“Better?” she asked. In reply, he shivered again.
Only one thing left to do. She didn’t know why she was nervous—Nobody had never done a single thing to threaten her in any way, shape, or form. But there’d been the way he’d taken on six men without batting an eye. Not even being stabbed—twice—had stopped him.
Another chill ran over him. Rebel had settled back onto the floor, as if he meditated over wounded men all the time. Maybe he did. Hell, she didn’t know anything anymore.
She sat back down and—again, careful to avoid the IV line—leaned under his arm and rested her head on his shoulder.
“Better?” she whispered.
His arm settled around her. “Yeah.”
She tried not to think about the blood that was dripping into him—better in than out—and instead focused on the warm, hard muscles underneath her hands. Because she had to put her hands somewhere, and wrapping her arm around his waist seemed like a good way to keep him warm—as long as she kept her hand away from the stab wound.
“Sleep now. I’ll be here when you wake up, okay?”
“Yeah,” he repeated. He shifted briefly, settling her against him, and then his chest rose and fell in even breaths.
Madeline emerged from the bath. “How is he?” she asked, wearing a fresh nightgown.
“Sleeping. He said he was cold, but he feels pretty warm to me.”
Madeline stood next to Rebel, who started rubbing her leg. “I wonder if I could give him a shot of antibiotics while he sleeps? Or would he wake up and kill me?”
“Let him lie, babe.”
“I can’t believe he’s still here,” she said in a more quiet tone. “I figured he would have disappeared by the time I got done showering. He always does.” She looked down at her husband. “You going to sit?”
“Just in case he doesn’t remember where he is when he wakes up,” Rebel said.
It sounded like a perfectly innocent thing, but Melinda caught his meaning—in case he woke up violent. Rebel was going to sit here all night to make sure that she was safe. But they were talking about the same man who’d fought to protect her.
She had no idea if she was supposed to be terrified of Nobody or what.
Madeline yawned. “Are you going to be okay?”
“I think so,” Melinda said, hoping it was the truth.
“Call me if you need anything.”
“We will,” Rebel said. “Get some rest.”
After Madeline went to bed, silence settled over the trailer. Despite his claims of being cold, Nobody’s body was warm. The deeper he slipped into sleep, the more his body relaxed. Soon enough, Melinda felt herself being hypnotized by his breathing. It pushed back the horror of the fight, the blood that had been spilled—everything faded until there was only Nobody’s chest, rising and falling.
Finally, she slept.
Chapter Six
The pain pulled Nobody back from the blackness and into the gray at a relentless pace. He didn’t want to feel the pain, but it wasn’t paying a damn bit of attention to him.
He wanted to wake up and do something—what, he didn’t know—but he let the gray fade gradually. As it got lighter, the pain began to define itself. His side hurt. He could feel the stitches pulling with each breath. His arm wasn’t great either, but at least it wasn’t throbbing.
And … his other arm. Shit. He had a needle in him.
That realization jolted him the rest of the way awake. He was already moving to pull the needle out—damn, but he hated needles—when he realized he wasn’t outside. Hell, he wasn’t even alone.
There was a head in his lap. A head with wildfire hair that was spread out over his jeans—over his groin. Melinda.
He went hard in an instant, the overwhelming desire pushing the pain back so far he didn’t feel anything but where she was touching him.
Because she was touching him. Her head laid on his thigh, her hand next to her chin. She was facing away from him, which meant that if she woke up, she wouldn’t see the huge hard-on that was taking control of his body.
He blinked a few times, just in case he was having a dream. He didn’t dream, not that he remembered anyway. Sleep was just darkness. But there was a first for everything, because if he were going to have a dream, waking up with Melinda Mitchell’s head in his lap would have to be near the top of the list. He even gave his head a shake, but nothing changed.
She was really asleep on him.
In addition to his throbbing dick, his heart began to pound. Why was she asleep on him? And why was he on a couch? Where was his fire? Where were his horses? Where was he?
