Cold Snap (In From the Cold #1)

by Lee Brazil

  ***

  Cannon docilely allowed Finn to lead him to the bathroom, which really wasn't big enough for two tall men. No way could he get Cannon upstairs to the much larger en suite in his loft bedroom.

  "Finn?" Cannon's voice was small and worried.

  Pausing in wiping the man's face, Finn tipped his chin up. "What is it?"

  "I really don't feel very well."

  "I know." He kissed Cannon's cheek lightly, then returned to wiping the vomit and blood from his chin and forehead, respectively. "Here, let me have that."

  Cannon surrendered the ice pack and sat blinking in the bathroom's incandescent light. His skin was clammy and pale, but he'd been fairly white when Finn had seen his whole naked body—Finn shuddered at the memory—last night. The bleeding was slow and sluggish, and it was possible that the injury wasn't as bad as Finn had first thought. The vomiting and clammy skin, though, were cause for concern.

  "Okay, Cannon? Look at me." Deep blue eyes blinked at him hazily. "I'm going to take your shirt off, and then I have some butterfly bandages in a first-aid kit upstairs. I'll get you a clean shirt, and then I'll tape you up. You stay here."

  Cannon nodded, his throat worked as he swallowed, and Finn glanced around frantically. Finding the plastic trash can tucked into a corner between the sink and the shower, he grabbed it and plopped it into Cannon's lap. "There. Now, if you feel like throwing up, go ahead. Don't fight it."

  "No fighting, okay. But, Finn, he's in my house. He shouldn't be in my house."

  "Who? Never mind." Standing upright, Finn backed out of the tiny space and tried to reassure Cannon. "I'll take care of it. Don't worry, okay?"

  He jogged up the narrow stairs at a faster than safe pace and had to check himself from stumbling at the top. A bright red sweatshirt with a glittery white snowflake on top of a stack he'd intended to donate to a local charity caught his eye and he grabbed it. His brother had given it to him for Christmas a few years back, a joke between the two of them. It would keep Cannon warm.

  As he headed to the cabinet where his medicinals and linens were stored, he cast a quick glance out the windows. Scott should be here soon, and the sooner they got Cannon to a hospital ER the better.

  The trip down was faster than up as he missed the first step entirely and slid down the rest on his ass, bumping and thumping and probably achieving a spectacular case of rug burn. He regained his footing and lurched to the bathroom, jerking his sweater down and his jeans out of his crack as he went.

  Cannon was where he'd been left, leaning over and holding his head in his hands, staring into the trash can and muttering to himself, "Why does this shit keep happening to me?"

  "You drive like a maniac?" Finn offered, setting the sweatshirt on the narrow counter and the first-aid kit on top of it.

  "I am a very good driver, actually. But I meant the stalker. He's not the first one." Suddenly Cannon clutched Finn's arm and jerked upright. "Unless he is the same one. Oh my god, Finn, what if he followed me to Flagstaff?"

  "Then we'll vanquish his ass back to Atlanta. Tilt your head back. Jesus. Cannon, you dripped blood…" Sighing, realizing he was expecting too much, Finn eased Cannon back until his head rested on the wall and reached for a washcloth. He wet the soft terrycloth in warm water and dabbed the new streams of blood from the injury. "Okay. Hold these." He passed the packet of bandages to Cannon, who gripped them so tightly the cardboard box crumpled. Shaking his head, Finn began opening little packets and applying the tiny butterfly strips in short intervals over the wound. It took about eight before he was satisfied that the skin would stay in place. "There."

  "Done?" Cannon's voice sounded stronger, more focused.

  Finn glanced down and saw that the man was watching him. Unable to resist, even after having been ditched like six-day-old, leftover Thai food, he kissed the pinched lips. "Almost. I'm going to cover it with gauze and a couple of these." He held up two large, square Band-Aids.

  "That should do until we get to the ER." Cannon started to nod, but the movement was aborted with a wince.

  Sympathetically, Finn patted his shoulder. "Would you like some aspirin? I'd offer you a shot of good whisky, but I think you might have a concussion."

  "I'd love a shot of whisky, but I think you might be right about the concussion, which rules out the aspirin as well I'm afraid."

  Finn stilled. "I did not know that."

  "It makes the bruising worse. But if you have Tylenol?" Cannon's lips twisted in a wry, self-deprecating grin. "Not that I'm a prize to look at, anyway, but…"

  "Nope, sorry, no Tylenol. But nothing. You're feeling better if you can fish for compliments." Finn finished applying the last bandage and rose to his feet, wincing. He made a mental note to add Tylenol to his electronic grocery list. He had his own bruising to worry about.

  Cannon's eyes narrowed in concern, another sign that his senses were returning? "Are you okay?"

  "Fine. I slipped on the stairs is all." He held out the red sweatshirt. "Here you go. Sorry, your coats and things were covered in blood and vomit, but you can wear this for now. It seemed appropriate."

  The doorbell rang, and he spun on his heels, but not before he got a look at Cannon's face as he caught the word "special" on the back of the sweatshirt. Finn grinned slyly to himself as he went to open the door to Jillian. Would Cannon appreciate the joke? Or would his arrogance lead to him taking it as an insult? "Hi, Jilly. Thanks for coming over. The patient is back in the bathroom. Can you find it?"

  "Sure I can." With a small smile the brunette turned and walked down the hall to the bathroom.

  Finn grabbed his hat and gloves from their pegs and listened as he donned his cold weather gear.

  "What does that mean? What did he mean by that?" His question was answered as he heard the man's querulous voice in the background.

  "It means your attitude is wrong. Like you think you deserve praise or whatever by virtue of your existence, though I would guess, since it's his shirt, it's Finn's attitude that's in question." Jillian's answer was just as clear, and Finn smothered his chuckles as he reached the front entryway.

  "I've never heard that before." Cannon's voice carried from the bathroom easily.

  "I imagine he picked it up from the students at the college." Jillian's soothing tone came in response.

  Through the front window where he'd left the drapes opened to capture the winter sun, he caught a glimpse of Scott, standing, arms akimbo, staring at the sports car buried to the windshield in a six foot drift of snow.

  He realized he was whistling when Jillian smiled her timid smile, before glancing over his shoulder. "Scott said you needed me?"

  "Just need someone to keep an eye on my guy while I help Scott dig the car out.