with the Christmas tree and fake presents we’d just set up.
“That was . . . intense,” Tristan muttered as he straightened up. “You two okay?”
Mom shook her head, not to answer but to shake her hair out. A couple of small pieces of glass hit the floor. “I’m fine.”
She twisted in Tristan’s arm and he let her go. I noticed pink lines on her arms—minor scratches already healed. She healed much faster than I did. I hoped Tristan didn’t catch that.
“Uh, yeah, I think I am,” I breathed. “Are you?”
I started to look up at him, to make sure he wasn’t cut anywhere, when Mom sucked her breath, distracting me.
“Alexis, honey, don’t move,” she instructed, her words slow and deliberate, as she moved to my right between me and the car. Tristan cupped his hand against the side of my face and tilted it up toward his before I could see what had her enraptured. He pulled me tighter into him.
“Just look at me,” he said quietly.
“What’s going on?” I whispered, afraid to know. Tristan held my eyes with his and I could tell by his expression it wasn’t good.
I immediately thought of the driver and the car door swinging open just before impact. Did he fly out of the car? Is he under the car? My stomach lurched at the thought.
“It’s all right. It’s not in an artery or anything,” Mom said and then a sharp pain tore through my thigh.
“Ouch! Son of a witch!” I screamed, trying to twist myself free, but not able to in Tristan’s tight clutch.
I looked over my shoulder and Mom held a shard of glass at least five inches long and two inches wide, half of it covered in blood. My blood.
In a strange, delayed reaction, the pain suddenly screamed up and down my leg. Then more stabs and throbs in my arms and one on my head. A tickling sensation ran down the back of my head and I lifted my hand to it. When I pulled it away, blood coated the tips of my fingers. I glanced up at Tristan while squeezing my hand into a fist to hide the blood. I could tell he’d already seen it, though. This is so not good.
“Police,” he said.
“Huh?”
“Police, Alexis, you need to get out of here,” Mom said.
It finally registered when I heard the sirens a few seconds later, still several blocks away. Oh, crap! Witnesses! I felt the cuts on my arms already starting to heal.
“Everyone okay?” Owen called from outside. Not Owen, too!
“We’re fine, Owen. Check on the driver and anyone else in the car,” Mom called back. She lowered her voice. “Tristan, can you take care of Alexis?”
“Yes, I’ll take her home.”
“Sophia!”
She ignored me. “Are you sure, Tristan? There’s a lot of blood—”
“I’m fine, Sophia. I love her. She’ll be fine with me.”
I heard the confidence in his voice, but hardly paid attention to the meaning of the words. Except for that one phrase. He loves me?! He’d never said that before. While I rolled that over in my mind, wondering why he felt the need to say it now, they stared at each other for what seemed like several minutes, but it had to have been only a second or two. Then Mom nodded.
“Get her home, then,” she said. I panicked.
“Sophia, please, no!” I begged her as Tristan bent down to cradle me in his arms.
What the hell is she thinking? How could she let me go with him? She knew this was my biggest issue.
“Honey, I have to stay here and take care of this mess. Tristan will take care of you. Don’t worry. He’ll be fine with it all.”
I didn’t have a chance to argue. She already hopped onto the car’s hood to pass through the window and help Owen with the driver, and Tristan already walked swiftly toward the back of the store, easily carrying me like I was nothing but a sack of feathers. There was no real argument, anyway. Mom obviously had to stay and I couldn’t exactly walk home. Not yet, anyway, and there was no time to wait—the sirens wailed just a block or two away now.
My head and leg throbbed with each step Tristan took. I bit my lip, fighting the tears and trying to keep a straight face as we exited through the back door. I knew from previous experience to pretend like nothing was as bad as it looked, so it wouldn’t seem quite so bizarre when it healed freakishly fast.
Tristan set me down on my feet at the bike and I realized quickly I couldn’t put any weight on my right leg. He pulled off his t-shirt and tore a sleeve off, bunching it up and giving it to me. “For your head.”
