by Rachael Wade
“Grant, if you’re going to insist on carrying that thing, then carry it and quit bitching. Otherwise, go cut carrots.”
“You know, you’re a lot friendlier when you’re working the front desk at the hotel.”
“You test my patience! I have to be nice to you at the hotel. You’re a customer.”
“But you can boss me around off property?”
“When you’re on my property, hijacking my chores, yes!”
“This conversation isn’t over,” I grumble, dragging the hamper out the door. There. I got the last word. I feel better. Marginally.
Four excruciating flights of stairs later, I’m running the washer and dumping soap in the water. I know she wants to clean them, but I’m here, she’s not, and I already feel useless, tagging along while this girl tries to get her chores done. So I start sorting lights and darks, admittedly feeling a bit creepy that I’m really enjoying going through this girl’s underwear. I can’t help it. Imagining her in this stuff is downright torture. For a chick who doesn’t seem to put a lot of stock into image and fancy, expensive clothing, she sure has some sexy fucking panties.
If she really wants to make me useful, she should let me buy her some fucking groceries. Or a bedside table. Something substantial. Like putting me to work on that bed of hers. Now there’s an obvious area I could be of some assistance. “God, I’m losing it,” I exhale, emptying the last of the laundry into the washer. I lift the hamper and trudge back down the flights of stairs, slowing at the end of the hall when I see her face light up with laughter. She’s standing in the doorway, shaking her head while the bartender I recognize from the club leans on the frame, chatting her up. His face is deadly serious, but whatever the hell he’s talking about has her cracking up.
She straightens when she spots me, and the bartender follows her line of sight. “Hey, Grant. You remember Garrett from earlier, right? Garrett, this is my friend, Grant.” She waves in my direction, and I walk toward them, extending my free hand.
“Yeah. I remember.”
Garrett accepts my shake, his gaze sliding from me to Mira. “Well, I’m off to finally eat dinner. Chow.”
“What’s on the menu tonight?” Mira asks playfully. “Cute little orphans from Somalia?”
Garrett’s response is deadpan, making Mira’s smile grow even wider. “Only their tears.” His hands find their pockets and he nods in my direction, then turns to wander down the hall to the stairwell.
“Well.” I stand there, waiting for her to move from the doorway. “He’s a ray of sunshine.”
“It’s all part of his charm. His humor is dark and twisted, but he’s really just a big teddy bear. Oh!” She jumps and reaches for the clothes hamper when her gaze lands on the empty basket. “I meant to come up with you to wash those, sorry! Garrett showed up to return an album and I got sidetracked.”
“I already threw them in the wash. You’re good.”
“You didn’t have to do that.”
“Yes, I did. You shouldn’t be lugging that damn thing up and down those stairs by yourself. It’s ridiculous.”
“It’s called life, Grant. Do you have a maid? Are you super privileged or something?” She pinches my shoulder with a smirk and steps aside to welcome me back in.
“I work for my money. Always have. So does my mom. If having nice things and having other people do my mundane chores means I’m privileged, then I guess I am. I have the money to pay for those services. I have it because I earn it. I’m not spoiled.”
“I’m not saying you are.”
“Yes, you are.”
“So, people who have less money than you don’t earn their money? You think they’re less than because they can’t afford to have others do things for them?”
“Mira, slow down.”
“You’re the one getting defensive, here.”
“You’re putting words in my mouth.”
“You’re insulting me. I do my own laundry. I cook. I wear old clothes. I don’t have much, I know that. It doesn’t make me crazy or less than. Just because you can’t understand my way of life doesn’t mean there’s something wrong with it, Grant. You don’t hear me making comments about your nice clothes and the fact that you drop money like it’s nothing on hotel rooms you don’t need and tips that could support a small army.”
“Uh…you kind of are, right now.”
“Because I’m feeling attacked.”
