by Roxie Noir
I grab her wrist gently and remove the scissors from her hand. She puts up a token resistance but it’s not much, and I deposit her arm at her side, gently.
She’s not naked, but she’s not what I’d call clothed. There’s one hospital gown tied around her waist in a way that is not how hospital gowns work, and then her torso is wrapped in bandages, from her neck down, only a thin band of unharmed skin showing at the top of her hips.
It’s everything I can do not to touch it because even now, even bruised, burnt, and bandaged, she’s so beautiful I can’t stand it.
Then I remind myself that she’s fucking hurt and force myself not to get hard.
“You’re fucking up your bandages is what you’re doing,” I say, letting her arm go. “You’re getting tiny pieces of hair in them, and if your wounds get infected don’t come crying — what are you smiling about?”
“You sound like someone’s mom,” she says, blue eyes lit up with a teasing smile.
A quick pang shoots through my heart. She didn’t say my mom. She never says that.
“I don’t want to have to visit you in the hospital any longer than I have to,” I grumble.
“Can I please have the scissors back?”
“No.”
“I promise not to run with them.”
“Don’t run anyway.”
“So many rules,” she says, still teasing. “Come on, my hair is gross. Please?”
I step forward and lightly take some strands in my fingers. Usually her hair is dark and wavy and soft and smells a little like vanilla — yeah, I know what my best friend’s hair smells like, so fucking what? — but she’s right, her hair is gross, frizzed and brittle, and there’s a big chunk missing in the back. Probably because it was on fire.
“Which part do you want cut off?” I ask, running my fingers through it softly. They brush against her unburned shoulder.
My dick twitches the tiniest bit.
She is in the goddamn hospital, I order myself sternly. Don’t fucking do this.
“The part that looks really bad,” she says, reaching up to take a strand between her fingers. “Here.”
She tries not to wince, but I can still read it on her face. I take the hair from her, snipping the end off.
“You approve?” I ask.
“Yeah, but don’t quit your day job to become a hair stylist,” she says.
“You haven’t even seen the finished product yet,” I say, lifting and snipping another strand. I try to toss the burned ends into the trash, but a lot of them don’t make it. “I could be a master haircutter. You’ve got no idea.”
Darcy just grins. I keep cutting.
“Call it women’s intuition, then,” she says. “I’ve got this feeling that you weren’t a beauty school student by day and a bouncer by night.”
“Maybe it’s an innate talent, like in Edward Scissorhands.”
“He practiced.”
“I’ve never actually seen it,” I admit, combing my fingers through her hair, finding the burned parts, cutting them out. Trying to ignore how close I am to her or how my fingers brush her skin. “Just the porno version once. Low Valley Home Video liquidated and a buddy of mine got it on VHS.”
“Edward Scissorcock?” Darcy guesses.
I stop for a moment and just look at her in the mirror.
“No, it’s not Edward Scissorcock,” I say, and Darcy laughs. “Who would watch that?”
“I swear I know this one,” she says, leaning lightly against the sink. I go back to cutting her hair. “Edward Scissor... dick.”
“That’s the same thing as scissorcock.”
She chews on her lip for a moment, eyes glazing over, deep in thought. I don’t look at her, just cut off the fried ends of her hair and try to keep my thoughts to myself.
I don’t think she knows what she does to me. Even now, even though we’re in her hospital room, being this close to her is heady, overwhelming. I can’t stop thinking about her bandages unraveling and falling off, revealing her perfect, soft breasts. I can’t stop thinking about the way she looks at me sometimes, the way sometimes her lips move a little when she’s thinking.
I can’t stop thinking about her mouth on mine, her body underneath me, the way I bet she raises hell when she comes.
Great, now I’m fucking hard. Over my best friend. Who’s got unsexy second-degree burns down her neck and back, which I know better than to have erections about.
