by Kim Jones
“I didn’t want you to steal my truck, but you did. I guess that makes us even.” But we’re not even. Even would be me leaving her here to suffer on her own. And for some reason I just can’t do that. I’d never physically harm a woman. I guess I can’t stand to see one hurt either.
“That’s right, Zeke. So hate me. Hate me for stealing your truck. For mind fucking you. Hate me. Just leave.” I catch a hint of fear in her voice. My suspicions rise immediately. If this girl is in trouble, I don’t need to get involved. I have enough shit going on in my life. But if I left and something happened to her, I would never be able to forgive myself. I’m struggling enough with that as it is.
I don’t allow myself time to really think about what I’m doing. I just go with my gut. I do need to leave. But I’m taking her with me.
I walk down the hall, ignoring the protests she screams at my back. I open doors until I find a room that looks like hers. In the closet, I grab a handful of clothes and move shit until I find a duffel bag. I stuff it with more clothes from her dresser until it’s full. When I get back out into the hallway, she’s made it off the couch, leaning heavily on the wall.
Bypassing her, I rummage through the shit on the table, but can’t find any medication. Only prescriptions that haven’t been filled. Shoving them in my pocket, I walk out to the car, trying to block out her voice. She’s calling me every motherfucker in the book. I come back empty-handed, and walk directly up to her. She’s too pissed to let the pain stop her from trying to fight back.
Easily, I avoid her fists and cradle her in my arms. The movement silences her. When I look down, she’s taking short, shallow breaths. Shit. I hurt her. I ignore the feeling of regret, and keep moving until she is sitting in the front seat of my car. She’s not fighting anymore, and she’s pale—white as a ghost. By the time I’m back from shutting the door, she’s passed out.
The drive back home seems to take forever. I should take her to the hospital, but she said she’d already been. And she claimed she left on her own free will. I wasn’t sure if that was the truth, or if she was kicked out for pulling a gun on someone. Either way, I was going to have to play doctor for a little while. At least until I could figure something else out. Not sure who else to call, I phone Rookie. Hoping like hell he can shed some light on this shitstorm I’ve gotten myself into.
“I got a problem,” I say as a form of greeting.
“A big one or a little one?”
I think about that a moment before answering. “An unusual one.”
“Aw, shit. Would this have anything to do with the carjacker?” My silence is answer enough. “I can come, but I got Carrie.”
“Perfect.”
I carry Diem’s unconscious body into the house. Unsure of where else to put her, I lay her in my bed. Then I just stand over her wondering what the hell to do. She’s wearing a button-up shirt and a loose pair of drawstring shorts. My eyes scan her body looking for injuries, but other than bruises, I don’t see any. I unfasten the buttons of her shirt, and just below her bra is the most sickening swirl of blue and purple circles I’ve ever seen. Her whole abdomen looks bruised and battered.
“I didn’t peg you to be a kidnapper.” I turn my head to find her watching me. She’s eerily calm, but that evil glare is in her eyes. The look she’s giving me makes me think if she had that gun, I’d be a dead man.
“There’s a lot you don’t know about me.” I sit next to her on the bed, her eyes following my every move. “Tell me what happened.”
Between shallow breaths, she lays out the events like she’s reading them from a book. Something she’s done before. “I was on my way home when I wrecked. I flipped the truck, managed to crawl to the road, but I didn’t see a car for almost two hours. So, I laid there, in a fucking ditch, until someone passed by. They called the cops, I went to the hospital, they drew blood work, found out I was over the limit, gave me a ticket while I was laying in the ER, then the doctors wheeled me up to my room. The next day, I asked how long I’d be staying and they said until I could get up and walk out. So I did. Now here I am. Except this time, I didn’t go voluntarily. You took me.” Every detail is said matter-of-fact. She never faltered. I wonder if she’s lying.
“Why didn’t you fill the scripts?” I ask, pulling them from my pocket. Lortab 10s. The good shit.
“I don’t take pain meds.”
“But you drink NyQuil like it’s water.”
“It helps me sleep.” Damn she’s exasperating. I take a deep breath, trying to hold tight to my growing temper. I don’t know if I’m more pissed because she’s ungrateful for my help, or because I’m actually helping her.
