by Alexa Hart
That’s when I hear the groan and finally realizes that Samson hasn’t found a stray cat, but a drunk, or injured, maybe dying, man. Shit!
The man is crumpled on his side, I can’t see his face, but I have a reasonable view of his lower half. He’s near the open back door of the garage and I wonder if he’s trying to crawl in or out. As I shine my phone’s light across him, I can see that he is clutching his side, his shirt soaked with blood. Shit, is he dying? Samson sniffs around his face and licks his cheek. The man groans in pain again.
“Samson, stop it!” I whisper. “You aren’t Florence Freaking Nightingale. This guy is not our problem. Let’s go!”
Even as I say it, I know I don’t mean it. The last thing I want is to get mixed up in whatever kind of mess this is, but this man is obviously in pain, and I’m not completely heartless. I’ll call for help and then I’ll get the hell out of dodge. That money wasting Uber ride is sounding really good right about now. As if to confirm my own thoughts, Samson looks up at me and whimpers.
“Okay, okay! Don’t bat your sad dog eyes at me,” I say. “Sir...” I say loudly, still keeping my distance. “Sir, are you okay?”
What the fuck am I saying? Of course he isn’t okay. He doesn’t respond and I can’t tell if he is conscious or not. I try to get a better look, but my stupid cell light clunks out. I tap my phone and it comes back on. I don’t have much battery left and the thought of losing the only light I have, or worse, not being able to make a call, terrifies me.
“Okay, Sir,” I continue. “I’m going to get you some help, okay?” Samson whimpers next to me. “You’re going to be fine.”
I dial 911 and the operator picks up.
“Hello, 911, what’s your emergency?” A very calm, almost bored sounding woman says.
“Yes, I...I need an ambulance ...I'm at um….” I twist around, looking for any location markers, but it’s so dark I can barely see my own hand in front of my face. I don’t know the names of any of the streets around me yet, except for mine. Everything is dark and unfamiliar. “I’m at….um….Hanover and...”
The man, who I just stupidly inched closer to, reaches up and grabs me by my wrist, twisting the phone free. My phone drops to the ground with a clatter and I let out a small, terrified yelp of surprise. Samson just wags his tail. Some guard dog he is.
“Ma’am,....” I hear the dispatcher echo through my dropped phone. “Ma’am, are you okay?”
“Tell them I don’t need an ambulance,” the man says through gritted teeth and an obviously decent amount of pain.
“Yeah, but you clearly do,” I say.
He lets go of my wrist and I realize only then that he’d been holding it so tightly to keep himself upright. I scramble for my phone and shine the light at him.
“Easy,” he says, squinting at me. “Can you shine that somewhere else please?”
I take in the black tousled hair, the t-shirt, muscular arms, the jeans. I shine the light toward his arm and find the tattoo. “Wait a minute,” I gape at him. His clothes, his face. I totally recognize him. No wonder Samson keeps wagging his tail instead of going full attack dog on him. “You’re the guy from earlier. Hot motorcyclist ...”
Even in the waning light of my dying phone I see him smile at the nickname I just revealed. I’m glad it’s too dark for him to see me blush.
“Ma’am? Can you hear me?” The dispatcher squawks into the phone.
“No ambulance, no police,” he repeats. And then, as if it pains him almost as much as his injury, he adds a curt “please”.
I nod my head in understanding. He’s clearly not wanting to get the authorities involved, which matches with the whole rose tattoo equals bad guy criminal, thing. But still, for some odd reason, I feel like I can trust him. I can’t explain how, but I just know he won’t hurt me. Plus, I kind of feel like I own him one for not running me and Samson over earlier tonight.
I bring the phone back to my ear to talk to the dispatcher. “Sorry, I made a... mistake. We are all good here!” I hang up the phone and stare at the sexy motorcycle man. He’s eyeing me with a mix of relief and suspicion as he attempts to sit upright.
“Okay, come on,” I lean down. “I’m going to help you up.”