I held the wadded cloth against the cut on my head while he carefully tied the rest of the shirt around my lower thigh, padding as much as he could against the cut, about two inches above my knee, on the outside of my thigh. I couldn’t help the winces of pain.
“Are you okay to ride?”
“Yeah,” I mumbled, “it’s not far.”
I couldn’t even enjoy the fact that I leaned against his bare back, my arms around his bare waist, as panic and pain fought with each other on the short ride home. The smaller cuts on my arms were already closing. The bigger gash in my thigh hurt like hell, so I knew it would take longer—I could feel the shard had cut through deep, severing tendons and muscles. I squeezed my eyes shut to keep the tears at bay and tried to focus on a plan. The four-block ride wasn’t long enough, though. Too soon, Tristan lifted me off the bike and carried me inside.
“Um . . .” My voice came out in a rough whisper. “Bathroom.”
He carefully set me down on the tub’s edge and I rearranged his sleeve to find a clean section and pressed it against my head. He opened the cabinet under the sink and while his back was to me, I pulled the sleeve off my head again and quickly glanced at it. It came away clean. I sighed. Why do I have to be such a freak?
“Should we use these towels?” he asked, holding up Mom’s pretty guest towels. Why we had them, I didn’t know—we never had guests. But I saw the opportunity and seized it.
“Get the old ones in the kitchen, in the broom closet. Sophia’d kill me if I ruined her good ones.”
As soon as he was in the hallway, I lunged forward to shut the bathroom door, quickly locking it before he realized what I’d done. I grabbed a towel—an everyday one, just in case Mom really would mind—and crawled to the bathtub. Tristan pounded on the door.
“Alexis! What are you doing?”
“Um . . . going to the bathroom?” I hated that it sounded like a question.
He didn’t respond at first. I turned the tub faucet on just enough to dampen the towel and started cleaning my arms to see the damage. Almost all the cuts were completely gone, no evidence at all they ever existed. A few that must have been deeper were just red jags. They’d disappear, too, within ten minutes or so.
“Can I come in now?” Tristan called through the door.
“You know what . . . I’m fine,” I said, trying hard to make my voice sound right. “You can go now. I can take care of this. It’s really not that bad.”
Guilt stabbed at me. I hated lying to him. I didn’t want to hide things anymore, even this. I had the urge to just let him watch . . . see the healing process with his own eyes. He must have heard the lie in my voice.
“You are not fine. Let me in!” He pounded on the door again.
Damn it! I was precisely at the moment I’d been dreading and desiring at the same time. I wanted Tristan to know everything about me, but I was actually scared of his reaction—more scared than anything that already happened tonight. Will he call me a freak, too? Will he leave me? The tears finally welled in my eyes, not just from the physical pain, but also from knowing the emotional pain that would cut even deeper.
Ignoring his pleas, I took the wrap off my thigh, needing to see how bad it was before I decided what
to do. The pain screamed as I twisted my body and bent my leg at an odd angle to see. Ugh. A wave of nausea rolled over me.
The shard must have gone in at an angle, because the gash was at least three inches long and jagged. I dabbed it with Tristan’s shirt and saw dark red meat. I was afraid if I looked too closely, I might see the bone, but blood flooded back to the surface, hiding the worst of it.
“Alexis, I’ll break this door down if you don’t let me in now!”
I sighed. No question he could do it, surely on his first try, even. I couldn’t fight the tears any longer and they fell down my cheek, one by one. I crawled over to the door, holding his blood-soaked shirt back against my thigh.
“Tristan?” I said through the door, just loud enough to be heard without straining. I heard him slide down the door to my level.
“What, Alexis? Are you okay?”
“Um . . . no . . . I don’t . . . think so,” I admitted, breathing through the pain.
“Please let me in.” Desperate concern filled his voice and another pang of guilt stabbed at me. But I couldn’t let him. Yet.