I cut off the last chunk of frazzled, scorched hair and toss it toward the trash. Darcy’s still leaning on the sink, her eyes closed, one swollen and purple, one normal. I run my fingers through her hair one more time, just feeling the warmth of her body, the strands slipping through my fingers, and she opens her eyes and looks at me in the mirror.
“We’re a fucking pair, huh?” she says. “We look like we got mugged in a dark alley.”
“I wish we’d been mugged,” I say, my voice low and confessional, just the two of us in this small bathroom. “It’s easier to heal a stolen wallet than second-degree burns.”
Darcy makes a face, then winces, then blows a strand of hair out of her face.
“Thanks for the haircut,” she says, turning her head from side to side. Her jaw flexes in pain.
“It’s the hot new style,” I say, taking a reluctant step back.
“It’s something,” she teases. “Maybe I’ll start getting written up in magazines like Girly Rolling Stone or whatever for my hot new riot grrl punk hairdo.”
“Just tell them who your stylist is,” I say as she steps past me and back into her hospital room, tiny pieces of hair swirling after her. “If this guitar thing falls through I’ve got a backup plan.”
Chapter Eight
Darcy
Trent stays all day, even though I keep telling him he doesn’t have to. I mean, when the hell am I supposed to read the copies of The Hunger Games that he brought if he never leaves me alone?
About an hour after visiting hours start, Gavin and Nigel, our manager, drop by. They’ve both got flowers, too, and Gavin whistles when he sees the Rose Parade float that Trent brought.
“Marisol also sends her love, and would like you to be careful,” he tells me, shoving both hands into his pockets.
“For once, this wasn’t my fault,” I point out.
I’m not looking at Trent, but from the corner of my eyes I can see his face darken.
“I told her you’d say that, and she said to be careful anyway,” he says, and I laugh.
He’s also banged up, a couple minor bruises on his face. I wonder again what exactly happened last night, though I know I’ll be able to get it out of Trent later.
“Tell her thanks,” I say. “What’s going on with the tour?”
“You’re meant to be resting, not quizzing me about logistics already,” Gavin says, crossing his arms and leaning against a wall.
“I’m meant to be playing in Boise tonight,” I point out.
“When I got here she was cutting her own hair in the bathroom,” Trent rumbles. “Good luck with talking sense into her.”
“Is that what happened?” Gavin asks lightly, giving my head a glance-over.
“It actually looked worse before, believe it or not,” I say.
“I believe it,” Gavin says, and then swallows, looking out the window. “Listen, Darcy, I’m sorry. I ought to have insisted that they double-check the pyrotechnics or something. I knew those things were fucking dangerous and I just trusted a bunch of blokes I didn’t know to take care of it.”
I smile, and bite my lip to keep from laughing. The last time we went on tour Gavin spent it so strung out he could barely talk half the time, and now he’s Mister Safety.
“It’s not your fault,” I say. “Don’t blame yourself.”
He sighs again.
“And tell me what the fucking plan is, already, come on.”
“You don’t let a thing ever go, do you?” he says, a smile tugging at his mouth.
“Nope.”
“At least you’re well enough to be a pain in my arse,” Gavin says, and I just grin.
Nigel pulls out his phone and adjusts his glasses.
“We’ve cut three weeks from the tour and right now we’re trying to tack it back onto the end,” he starts.
“They said I’d probably be healed in two,” I point out.
“We cut three,” Gavin says.
Mentally, I roll my eyes.
“So that means that a few weeks from—” Nigel checks his watch — “Tomorrow, we’ll be in Minneapolis for two nights, Chicago for two, Boston, New York, Philly…”
Nigel keeps listing cities, and though none of the three of us particularly need to hear where we’re playing in a couple of weeks — all cities kind of blend together after a while — it’s oddly soothing to hear his British accent just list them out, on and on. It makes it feel like this won’t go on forever, that eventually I’ll get out of this stupid hospital and my stupid back will be healed.