He looked down at his arm, the one with the needle it in. Yeah, he was hooked up to an IV—a clear bag of what looked like water was hanging on a pole. Only one person would do that to him—Dr. Mitchell.
But that realization was blown away when he saw where the arm in question was resting. His hand was on Melinda’s bare skin, just above where the waistband of her black pants should have met the bottom of her t-shirt.
She was laying on him. He was touching her.
God, how long had it been? Hell, how long had it been since he’d even touched someone? Dr. Mitchell touched him, but he was usually bleeding at the time. Jamie—he carried Jamie on his back some times. And he beat the hell out of whoever deserved it.
But none of those situations were like this. There was no pain—not that he felt at the moment, anyway—no suffering.
Just a beautiful woman under his hand.
His mind spun and spun wildly. He’d had women, back when he was young and stupid and clawing for survival every single damned day. He’d taken the comfort girls had offered him, both of them looking to escape the hell of their reality for an hour at a time. He liked sex—well, he had back then, anyway. But he’d been a kid. A big, mean kid who wasn’t good at anything but fighting.
He hadn’t had a woman since …
Well, hell. Thirteen years was a long time by anyone’s standards.
What would it be like, if she rolled over and undid his jeans? What would it feel like if she took him in her mouth, her lips moving up and down, her tongue licking him? What would it look like, her wild hair wrapped around his fist as she moved faster and faster?
And when she was done? It’d be his turn. He’d lay her back and taste her like she’d tasted him, licking and sucking and exploring her sweet body until she cried out his name—his and no one else’s. Would she grab his hair, pulling his face down into her soft body until he was surrounded by her? Would she demand he finish her off with his mouth or his dick? Would she want it slow and sweet or hard and rough?
Jesus, he was going to come in his jeans just thinking about it.
Despite the crazy bent of his thoughts, he was actually afraid to move, afraid to wake her up. Because as much as his dick was trying to think for him, the odds of her doing anything of the sort were slim-to-none. What was more likely was that she would wake up, take one good look at him in the light of day and freak the hell out.
And he wouldn’t be able to blame her a bit if she did. He’d told her to close the door last night and hide. He’d known what was about to happen—not the stabbing part, exactly, but he knew the fight would be ugly. He’d been trying to protect her—there was always a chance he could lose a fight or worse—but the truth of the matter was that he hadn’t wanted her to see it, to see him like that. He hadn’t wanted her to know what he really was—a violent man. Because that’s what he was. That’s what he’d always been.
Before last night, she hadn’t been afraid of him—not much, anyway. And now that had probably all changed. As soon as she realized where she was—and who she was sleeping on—she’d look at him and see what everyone else saw—a man to be feared.
Then her voice floated up, and he remembered hearing her say, “What are you?”
If she still saw him as a man at all.
So he didn’t want to move and ruin this moment with her body on his. She was warm an
d heavy against his leg, curled into a ball on her side. He breathed deeply, letting her scent of oranges fill him.
A little of her hair was covering her cheek. Even though he didn’t want to move, he found his needle-free arm lifting toward her, his hand brushing the hair back from her face. So soft. Her hair felt like silken threads as it slid under his touch.
Then his fingertips were brushing against her skin. Up this close, he could see the pale freckles that kissed her face. Even without the wild reds and white that were painted into her hair, she was so beautiful that it crushed the air out of his chest.
At his touch, she stirred, which froze him immediately. What was his freaking problem? He didn’t want her to wake up and break this contact between them—and yet, he was waking her up? Damn it all, he didn’t know how to be around a woman. This was exactly why.
Then she moved, rolling onto her back—and toward him. Toward his aching dick.
His arm—the one that still had the Goddamned needle in it—stung as she turned, so he was forced to lift his hand and let it skim over the skin on her belly.
God, for a moment, this felt like he’d always imagined normal would be. Waking up with a pretty woman in his arms, watching her blink the sleep from her eyes, her mouth parted just a little.