“Just stop, Diem,” I say, the words rushing from my mouth.
“Stop what, Zeke?” she snaps.
“Stop being so evasive. Stop pushing me away. Stop being such a fucking bitch.” Her eyes roll to the ceiling. When she doesn’t speak, I push forward.
“What hurts?” Such a simple question, yet she seems to struggle to find a way to tell me. “The truth, Diem,” I add, probably a little too harshly.
“Several ribs are broken. One bruised lung. Both my wrists are fucked up, but my left one is worse. They’re not broken, but need a brace. My ankle is sprained, and my neck hurts. Probably from whiplash. Other than that, I’ve just got some bruises and cuts. I have a pretty bad one on my back. They stapled it, but I think I pulled one out.” Her eyes finally meet mine. If she’s searching for pity, she won’t find any. I’m not going to feel sorry for her, because she doesn’t want me to. And she brought this on herself.
“You eat today?”
“No. Yesterday either. And I’m starving. So, if you want to play Nurse Betty, then waddle your ass in the kitchen and fix me something.” I can’t do anything but stare at her. She’s like a pit bull that needs rescuing. I have a softness inside me for dogs. But for impossible, self-righteous, hateful women like her? Not so much.
“Let’s make a deal,” I say, throwing the offer she’s always suggesting back in her face. “I’ll help you when you ask for it. Until then, you’re on your own.” I don’t bother looking at her as I get up and walk out.
“I don’t even want to be here!” She yells, her words laced in malice. With words just as angry and powerful, I spit them back at her as I slam the door.
“Then get to fuckin’ walkin’.”
7
WHEN I MOVED to Hillsborough, Rookie moved too. He now lives fifty miles west of me. I feel guilty for invading on his time with Carrie, but she was a nurse and while he was helping me sort my shit out, maybe she could help with Diem.
I’m on the porch when they arrive. Pulling Carrie to me, I hold her a while. I haven’t seen her since the funeral. Rookie gives me a nod and I fill them in on what happened. I’m not sure what all Carrie knows, but if Rookie trusts her, then I do too. She was his ol’ lady. That made her my family.
She offered to take a look at Diem without me even asking. I appreciated the gesture, but I wasn’t sure how Diem would react. Where she was hard and mean, Carrie was soft and nice. The two together might turn into a disaster.
“I appreciate that, Carrie. Really, I do. But she’s a little . . . fucked up. Not just physically but mentally too.” Carrie just nods and flashes me a reassuring smile.
“I can handle myself, Zeke.” She winks at Rookie and adds, “Joe.” Rookie must have told her about our change in identities. I follow her inside and to my room. Not sure of what will be waiting on the other side of the door, I pull Carrie back to open it and walk in first.
Diem is still lying in bed, her eyes focused on the ceiling. For a minute, I wonder if she’s dead. When she speaks, I hear myself and Rookie sigh in relief. “You know, if you’re going to talk about someone, then maybe you shouldn’t do it so they can hear you. But don’t worry, Carrie.” She turns her head, giving Carrie an evil smile. “I don’t bite.”<
br />
I was a dumb-ass. Of course she could hear us. We were just outside the window. I replay everything in my mind, but nothing about our conversation pertained to anything but her and the accident. Oh, and me calling her fucked up.
“Pity,” Carrie says, moving to the other side of the bed. Leaning close, she whispers, “I like to get bit.” My eyebrows shoot to my hairline as my gaze slides to Rookie. His nostrils flare and he shifts, his eyes burning with passion—for his woman. The one who was good enough to keep him from temptation.
“Guys?” Carrie asks, looking at us expectantly. I refuse to leave her and with just a shake of my head, she nods and focuses her attention back on Diem. Her fingers move down her body, applying pressure, asking questions and rotating her slowly. Diem acts the good patient, answering all her questions and succumbing to her every demand. I’ve never been more thankful to have Carrie here. Chances are, Diem wouldn’t have been so yielding to me.
“That hurt?” Diem whimpers in pain at Carrie’s question. She’s on her side facing me, but she doesn’t look at me. “I can stitch you up, but I don’t have anything to numb it.”