Gavin interrupts him, asks him something. The sun is on the foot of my bed, warming my feet through the covers as Trent joins in, pointing out something or other about a festival we’ve agreed to that they can’t reschedule. Suddenly I’m super tired, warm, safe, slightly drugged, and I’ve been informed that the tour’s still happening and they’re not going on without me.
“Hey! Darcy.”
The voice snaps me awake. The room’s empty.
“I don’t remember if you like chocolate, but...”
Eddie’s voice bears down on me, and I half-sit up on the bed as he rounds the corner into my hospital room, talking at top volume about the box he’s holding. Gavin, Trent and Nigel are all gone, the sun no longer shining into the window.
He stops, looking stricken.
“Oh, shit, were you asleep?”
I blink once, trying to get my bearings. I’m not normally a napper, and I don’t usually wake up in a hospital.
“No?” I ask, still trying to wake up.
“Oh, cool,” he says. “Right, so, you like chocolate, yeah? I got you this box, but if you don’t, let me know and I’ll like get you a stuffed animal or whatever.”
“Chocolate is perfect,” I tell him. “Thanks, Eddie.”
He beams, proud that he’s done something right, and hands me the red, heart-shaped box which I’m positive was the first one he saw in the gift shop. Then he shoves his hands into the pockets of his cargo shorts and looks around the room.
“Man, you got a ton of flowers,” he says. “Do you even know this many people?”
“I know lots of people,” I say, doing my best not to let Eddie try my patience.
Eddie is a perfectly nice person who doesn’t always think through the consequences of his actions. Or his statements. Or... anything else he does, really, though he always means well.
Have I ever ranted to Trent about what a dipshit he can be? Yes.
But is Eddie a good drummer and a good person who’s just kind of a space cadet, and who has to live under the shadow of our former drummer Liam? Also, yes.
“I guess,” he says, sounding surprised.
There are a lot of flowers. Besides the normal bouquets from Gavin and Nigel, there’s a bunch the size of a chair from the concert organizers, one from the record label, a few from roadies and tech guys on our tour, a few from various media outlets, one from Gavin’s girlfriend Marisol, one from my friend Rosa who’s taking care of my cat, and a few more I haven’t even gotten to read yet.
“That big one’s from Trent, I assume,” he says, sounding bored.
I raise one eyebrow.
“What’s that mean?”
Eddie shrugs, still looking around.
“Of course he gave you the big one,” he says.
Then he starts laughing at himself.
“That’s what she said, right?” Eddie says, winking at me.
My face goes as hot as my back.
“I think he just grabbed the first thing he saw,” I say, suddenly grumpy.
“Oh, come on, man, I’m just joshin’,” Eddie says. “I mean, everyone knows—”
He glances at me and stops. Possibly because my heart has seized in my chest and I’m trying to murder him with my eyes.
“—that you and Trent are, like, BFFs,” Eddie finishes, his voice suddenly careful and neutral.
“I really think it was the only flower thing left down there at midnight,” I mutter.
“Probably,” Eddie agrees without looking at me. “That’s all I meant, just that, it’s a bunch of flowers but it’s also just, you know, a bunch of flowers.”
It takes him about three more minutes to find an excuse to leave.
Then I’m alone in my hospital room for almost the first time all day, staring at this flower bouquet that probably required its own container truck.
Fucking goddamn. Everyone knows what? That after being friends and then good friends and then great friends and then best friends I’m left lying awake at night and thinking about the way the muscles in Trent’s forearms flex and move when we’re playing together? When he doesn’t catch me looking, my mouth going a little dry?
Does everyone know that I’ve fucking memorized his tattoos from looking at them so much? That I know where he got each and every one of them, or do they all know that he’s got a raven on one shoulder that I fantasize about licking? Do they know that I’ve thought a billion and one times about what his body would feel like wrapped in my legs?