“I will, but I need to know something first.”
“Anything. I’ll tell you anything. Just let me help you.”
I took a deep breath and exhaled slowly.
“Do you really love me?” I finally asked.
“What?”
I pressed my cheek against the door. It felt comfortingly cool against my warm skin.
“You told Sophia you love me. Were you serious?” It came out so quietly, I was surprised he even heard me.
“Yes, Alexis, I really, truly love you with all my heart,” he said almost as quietly, and I could hear in his voice he really meant it.
I didn’t understand how either of us could feel it. We’d only known each other barely more than three months. But I knew it was true, at least for me. Until now, I’d only known love between a mother and a daughter. When I was little, Mom had a boyfriend who I loved and I thought he loved me, but then he disappeared out of our lives. I’d been painfully mistaken then. I hoped I wasn’t about to make the same mistake again.
I gathered everything I had and pushed back the thought that I may regret what I was about to do. If he reacted like everyone else, it would be the worst pain ever. But I had to say it, knowing it may be my one and only chance.
“I love you, too, Tristan.”
He exhaled loudly. “Good. Now, can I come in before you bleed out?”
I wiped away my tears, reached up and unlocked the door, cracking it open. He sat on the floor right in front of the door. “Close your eyes, please.”
“What? What is wrong with you?” He obediently closed his eyes, though. I opened the door, crawled into his lap and kissed him, hoping and praying it wasn’t the last one ever.
“I needed that first,” I whispered. I watched him as he opened his eyes. “I hope you really love me . . . because things are about to get weird.”
“What’s going on?” he asked, his beautiful hazel eyes filled with concern.
I reluctantly held my arms straight out in front of him. He studied them, running his fingers over the last of the pink marks. I watched his face with trepidation and braced myself for the worst.
“They’re perfect,” he said matter-of-factly. He tilted my head, gently separating my hair to examine the head wound. “Nothing. It’s gone. So what’s wrong?”
I narrowed my eyes at him, suspicious at his reaction or, rather, non-reaction. “You don’t see anything wrong?”
He smiled slightly. “No. They’re all healed. I think that’s a good thing.”
I held my breath, watching him and waiting . . . and waiting . . . . And still no reaction. I know he’s not stupid . . . . He’d seen the blood on my hand when I touched my head at the store. He knew there had been some kind of wound there not ten minutes ago. And now nothing. He said so himself.
“Ah, must be your leg,” he said, his hand moving toward my thigh. I instinctively shifted away, tumbling off his lap, onto the bathroom floor. “Lexi, I won’t hurt you.”
“That’s not the problem!”
“Then what is?” Both concern and bemusement filled his face.
“Tristan . . . you saw how much my head was bleeding.”
He shrugged. “Head wounds bleed a lot. It must not have been bad and it’s gone now.”
“Exactly! It’s gone. So are the cuts on my arms. Don’t you find that . . . I don’t know . . . a little weird?”
“Not at all. Should I?”
“Uh, yeah, you should. It’s not normal. I’m a freak!”
He laughed and I glared at him. Here it comes. He abruptly stopped and put his arms around me. “What ever gave you the idea I thought you were normal?”
“Are you mocking me?” I pulled away and stared into his eyes. The gold sparkled beautifully. He wasn’t freaked out. He wasn’t being mean. He wasn’t counting the seconds to get out of here and never return. He was just concerned.
“Alexis, you are really making a big deal out of nothing. I don’t care that you heal fast. Remember what I told you? I can handle anything. You could grow a second head and I would love it.”
“You expect me to believe that?”
“Okay, a second head may be a little weird,” he admitted. “But healing yourself, well, that’s just not a deal breaker for me. Okay?”
I stared at him, not able to think of a single thing to say. He’s not running. He’s not laughing. What’s wrong with him?
“Now, please let me look.”