“It’s fine. Just do it,” Diem snaps, her hand shaky as she brings it to her face. With her thumb and finger, she squeezes her eyes, drying the tears. Digging in her bag, Carrie gets to work. With every stitch, I feel Diem’s pain. And when her eyes narrow and her lip goes between her teeth, she seeks me out.
I meet her gaze, never taking my eyes off hers. It only takes Carrie a few minutes, but when she’s finished, it seems like a lifetime has passed. “All done,” she announces, helping Diem roll to her back.
“Do you have any pain meds?”
“She does.” I answer Carrie’s question, knowing Diem will refuse them.
“Good. That and a lot of rest will help. Zeke can wrap your wrists later. I’ll leave him some bandages. You might want to get a bath first. That back wound is pretty messy.” Diem doesn’t answer and Carrie looks at me. I shrug and she smiles, following us out.
“Hey, Carrie,” Diem calls, her voice weak. “I owe you one.” Carrie just nods, but I personally know the depth of truth in Diem’s words. She’s indebted to Carrie, and I know she’ll keep her word.
After Rookie and Carrie are gone, I find myself going back to check on Diem. I don’t know why. I’m just gonna say that it’s my duty because she’s my houseguest. I find her in the same position, still staring at the ceiling.
“I thought you weren’t going to help me anymore. But you did, and I didn’t ask you to.” Even exhausted, she finds a way to be an ass.
“I wasn’t going to, but Carrie offered,” I say, shoving my hands in my pockets and propping up in the doorway.
“Well, for whatever it’s worth, thanks.” I’m shocked at her gratitude, but don’t let her see it.
“You’re welcome.” I let the silence sit until it becomes uncomfortable. “Well, good night.”
“Zeke,” she chokes out. A sob? “I can’t do this alone.” Her admission is sobering. The amount of pride a woman like her has to swallow to say those words is unfathomable.
I walk over, looking down at the broken woman lying in my bed. Tears pool in her eyes that seem almost lifeless. My chest tightens at the sight. “I’ve got money. I’ll pay you.”
“Diem,” I start, but she shakes her head.
“Just until I can get on my feet.”
“Whatever you need,” I cut in, before she says anything else to make her feel worse. Or me. “Tell me what I can do.”
Attempting to sit up, she leans on her elbow, pausing to close her eyes and grit her teeth in pain. Her bottom lip trembles as she holds her breath. After a moment, her chest begins to rise and fall while she struggles to control her breathing. “I’m not sure what I need,” she whispers.
She gazes up at me with dark brown pools of aching need. They plead with me to just help her in whatever way I can. Because right now, she can’t help herself. And although she’s hurting, she’s not desperate enough to ask.
My lips pressed in a thin line, I give her a nod. “I got you.”
I walk to the bathroom, remembering that Carrie insisted she bathe and clean the wound on her back. As I fill the tub, I make a mental list of the things within my power I can do for her. She needs food, clean clothes, plenty of liquids, and something to help the pain—even if it’s NyQuil.
Grabbing some clean towels from the dryer, I rummage through my laundry basket until I find a clean shirt. I return to the room to find her sitting on the side of the bed. “Can you walk?” I ask, knowing good and damn well she can, but testing her to see how far she plans to go. Even though I feel sorry for her, and I’m willing to help her, doesn’t mean I trust one strand of hair on her pretty little head.
“Yeah,” she says softly, standing slowly. I admire the fight in her as she shuffles to the bathroom, using the walls as a crutch. “No bubbles?” She smirks. Well, at least she hasn’t lost her sense of humor.
“I like to save the romantics for women I like.” I give her a playful smile that she returns. “Sit,” I say, pointing to the toilet.
She obeys, and my dick twitches at the thought. Fucking pervert. Kneeling in front of her, I unbutton her top, keeping my eyes on her face as I do. Pushing it from her shoulders, I look down at the sports bra, wondering how in the hell I’m supposed to get that damn thing off without hurting her.
“Cut it,” she tells me, keeping that bruised and cut, yet still beautiful, face impassive.