Was this why Rebel had given up the outdoors? Why he slept in a house, on a bed now? Because this was how he woke up every day?
Nobody hated being inside almost as much as he hated the needle in his arm, but the moment her beautiful eyes—a deep blue that veered into green—locked onto his, he thought, It’s worth it. No matter what happened in the next thirty seconds, he’d take this time with her to his grave.
Then it got better. Instead of recoiling in horror or throwing herself off his lap—instead of doing anything he expected her to do—she smiled. That perfect strawberry-red mouth of hers curved up into a lazy grin that set his body to throbbing again, in the best way possible.
“Hi,” she whispered.
God, to be normal. To know what he was supposed to say when he woke up with a woman in his arms. Even back when he’d had women, he hadn’t spent the night with them. Never.
She saved him from having to come up with something. “You didn’t die on me last night?”
“Nope.” But before he could get another thought formed, she did something else unexpected. She rested her hand on top of his—the one on her belly. And she didn’t even lift his hand up and cast it aside.
Instead she—sweet Jesus, she pushed her fingers in between his. She held his hand to her bare skin. She made him keep touching her.
“How do you feel?”
“Fine.” Better than fine. He felt amazing.
She wrinkled her brow. “You scared the hell out of me last night.”
“Didn’t mean to.” Then, just because he couldn’t help himself, he brushed his free hand over her hair again. He wanted to say things to her—for no other reason than to prove that he could talk, could think—that he wasn’t some dumb killing machine. But he didn’t know how.
Then the moment was over. Rebel walked into the living room. “You need to go home.”
“What? Why?” Melinda sat up, which pulled at the needle in his arm. Damn, he hated needles. “He’s still wounded!”
Rebel gave him a serious look. “Tim’s coming. He can’t decide if he’s going to arrest you or not.”
Nobody’s stomach fell in, killing his hard-on in a wash of fear.
“Tim? Tim who? What’s going on?”
“Get this out of me,” Nobody growled, starting to pull on the IV.
Melinda grabbed at his hand. “No, wait—let Madeline. Why do you need to leave right now? Who’s Tim? What’s wrong?”
“Tim’s the sheriff. He’s coming to talk to me about the fight last night. He’s not too happy about it.” Rebel walked into the kitchen and started making coffee. “He’s no fan of Dwayne’s, but he knows you were there. And if he arrests you …”
Nobody nodded. He needed to get gone—the faster the better.
“No—wait for Madeline,” Melinda said, pulling his hand away from the needle. “Don’t be so stubborn, Nobody.”
“I’m not going back to jail,” he said. He wanted to pull his arm away from her—he could do it—but he didn’t want to hurt her.
Thankfully, Dr. Mitchell walked in. She gave him a surprised look. “You’re still here? Really? Never thought I’d see the day, Nobody.”
“He’s going to rip the IV out,” Melinda said, still clutching his arm.
“Oh, for heaven’s sake,” Dr. Mitchell clucked. “I haven’t even had my coffee yet.”
“He’s got to get gone, babe,” Rebel explained, handing her a cup. “Tim’ll be by in a bit.”
The doctor took a long drink and then pulled the IV. Damn it, that stung. He hated feeling something inside of him like that. Drove him crazy. “Who’s going to take him home? You?” Then she stuck a bandage on him. He felt ridiculous.
“You know if Tim shows up and I’m not here, he’s going to get suspicious. It’s obvious you patched him up. Tim was mad enough last night that if he thinks I’m hiding Nobody, he might just throw the cuffs on me until he cools down.”
“I don’t understand what’s going on,” Melinda said in an unsteady voice.
Nobody flexed his freed arm. Now that the irritation of the needle was gone, he could think a little better. “I’ll ride home.”
The fact was, no one—besides Jamie—knew where he lived. Not even Rebel. It was better that way. Rebel didn’t have to lie when he told people he had no idea where Nobody had disappeared to, and Nobody didn’t have to worry about endangering the only man he counted as friend. Because Rebel would not fare well in a jail cell. That was one of the things they had in common. Both of them needed to feel the ground underneath their feet.