He turned me so he could better see the injury and pulled my hand with the now red, wadded t-shirt away. I was too dumbfounded to fight him off anymore. Besides, I knew this one was not healing so fast . . . if at all. It actually scared me now. The pain continued to shoot up to my hip and down to my ankle and it still hadn’t stopped bleeding. Mom and I didn’t know the extent of my body’s ability to heal and this was the worst injury I’d ever had. It could be my body’s first real test. If it didn’t heal on its own, Mom had a professional grade first-aid kit with needle and thread. But Mom wasn’t here.
“Alexis, have you taken a good look at me since that car came through the window?” Tristan asked as he studied the injury.
Huh? Is he trying to distract me? That would be a good way to do it. I was taking a good look at him right now, actually—he still had no shirt on. His body was perfect. He glanced up at me when I didn’t answer and his face was perfect, as usual, too.
“Of course. You’re beautiful, as always,” I mumbled.
He rolled his eyes. “I mean, no cuts, no blood.”
I thought back over the last ten or fifteen minutes, since the accident. Yeah . . . no cuts or blood on him. And he had shielded Mom and me. He should have been the worst off.
“How come you’re not hurt?” I gasped as he poked at the raw flesh. “Ouch!”
“Sorry. This is pretty serious.”
“And you know because . . . ?” I asked, momentarily forgetting my first question.
“Because I have medical training. The glass cut through rather deeply. There’s so much blood still.” He grabbed the towel I’d been using and soaked it under the tub’s faucet. “I can’t even see if it’s healing on its own.”
He dabbed at the wound and I winced.
“So how come you’re not hurt?” I asked again through clenched teeth, now trying to distract myself. “That’s hardly fair. Ow!”
He’d gone in deeper.
“Here.” He put my hand on his leg. “Squeeze as hard as you need to, if it helps.”
I squeezed. Hard.
“I heal, too,” he said, “and much faster than you.”
Chapter 10
“What?”
Tristan definitely had me distracted now.
“Any surface cuts from the flying glass would’ve healed before they even bled,” he said. “It’d take a shard like what did this to even pierce my skin. Or a dart . . . .” He glanced at me with a slight
smile, then went back to work.
I ignored the dart comment as my breaths became shallow. I didn’t know if it was from the pain or a reaction to what he said. Or perhaps I was going into complete shock, overwhelmed with everything happening on this insane night.
“You . . . heal?” The towel jabbed deep, hitting a raw nerve and making me jump. “Holy crap, ouch!”
“This isn’t working,” he said with a sigh. He glanced down at my hand on his leg. My fingernails dug into his thigh.
“Sorry,” I whispered, loosening my grip.
“You’re not hurting me, but you are hurting and I don’t like that.” I could see my pain reflected in his eyes. He lay the wet towel over the wound, apparently giving up. “Yes, I heal, among other things. And you, ma lykita, are not. At least, not quickly enough.”
I groaned. “Call Sophia. She can sew it . . . I think.”
He shook his head. “There’s no way she’s done already. The police can’t know you were there and injured or they’ll make you go to the hospital. And that’s out of the question.”
I frowned. “Right. So what do we do?”
He stared at my leg for a long moment, seeming to think about our options. Then he placed one of his knees on each side of my legs and leaned over, placing a hand on the floor on each side of me so he knelt on all fours, his face very close to mine.
“You really love me?” he asked.
His delicious breath wafted over me when he spoke. He gazed intensely into my eyes. My mind started to fog.
“I . . . think so,” I whispered.
“You think?” He rocked back onto his heels and stared at me.
“Well . . . you just . . . you can . . . you heal,” I stammered.
“So . . . that is a deal breaker for you?”
Is it? I couldn’t think straight. My thigh throbbed even harder now after he’d been poking around in it. And here he was, all perfect and beautiful and half-naked, straddled over me with that breathtaking smile, his delicious scent enveloping me. I tried to focus. How could I mind him being able to heal? But, I knew, that wasn’t the real issue. The real issue was our whole relationship was built on secrets and lies . . . more than I ever realized.