He shakes his head as he leans against the wall of the garage. “No ambulance,” he says. “I’m fine.” He tries to stand up, but can’t quite do it without wincing in pain. I go over and put my arm around him. He grunts and tries to pull away but I hold tight and help hoist him up. What have I gotten myself into?
“Easy there, I get it. No ambulance. I don’t usually rescue strange men, but what can I say, I just can’t leave people to die in alleyways, and Samson is a good judge of character, I guess.”
“I’m not going to die,” he chuckles. “But I would prefer to get out of the street. And I need to make a phone call,” he sags on me and I feel his sharp intake of breath as I put my arm around him. Next to him on the ground is a seriously smashed up phone that is clearly nonoperational.
“Got it. Well, my phone needs to be charged and yours is toast. If I take you to my place, you aren’t like...going to murder me or anything, right?” I say, half-teasing and completely serious all at the same time.
He chuckles and looks me in the eyes. They are sharp but warm, and more than that, they are reassuring. “I am not going to hurt you. In fact, I owe you. And I always make good on a debt.” Another siren blares in the distance. “Now get us out of this alley.”
I nod, trying to take my eyes off of his. I can’t be the only one that feels this electricity, right? I look away, a hot blush on my cheeks. I try to crack a joke. “Normally, I don’t take orders this easily, but I’m making an exception since you saved my life earlier. I also make good on my debts.” I start to help him down the alley.
“Duly noted. Where are we going?” He grunts.
“Just across the street to my apartment. And we need to look at your injury. You may not be dying, but you aren’t exactly the picture of health either.”
He nods. I feel his weight lean heavy on me as we cross the street, Samson trotting ahead of both of us like a protective friend.
I take a deep breath as I turn my key in the lock and shove the door open. I texted my landlord earlier and asked him to come by and lock up for me after Samson’s little escape artist stunt. The deadbolt is still busted, but at least the door isn’t wide open. The man’s weight is heavy on me and the uneasy feeling of his body pressed so close to mine is turning me into a nervous wreck. I haven’t been this close to a man in a long time. Even partnering in dance never felt this intimate. This man is hot and strong - and my body is very, very aware of his proximity.
I flick on the light switch as we get inside my apartment. It is a one-room studio with a bed on the far end, a tiny little kitchenette and the only privacy is a small bathroom with an old clawfoot tub and outdated teal colored sink. To make the space feel a bit less dingy I strung twinkle lights in nearly every available square inch of the place and used some of my more ornate tulle dance costumes to sew together colorful curtains and throw pillows. I have a few paintings that Kiki did up on the walls, mostly oil paintings of ballerinas she had me pose for and one amazing one of Samson she did as a birthday gift. I think Kiki should give up on the idea of a sugar daddy and focus on her art, but every time I suggest it she just shakes her head and says I’m the only one who loves her enough to pay for her work.
As I lead my injured motorcycle man into the apartment, I notice him staring at the kitchen table and I realize, with embarrassment, that I have my mother’s collection of music boxes out on the table. I didn’t have the heart to toss them out when I moved, even though they are old and several of them are broken. I am very sentimental about them, but to him I’m sure this must look like the most eccentric table setting he’s ever seen. I had been trying to fix one earlier, though I didn’t get very far, but now I’m deeply regretting leaving them out the way I did.
He hobbles over to the sma
ll kitchen table and takes a seat in one of the chairs. The pain of the movement seems to irritate him. He picks up a music box and examines it.
“They belonged to my mother,” I say. “I’m trying to fix them.”
“And is that a painting of your dog?” He points to the huge canvas Kiki did of Samson. “Maybe I’m the one that should be worried.”
I put my hands on my hips. “It was painted by my friend. And I think she has talent!”
I go over to the sink and wash my hands while he playfully looks from Samson to the painting. “It’s a remarkable likeness.”
“You know, I can return your smart ass to the alley…” I say, pointing back toward the front door. I plug in my phone charger.
“Okay, okay,” he chuckles again. He looks at the music box in his hand. “Does your mother know you’re stripping the screw here. You’ll never even get it open to fix it.”
I snatch the music box from him and move it over to the top of the refrigerator.
