Taming Cross (Love Inc.) (17 page)

I've rehabbed enough kids to know that it's a surgical scar. Because I'm curious, I come up behind him and put my hands on his shoulders. This does freaky things to all my girly parts, and then he moans and I'm pretty much slayed right where I stand.

“I'm sorry,” he says hoarsely. It's half-chuckled, like maybe he's embarrassed by his reaction.

“Don't be sorry.” His back feels warm and hard through the soft, damp shirt, and his shoulders are super tense. I give them a squeeze, and I'm rewarded with another moan, this one deeper than the last. I swear, I can feel it vibrate way low down in my belly. He’s practically lying on the table now, his head resting on his forearm so I can drink in all I want of his satiny dark brown hair and those strong shoulders, that lean, tough back. Just above the waist of his jeans, his shirt is stuck to his skin, so I get a peek of the top of his underwear. The skin they cover looks so soft and smooth... I can only see an inch of it—

Ridiculous.

I direct my wandering eyes back to his scar as I work his trapezius muscles. I see not just one scar, but several. One vertical along his cervical spine, just above where I think his C4-C6 ought to be, and another perpendicular to that, going from the middle of his spine at what I think is C5 level and heading around to the left side of his neck. The scars are thick. Still pink. This must be how he lost the use of his hand.

As I knead his shoulders and he makes delicious sounds, I wonder why on earth anyone would send him on a mission alone to rescue someone from a Mexican cartel. Sure, there are bad-ass seeming things about him, but twice we've crashed on the bike because he can't balance us with his left arm.

Don't get me wrong—I'm grateful. At this point, enough has happened that I'm grateful for Evan's help. I just don't really understand the situation.

I'm still hard at work on his shoulders when I notice the red pool under his left hand, which is lying on the table.

“Evan!” He shoots up so fast his head hits mine. “Ouch.” I rub my sore nose.

He turns to face me. “What's wrong?”

Still covering my nose, I nod at his hand. “You’re bleeding.” I blush so furiously, I feel like there’s a cloud of heat around my head. Sure, it's been a while since I've been around a guy, but this level of oblivion really is embarrassing. Unforgivable. What’s wrong with me?

“Hold your arm up,” I tell him.

He does, and I take a seat beside him with the first aid stuff in hand.

I grab his left elbow, which is propped against the table, causing him to lean a little closer toward me. I scoot closer to him, too. With my hand around his bicep, I look into his blue eyes.

“So you have no feeling in your hand?” He blinks, and I take that as affirmative. “What about your arm?”

“The bicep up,” he says without expression.

“Okay, that's good, because you would feel some of this in your wrist and forearm I think.”

I let go of him and clean my hands with alcohol towelettes, then untie my bloody shirt scrap and reveal his wound again. It looks darker red this time, which means some of the blood is finally clotting.

“I don’t think it hit anything important.”

The radial artery runs into the hand, and its location in the wrist is not too far from where Evan's wound is—but if he’d hit it, there would be even more blood. At least I think that’s true.

I open then unfold two big gauze pads and gently guide his hand down onto them. Instead of spreading out, his fingers stay semi-curled. I study his hand for just a second, admiring the shape of it, before I notice him scowling.

I have the strangest desire to tell him,
You have nice hands
, but that would just be weird, so I swallow once and try to keep this as professional as I can.

“I'm going to spread your fingers out the way I want them, okay?”

He shrugs, trying to look unaffected. “Do whatever you want.” His lips quirk up. “As long as I can get another back rub.”

I smile a little as I work his fingers into the position that I want them, with thumb and forefinger in an “L” shape.

Evan huffs his breath out as I let go of him and unwrap some Betadine swabs. I glance into his eyes, offering another little smile. “You ready?”

His face is hard. “Go for it.”

I swab around the wound, glancing into his eyes a time or two to be sure it isn't hurting. He looks apathetic. I wonder if he feels the ghost of pain, but as I finish painting the entire wound with orange Betadine, I decide that maybe he's self-conscious.

I lie his hand down again, and when I'm looking into my lap, fiddling with the antibiotic syringe, I ask, “Are your injuries recent?”

After a small pause, he says, “Fairly.”