“Mira,” I take a cautious step toward her, wanting to touch her but afraid she might karate chop me in half. “I’m not good at this shit. But I think you’re misunderstanding me. I’m not insulting you or saying you’re less than. I just want to help. I don’t like to see you struggle. I don’t like to see any woman struggle. My mom did, for years, before she met my dad and had me. She told me stories. About how most days, she didn’t know where her next meal was coming from. I hated hearing those stories. After she had me, she went to nursing school. Said she never wanted to be in that position ever again. Especially after having me. It didn’t matter that she had my dad’s support. She knew at any moment, things could change, and she could be right back to where she started, only with a child to raise.”
“Okay,” she relaxes a little, letting me rub her shoulder, “I can understand that, I guess. But this whole you wanting to help me thing…you don’t know me, Grant.”
“We don’t have to know someone to help them. And I do know you. I’m standing in your apartment.” I take a playful step forward, bringing my other hand to her shoulder. “I’ve seen your panties. I think that makes us friends.” Her cheeks turn beet red and I revel in the power, the corner of my lips curling into a pleased grin. The sensation feels strange, so damn foreign, because unlike with colleagues or acquaintances on the street, it isn’t forced. This grin is natural, so light and easy.
“You still don’t get to pay for everything. Or wash my delicates.”
“But you’ll let me slice your carrots.” I hold her gaze and bite my lip to keep the grin from spreading. It’s trying damn hard, especially as Mira’s cheeks turn even redder.
“That’s different. Letting you help me cook is all about efficiency. It saves me time. I’m perfectly capable of slicing my own carrots.”
“Slicing your own carrots isn’t nearly as fun.” I had to go there. I just had to. She walked right into that one.
“Whatever. You win. We’re wasting time.” She suppresses a grin of her own and wiggles away from me to walk back over to the kitchen counter. I’ve experienced a lot of joy in my life. Joy in finishing a project, the high after a good workout, the overwhelming satisfaction that consumes you when you begin to harness your identity and become the person you’re meant to be. But none of it compares to the joy I’m feeling right now, knowing I’m the one responsible for making this girl squirm. It’s quite the sight.
I join her side and slide the knife in front of me. She follows the movement, her head down as she stares. Humor still dances in her eyes, but she remains quiet, watching as I reach for the first carrot. “Are you as turned on as I am right now?” I bump her shoulder and she bumps me back, shaking her head. Her smile is blinding, and right then, all I really want to do is fucking kiss her. I want to grab her face and steal the breath straight from her lungs. I want to own that shit. I want it all.
Instead, I slice the stupid carrot.
She cranes her head to watch my handiwork, checking my progress like a professional chef observing a new student. “Not so thick,” she says, twirling a finger in front of the cutting board.
“Go work on your kale, will you?” I adjust the knife and start slicing the chunks thinner, and she shuffles away to prepare the leafy greens. She stops for a moment and walks over to the CD player near the bed to turn some music on. Vance Joy’s “Mess is Mine” fills the space, giving me something to redirect my attention to as I slice away. I still can’t seem to think about anything other than kissing this girl and bending her over this fucking counter, but the wistful melody an
d smart lyrics suck me in, transporting me to a simpler, calmer space in my mind—a place where I don’t have the opportunity to screw anything up. I’m just a traveler, here, living vicariously through this man’s words. He begins singing about someone else’s mess making sense to him, and I feel myself dive into the chorus with him, until I feel something else entirely.
Pain. Sharp, shooting, stinging pain.
“Shit!” My eyes drop to the carrot. Then the knife. All they register, though, is the blood. The sight instantly makes me queasy. My pulse races, my heart slams into my chest, and a quick sweat breaks out on my forehead. Fear takes hold, rooting itself deeply into my veins. The familiar heat of panic races over my skin, electrifying my brain until I can’t think straight. There’s no formulating a single thought or sentence other than I’m bleeding.
“Whoa, whoa, whoa,” Mira’s voice floats toward me in the distance, somewhere from the left, I think. I see her touch my wrist but I don’t feel her skin. I don’t feel anything but the throbbing pain of the open wound on my finger. “It’s a small cut, you’re okay. No need to freak.” I mumble some kind of jibberish. The sweat on my forehead thickens. Mira notices. “Hey.” She steadies my shaking hand and tries looking up into my eyes to get my attention. “Look at me, Grant. Can you do that? Look right here.”