Pulling my knife from my jeans, I flip it open. She turns her head slightly to the side, appraising me as I place it between her breasts. She doesn’t blink or look the least bit concerned. Either she trusts me not to kill her, or she doesn’t give a shit if I do.
Gripping the material in my hand, I pull it tight and feel the back of my fingers brush against her breasts that I’m sure taste just as delicious as her mouth. Sliding the blade down the material, it cuts easily, and soon it’s splayed open and barely covering her nipples.
“Don’t worry,” she says, the corner of her lips turning up. “I’m not very modest.”
Unsure of how that makes me feel, I give her a cold look. “I figured as much,” I mumble. Ridding her of the bra completely, I focus on her collarbone, refusing to look at the two perfect tits I know are begging for my attention.
Helping her to stand, I turn her around to avoid temptation, and force a shield over my mind, my thoughts, and my cock. I’ve thought about what Diem would look like naked plenty of times, but this isn’t how I want my first experience to be. I’m here to help her, not fuck her. If this were Carrie or Saylor, there would be no lustful thoughts running through my brain. So I pretend she’s my sister. That she belongs to one of my brothers, so I show her and her body the same respect I would show them.
Pushing her shorts to her feet, I grab her hand as she steps out of them and lead her to the bathtub. Keeping a firm grip on her waist, I hold tight to her tiny body until she is seated. “Close your eyes,” I instruct, grabbing a plastic cup and filling it before pouring water over her head.
She sits silent and motionless, allowing me to wash her hair. When I’m finished, I focus on her back, carefully cleaning around the wound. I keep in mind that this is probably a lot harder for her than it is for me. Diem is not the type to be waited on, bathed, or pampered. I’m sure this is a first.
“You okay?” I ask, pushing the wet strands of hair back from her face as I mentally try to prepare myself for bathing the rest of her. She’s your sister. She’s your sister.
She avoids my gaze, looking down at her crippled hands in her lap. “I can’t do this,” she says, shaking her head. “Get out.”
I frown, not sure if I heard her right. “Diem, I don’t mind—”
“I said get out.” Her voice is firm as she turns those eyes of steel on me. She’s disappointed in herself and determ
ined to do this on her own. And I get it.
I leave, closing the door behind me but making sure not to lock it. If she calls for me, I want to be able to get to her. But something tells me she probably won’t.
Lighting a smoke in the hall, I wait for her to finish. Standing right outside the door, I listen as the water splashes. Every once in a while, I hear a sharp intake of breath, a growl of frustration, and sometimes even a whimper. I allow her the space she needs, but I’m not happy about it. I wish her stubborn ass would just let me help.
When the bathroom grows quiet for longer than I think it should, I knock on the door. “Everything okay in there?” I ask, my hand already on the doorknob.
“I’m fine,” she snaps, and I smirk at the vision I have in my head of her glaring at me.
Figuring if she’s pissed, she really is fine, I make myself useful in the bedroom. I rip the sheets off the bed that are already stained with her blood. Throwing them in the washer, I dig through the closet until I find another set before remaking the bed.
There’s never shit to eat here, but I find a pack of nabs in my duffel and pour her a tall glass of water. Searching my pitiful medicine cabinet, I locate some over-the-counter pain meds. Then I roll a blunt, thinking it will help her sleep. If she refuses it, I’ll just smoke it myself. I’ll probably need it to sleep tonight too.
Just as I’m passing the bathroom, the door opens and Diem appears in a towel looking like she’s just run a marathon rather than take a bath. She’s out of breath. Her shoulders sag and her legs struggle to hold her up. She’s proved her point. Now I’m taking over, whether she likes it or not.
“Put your arm around my neck,” I say, bending my knees so I shrink to her level.
Without argument, she slides her arm across my shoulder, and my skin ignites at the touch. Cradling her knees under one arm, I move the other around her waist and lift her. Her head falls to my shoulder, clearly not having the energy to hold itself up any longer.
Gently, I set her on the bed before grabbing the bandages and wrapping both her wrists. Finished, I crawl behind her and rub ointment on the cut centered in her back before covering it with the gauze Carrie had left for her.