“She’d appreciate that I’m trying,” I say. I collect the other music boxes and move them out of sight. “They meant a lot to her.”
There is a moment of awkward silence. “You’re using past tense,” he says quietly.
“I am.”
“I’m sorry.”
I’m still pretty terrible at talking about my mom without breaking into a fit of tears. I suppose discussing her with a complete stranger makes it a little easier, but not much.
“Yeah, well, we’ll both be sorry if we don’t get you patched up.” I say awkwardly. “Don’t want you to end up like that music box, right?”
“Stripped?”
“That’s not what I meant….”
“I know,” he grins. “But you’re right. Let’s take a look and see how bad it is.” Before I know it he’s using his left hand to peel his bloody shirt off over his head, I can see how much pain it causes him to do so. I stare at his shirtless chest, tattooed, muscular, sexy and more masculine than any man I have ever seen. Dammit Hannah! Stay focused. The man needs a bandage, not a banging!
He gently probes the cut on his lower right side, and my focus momentarily shifts from his toned torso to the numerous scars hidden among the tattoos. One scar looks like it could have been made by a bullet. Geez, I guess that black rose really isn’t a joke. Then I see the wound more clearly.
“Jesus,” I say breathlessly. “Did you get stabbed?”
“Wouldn’t be the first time,” he says.
“Yeah, that doesn’t make me feel any better. I’m no doctor, but I feel like you need stitches.”
He eyes the cut. “You may be right. Got a needle? And maybe some bourbon?”
“Are you fucking kidding me?” I ask, my voice an octave too high.
“I am... kidding you. It’s just a scrape.”
“You and I have very different definitions of that word.”
He laughs. “Relax, I’ll be fine. I just need an ice pack for the bump on my head, and…. do you have a first aid kit?” He asks.
“Um, not for whatever happened to you,” I say.
“Just bring me whatever you have,” he says. He looks up at me and catches me ogling his abs. I can’t help it. The man is a walking thirst trap. He gives me a wolfish grin that I feel reverberate all through my body. I need to get him patched up and out of here before I lose my sanity all together.
I turn around and start fumbling through my freezer for an ice pack. I am glad for the sudden shock of cold air, hopefully it helps to reduce my flushed cheeks. He smiled at me like he knew exactly what was on my mind; I hate feeling so transparent. I grab a bag of frozen corn and hand it to him. His eyes are still on me and I can feel them wandering, exploring. I can almost feel the tingle on my skin where his eyes linger. This man makes me feel totally out of control. Then he grins again. “The first aid kit?”
“Right! Yes!” I hurry over to the little bathroom and pull out my ballet injury kit, rushing it back to the kitchen table. He fishes around, pulling out lots of gauze and dancer’s tape, some wound ointment and band-aids.
He eyes the gauze and tape.
“Sprains are a professional hazard,” I shrug.
“You often hurt yourself bartending?” He asks.
“Bartending is a new gig. I was a dancer. A ballet dancer.”
He nods. He sets down the ice pack and tries to wrap the gauze around the wound on the side of his lower abdomen while wincing at the pain.
“Let me,” I say. “I may not have experience with knife wounds, but I know how to wrap an injury. We should clean it first too.”
I pull down a bowl from the cupboard and fill it with hot water. Meanwhile, he fishes through my first aid kit and swallows down a few painkillers. He may have been downplaying the amount of pain he’s been in this entire time. I grab a washcloth from the bathroom and some antiseptic from the first aid kit. Then, before I start, I grab a bottle of bourbon from the cupboard. The man watches in amusement as I pull off the top and take a big swig.
“This is going to sting,” I say, handing him the bottle.
“So why did you need the drink?” He laughs.
“Because I hate hurting people.”
“That’s fitting.”
“Why do people keep talking to me like that tonight, like I’m so innocent or something? I can land a punch!”
He takes a hefty swig from the bottle, eyeing me as he gulps it down. “I’m sure you can,” he laughs.