I blink profusely, struggling to pry my gaze from my hand. “I think I need to sit down.”
“Yeah. Let’s do that. Wait.” She doesn’t let go of my wrist, grabbing a washcloth with her free hand. “I’m going to wrap this around the cut, okay? So we can stop the bleeding. Just breathe.” I’m bleeding. “Are you breathing? You really need to breathe.”
“Trying.” I watch as she wraps the cut, my gaze glued on the pink and white cloth. Red seeps through, saturating it, reminding me of what lies beneath. A deep, painful slice in my skin that will likely need stitches, and that means a trip to the emergency room. Or at the very least, a walk-in clinic. Doctors. Needles. Machines. Beeping. Coughing. Sterile, shiny white floors and ceilings.
The panic rises in my throat again.
“Okay,” Mira says gently, “let’s just chill on the edge of the bed, here.” She guides me away from the kitchen and over to the mattress, trying her damnedest to lead me to a sitting position. My body is still rigid, my hand still shaking. I need to get a grip. Fast. What I really need is to get back to my hotel room, where my vitamins, supplements, and first aid kit are waiting. My blood pressure is probably through the roof right now.
“I need to get back.”
“Get back where?”
“To my room. At the hotel.”
Mira sits first, her deep, molten eyes looking up at me in concern. “Will you sit for a second? I need to take a look at the cut.”
“No.”
“I know you don’t want to hear this, but I need to look at it, Grant. You might need to go to the doctor.”
“You said it wasn’t deep.”
“It didn’t look very deep. But I need to get a better look, just to be sure. There’s no need to panic, though. Honest.”
“I’m not.”
“Uh huh.” She carefully takes my hand and pulls it to her knee. With one gentle motion, she lifts the washcloth and leans over my finger to assess the damage.
I can’t look. “So?”
“So, I think I was wrong.”
“What do you mean?” The words squeak from my throat, sharp and tight.
“It’s a little deeper than I thought. We should go up the road to the walk-in clinic. Have them stitch it up.”
“It’s the middle of the night.” I pull my hand away from her knee and without looking, feel my way for the washcloth to wrap up my mangled finger. “It’ll be fine.”
“You don’t want it to get infected. It’s a quick and easy fix, I promise. I’ve had stitches millions of times. It’s no biggie.”
“I’ve never had stitches. I don’t need them. I’ll be fine. I should go.” I quickly rise and start for the door.
Mira stands and confusion sweeps her face. “Go now? Back to the hotel?”
“Yeah, I mean I have a room there, so…no point in wasting it, right?”
“Wait. Let me at least clean you up. Come here.” She waves me over to the kitchen, where she retrieves a small white box from the top of the refrigerator. She pops the box open and out comes bandaids, disinfecting wipes, and some kind of healing ointment. “You should run it under the faucet, first.”
“You’re smoking something if you think I’m running this under water.” I lift my wounded hand, gesturing to the sink.
“Grant, quit being so stubborn. If you won’t go get it stitched up, at least clean the damn thing. Just rinse it off and I’ll fix you up. Come on, get over here.” She walks toward me and guides me by the elbow to the sink. Surprisingly, I let her lead me, but all my mind dances around is the unholy stinging sensation that I know is coming to me the second I place my finger under cold water.
I squeeze my eyes shut and breathe through my teeth. “This is really going to suck.”
“Yeah,” she turns the tap on,” it really is. Better safe than sorry, though. You ready?”
“Just get it over with.” I keep my eyes shut and allow her to bring my hand underneath the faucet, where, just as I’d suspected, a god awful pain radiates through me the second my broken, bloody skin makes contact with the water. I hear the faint pressure of a soap pump. The smell of peaches hits me and I catch a glimpse of white, fluffy soap suds forming in the sink.
“Not so bad, right?”
“I’d rather have my eyeballs plucked out.” I wince as she moves my hand away from the water and reaches to turn the tap off.