He stood—and wobbled. The pain spiked up from his side. His arm was fine, but his side … Melinda scrambled to her feet and slipped under his arm again. He didn’t want to admit how good she felt there, so he didn’t.
“I don’t like this,” Dr. Mitchell said. “You’re in no condition to ride.”
“Me, neither,” Melinda said. “What if you fall off your horse or something? You’ll bleed out in a ditch and then what?”
Rebel looked at him. “I’ll ride you home if you want …” He let his words trail off, clearly thinking the same thing that Nobody was. Then Rebel would know how to find him. That wasn’t how it worked—it was better for everyone if Nobody stayed un-findable.
“I’ll go with him.”
Nobody had to look around for the person who had spoken—and was stunned to find Melinda looking up at him, a determined glint in her eyes. “No.”
“Yes. I can ride—not as good as Madeline does, but I took lessons for years. I’ll make sure you don’t fall off.”
“Are you sure?” Dr. Mitchell was worried about sending her sister off with him. He understood that.
He didn’t understand Melinda. Shouldn’t she have turned tail and run for cover by now? Shouldn’t she want him gone so she could go back to her real life in some big city somewhere?
“No one else knows I was there, so this sheriff won’t be looking for me. I’ll get him home.”
Except that would mean she’d see his home.
“No,” he repeated, but was horrified to see that he hadn’t let go of her slim shoulders yet. How was he supposed to leave her behind if he couldn’t even stop touching her?
“Or you could stay here and talk to the lawman.” Oh, hell—a woman should not look that pleased with herself, but she did. She had him cornered and they both knew it.
And the fact of the matter was, he wasn’t sure he could stay up on Red at this point. He didn’t own a saddle, which meant he had to physically hold himself on. And he was starting to sweat just standing here.
“I’m going to go put on a pair of jeans and a bra. Then I’m taking you home.”
Nobody’s mouth flopped open at
this. If he’d had any power to make her stay, she’d just blown it out of the water. Instead, his eyes dropped down to her front—to where two little points topped the most amazing breasts he’d ever seen through a t-shirt.
“I don’t like this,” Dr. Mitchell said again.
“I’ll get him on the horse,” Rebel told Melinda. They changed places and Melinda ran back to her room.
But before Rebel could get him out of the house, Dr. Mitchell was up in his face, wagging a finger inches from his nose. “Listen, Nobody. You’ve always done right by me and I don’t want anything to happen to you but if something happens to my baby sister, next time I’ll stand by and watch you bleed out. Do I make myself clear?”
Like he’d do anything to Melinda. “I’ll keep her safe. That’s a promise.”
Dr. Mitchell’s face softened. “You better.” Then she walked down the hall.
“Are you sure about this?” Rebel asked as they watched his wife disappear.
Was he sure about bringing Melinda Mitchell out to his home? About showing her where he lived? About riding the five or so miles with her?
No. He’d never been less sure about anything in his entire life.
But he was in no position to say no.
Not to her.
Chapter Seven
“Here.” Madeline burst into Melinda’s room with a backpack. “Take this.”
Normally, Melinda would have given her big sister crap for barging in while she was in the middle of changing. But now was not the time. Honestly, she was surprised Maddie wasn’t making a bigger deal of this. “What’s in it?”
“Bandages—you’ll probably have to change his when you get there. Can you handle that?”
“Um …” She’d seen quite enough blood the last twenty-four hours to hold her for a lifetime, thank you very much. But Maddie gave her the look, so Melinda hurried to add, “Sure. No problem. What else?”
“Water, granola bars, a round of antibiotics—maybe you can get him to take them, I sure as hell can’t—a walkie-talkie, the GPS, and …” She opened the bag and pulled out a knife. “Just in case.”
Nobody (Men of the White Sandy) (Volume 3) Page 9