I kneel down on the ground next to the chair and begin to gently pat his wound with the warm washcloth. He flinches but takes another swig of the bourbon. He’s right that the cut isn’t as bad as it seemed, or at least not as deep, but still I move slowly, carefully, not wanting to hurt him. His skin is hot and his body rock hard, I can feel him inhale as I press the washcloth against his skin. It’s been so long since I’ve been with a man and my current proximity to motorcycle hottie is doing nothing to quiet my raging sexual frustration. When I look up at him, he is staring at me with lustful, dark, hooded eyes. I look away quickly. Don’t do something stupid Hannah. I can feel him tighten in pain, but when I look up at him again his eyes are still watchful; watchfully looking straight down my Spotted Owl tank top. I blush as he drags his eyes slowly from my breasts up to my face and our eyes meet. He’s got one thing on his mind, and I know exactly what it is. I feel my inner thighs clench at the idea.
“How are you feeling?” I ask.
“Much better,” he says. “Beautiful women have that effect on me.”
I stop and stare up at him, my mouth agape. If he realizes the effect that the unsolicited compliment had on me, he doesn’t acknowledge it. I take some fresh gauze and begin to try to wrap the wound.
“I bet you say that to all your nurses,” I say, trying to sound nonchalant, the way I imagine Kiki would, but I feel anything but nonchalant at the moment.
“I can honestly say this is a first.” He stops my hand and lifts me to standing. “But it would be easier if you wrapped it this way.” He takes my arm and leads me directly in front of him, scooting forward a little in his chair. He’s right, obviously. It would be easier to wrap the gauze around his torso facing him, but it feels so intimate to lean over him this way. This way, we’re face to face. Nearly mouth to mouth. I’ve never felt less in control of my need.
“One more thing,” he adds.
I look down at him.
“It seems wrong that only one of us should be shirtless,” he says. “What are your thoughts?”
I nod, a little dumb with desire and take a moment to respond. “I do think being fair is important,” I say. OMG! Do you hear yourself? Abort, abort! You’re losing control!
He leads me forward and places one hand on my hip, guiding me so that I am straddling him on the chair. Then, with the arm opposite the injury, he lifts my tank top up over my head and tosses it to the floor. My resolve is weakening. Hell, let me be more accurate. My resolve is dead.
“Better?” I say, my voice trembling
with desire.
He leans in and kisses my neck, his lips moving down to the indentation of skin between my cupped breasts. His breath is hot against my skin and I wriggle on his lap in response. This feels so good. He feels so good.
“Not quite even yet,” he says as he moves his hand behind my back and easily unsnaps my bra. He leans back and admires my naked skin, running his fingers against my very taut, very tender nipples. My breath catches in my throat and he smiles. He’s enjoying the power he has over me. He’s in total control even though I’m the one on top.
“Okay,” I say. “Let’s get you bandaged up.”
He takes my hips in his hands as I tip forward on his lap and reach behind him to wrap the gauze around his lower back and the wound on the lower side of his abdomen. I have to rise up and down to work the bandage around him and as I do his hands grip my hips. He lets his tongue languish on my nipples as I lean in and it takes everything I have to suppress a groan. I fasten the dancer’s tape to hold the gauze in place and as I take a seat on his lap again, I feel his erection, big and bulging, beneath me. Whatever pain he was in, he seems to be in control of it now. In control of both of us now.
I take my hair and scoop it up into a messy bun and he takes the opportunity of my back being arched to pull me closer. God, I’m panting with desire and we haven’t even kissed yet. I can feel his breath close to mine, and I instinctively rock back and forth on his ever-growing cock. I close my eyes in pleasure as I feel the friction of his body against mine. He kisses me and at first, it is soft, even tender, but as our tongues meet, I can’t stop myself from groaning in his mouth. His left hand clutches my ass, squeezing hard.
“We still have too much clothing on,” he says between kisses.
I have never in my life had a one-night stand, but suddenly all of my rules seem to be flying right out the window. Kiki warned me not to get involved, but I don’t even know this man’s name, so technically, I’m not involved with him at all. In the haze of lust, it feels like a perfect compromise. I nod and climb off the man. I unzip my jeans and pull them down. He looks at me hungrily.