“I highly doubt you mean that.” She grabs a fresh paper towel and gently dabs at the wound, then leads me back over to the bed. “Here, have a seat. The worst is almost over.” She rips open a disinfectant wipe and places it over the cut.
“Son of a bitch, Mira!” I cringe and jerk away from her, but she holds my hand steady, keeping me rooted to the damn mattress.
“I said almost.”
“That fucking hurts.”
“What do you expect it to feel like? A warm, summer breeze? You should be happy I’m not dragging you to the clinic. Or worse, the emergency room. Hold still, will you?” She blows on the wound as she disposes of the disinfectant wipe, then squirts some of the ointment onto a thick bandage and wraps it around my finger like a skilled, attentive nurse.
“Okay. I really have to go.” I shoot up the second the bandage is secured.
“Wait, Grant. I’m…”
“You’re what?” My voice is sharper than I intended, but the panic is seeping out. I need to get back to the hotel room. I need to be alone. “I’ll be fine.”
“Do you want me to call you a cab?”
“No. I got it.” I haul ass out into the hallway, pausing to add a quick thanks for cleaning up the wound.
“You’re welcome,” Mira replies quietly. The last thing I see before I shut the door is her concern. Big, brown eyes watching me closely, and pretty lips pressed into a tight line, the tension paling their rosy color.
I zoom down the stairs and out into the street, holding the palm of my wounded hand tightly, wanting to cover the edges of the bandage, just in case. The broken skin throbs beneath the pressure, my pulse pounding in protest. It’s pissed off at me. I get it. I’m pissed off at me, too. The night was going smoothly until I decided to fuck it all up.
The streets are quiet, void of life and the usual bustle that brings them business during the daylight hours. My mind is focused on nothing but the heat radiating from my hand, but somewhere, something registers that I do need a cab. The buses are pretty easy to figure out around here, but they’re not running this hour, and I’m not that familiar with the Capitol Hill schedule anyway. I steady my wounded hand and use my good hand to fumble through my coat pocket for my phone. I glance at the screen.
God damn it. Deader than dead.
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nbsp; I shove it back in my pocket and turn for Mira’s apartment building, resigned to running back upstairs to take her up on the offer to call the cab. My mind wrestles with the thought for a second. She’ll probably try and talk me into going to the clinic again. Or a hospital.
Not happening.
But the immediate need to escape this place and retreat to my room back at the hotel takes over, blotting out those worries. I’ll stand my ground. I’ll insist she just calls me a cab, and that’ll be the end of it.
Zipping back up the stairs, my body slows when I hear the soft murmur of her voice. She giggles a little, and then there’s a beat of silence. Then a hushed moan. A man whispers something, and a sharp intake of breath follows. I curve around the corner, stalling at the sight. Mira and the bar tender, up against her apartment door. His lips on hers, her head tilted up to capture his mouth. He’s pinning her there, his thumb caressing the bare skin of her hip. Just an inch of her shirt’s hem is hiked up, exposing the soft, delicate flesh I’ve been wanting to taste.
I can hear him clearly, now. “You know I’ll be good to you.”
“I don’t know that.”
“I’m telling you. I’m trying to show you—been trying. You’re everything I want.”
“This just isn’t a good time, Garrett. For either of us. Maybe someday, but not now. I’m sorry.” Mira’s big brown eyes look up at him as I look at her, rapt and waiting. He bends down once more to kiss her and she lets him. A little shiver seizes her as he touches her, visibly exposing her desire, her need. It’s fucking sexy, but I want to be the one touching her. And she definitely, positively needs to be touched. Like now. Tonight. Right this second. It’s damn near painful to watch, and the knowledge that no one’s taken care of her in God knows how long only amplifies the dilemma.
Without another word, Garrett slowly pushes away from her, leaving her aching against the door frame. She touches her lips as he drifts away, watching him disappear down the other end of the hall. I move from the shadows to approach her. She’s still spacing out, staring wistfully in the direction of his wake, but is shaken from the spell when she senses my presence.