That one’s a popular jerk off fantasy of mine. So’s the one where we’re in my kitchen and he bends me over the counter, mouth on the back of my neck. Or the one where we’re on the patio furniture in his back yard and I’m straddling him, or the one where we’re in the studio and everyone has left and I’m on the mixer’s chair, Trent on his knees, face between my thighs.
Okay, they’re all popular fantasies. Point being, I think about fucking my best friend a whole goddamn lot for someone who does not want to fuck her best friend.
Besides, I think it’s one-sided. It’s not that I don’t think Trent cares for me deeply — I’m not stupid — but I don’t think it’s that way. I think he considers me his honorary little sister, the sibling he can help.
Cutting my hair? Total little sister move.
As I’m sitting there, sleep still fading from my brain, worrying about whether people think I have a thing for Trent, I hear voices outside my hospital room.
“—how to change the dressing,” the nurse is saying.
She gives a quick not asking permission, just warning you that I’m coming in no matter what knock, and then Trent follows her into my hospital room, hands in his pockets, face serious, split lip slightly less swollen.
I was totally not just thinking dirty thoughts about you.
“How are we feeling?” the nurse asks cheerily. I think I can hear the Dakotas in her voice. Somewhere Midwestern for sure.
“We’re feeling much better,” I say, the sarcasm slipping out.
Behind her, Trent looks away, and I can tell he’s trying not to smirk.
“That’s great,” the nurse says, picking up the giant wedge pillow from the floor. “All right, if you’re rearrange yourself onto this wedge, I’m just going to show your young man how to change the bandages on your wound—”
“Him?” I ask.
“Of course.”
“He doesn’t need to do that,” I say quickly.
I haven’t gotten a good look at my back yet, it being my back and all, but I know it’s pretty gross and I could do without Trent seeing me at my most disgusting.
“Someone’s gotta know how to do it for when you’re released,” he says, shrugging.
“I can just come back here, it’s fine,” I say.
I’ve already decided that it’s easier to stay here, in Tallwood, for the next three weeks rather than fly back to Los Angeles. Planes are bad enough when your entire back isn’t a blister-covered fresh burn.
“Twice a day,” Trent says.
“You’re gonna rent a car, drive here, wait, get them changed, drive back, then do it again?”
“I don’t have anything else to do.”
The nurse glances at her watch.
“Darcy, come on. This is way easier.”
He’s right and I know it, but I don’t like it. Changing bandages is like changing a diaper, somehow. A gross thing that you do for someone because you have to.
“No. It’s disgusting, it’s all blistered and oozy and there’s blood, and it’s just... gross.”
“I’ve seen worse.”
“No, you haven’t.”
“I promise you I have.”
The nurse clears her throat. I stare at Trent, trying to get him to look away, but he doesn’t. He just stares back, ink-covered arms crossed in front of his chest.
Fuck. I think I’m losing this one.
“Fine,” I mutter, swinging my legs over the edge of my hospital bed. “But when you have nightmares about slime monsters and shit, don’t come crying to me.”
“I think I can deal,” he says softly, and for a second I feel bad. Trent does have nightmares, and the only people who knows about them are me and the therapist I finally talked him into seeing.
I mouth the word sorry, and he shrugs a little before I flop onto the wedge pillow that I am not calling the fuck wedge.
“All right,” the nurse says cheerily. “Now, clearly, step one is to remove the old bandage, and you want to do that as quickly and carefully as you can, though it’s still going to hurt a little...”
I squeeze my eyes shut. Look away, I think, even though I know he doesn’t.
“Ew,” Trent says when the bandages are off, but I don’t have to look to know he’s laughing.
I sigh into the fuck wedge.
Chapter Nine
Trent
It’s gross, but it’s a mildly unpleasant gross. Her back is bright red from her left hip to her right shoulder, dotted with yellow button-sized blisters. It’s shining wetly, and it sure doesn’t look fun, but I’ve seen grosser.
Bone sticking out of a guy’s arm? Check. Welts on my brother’s back so swollen and infected they looked like he was smuggling giant slugs underneath his skin? Check.