So I'm right.
He sounds detached, and when I look back up, I find him staring at the wall ahead of us.

I put my hand on his wrist. “I have to give you a shot in the wound, because I think you might have some bone fragments floating around in there. That means you have a greater chance of infection.”

He shrugs again, his face caught somewhere between stoic and irritated. “Okay.”

“When you get home, you might need a cast or something.”

He snorts, as if to say,
Yeah right.

I make quick work of the injection, and when I'm finished, I set the syringe to the side and start applying bandages. I'm starting with something that has some sticky to it, so while it's soft over the wound, it adheres to the skin around it, keeping out germs and water. It seems to take me forever to get that on. He can't help me by holding his fingers straight, and when I ease his arm up, with his elbow on the table, the hand flops forward. He stiffens again.

I'm not much for awkward moments, so I decide to be straightforward. “This makes you uncomfortable, huh?”

He screws his face up, looking at me like I'm slow. “I can't feel it.”

I flit a glance at him. “That's not what I mean.”

Out of the corner of my eye, I can see him working his jaw, and I wonder if I've crossed a line. Then I remember him saying, “I'm sorry that this happened to you,” last night before I went to sleep. I didn't want his pity, and maybe he doesn't want my prodding either, but we're stuck together for at least another day, so tough titties.

“I'm saying you feel awkward about it. You don't like being injured.”

“Would you?” His mouth draws tight.

“I wouldn't,” I say. “I'm sure almost no one would.” I wrap my way around the hand a few more times as I think about my own screwed up state. “No one wants to be anything less than strong and capable. Vulnerable means you have to trust other people. If you're anything like me, you don't like that one bit.”

“Damn straight,” he mutters, and I smile a little.

“May I ask what happened?”

“You can ask,” he tells me. His mouth is pulled into a smirk, but it looks strained.

“And if I ask, will you tell?”

He mulls that over, then he says, “Maybe we can make a trade.”

Oh, crap. I guess I walked right into this. I tie the gauze off and keep my poker face on, hoping he'll forget I asked.

“Keep that elevated. I'll be back with some ice.” I saunter off, remembering as I approach the refrigerator that I have my own wound to attend to. I guess he'll have to do that.

When I get back, he's getting to his feet, opening an alcohol towelette as he moves. “It's your turn.”

While he cleans the small spot on my shoulder, I pick at the place mat and think about how weird it is to be here without Jesus and David. How weird it is that they’re both dead. Then I think about the last week I spent with them, in
Mazatlán
, at Jesus’s favorite costal mansion, and I feel nauseated.

It’s really good that Evan breaks the silence. “Does anyone else know about this place?” he asks.

“I'm not sure. It's a big secret that Jesus was gay, and apparently he's been with David for quite a while. They’d been together about a year when I left, and since David was here today, I have to assume they were still together when you shot Jesus. This place was built the year before I met Jesus, and as far as I know, the only other people who know it’s here are the three guys who built it.”

“So we need to get moving,” he sighs.

“No. Jesus killed them.”

“Oh.”

I heave my breath out. “Right. So Jesus brought me in to help him with some things, and of course David, but I'd be surprised if anyone else knew.”

“How sure are you about that?”

“I don't know.” I freeze. “Why?”

“Just wondering.” Something cold trails across the wound on my shoulder. I feel his breath on me, and I can tell he's not just wondering. There's a reason that he asked. I'm opening my mouth to ask him what that reason is, when abruptly he squeezes my shoulder. “All done.” And that's the end of it.

CHAPTER EIGHTEEN

I can’t decide if my sixth sense, doom and gloom paranoia bullshit is a headache coming on, or something more. I guess for the first time ever, I hope it’s a headache. I take a seat at the table and watch as Merri cleans up the first aid stuff. I should be helping her, but my neck feels so tight, I want to do whatever I can to try to relax.

I rub my eyes and tell her, “Thanks for patching me up.”

“Same to you.” She smiles, and I find myself smiling back.

“You know, we still need to make our trade.”

“We need to find some food first,” she says. “Aren’t you starving?”

I’m not, but I nod anyway. Ever since the accident, my appetite hasn’t been the same. I think the feeding tube messed it up. My shrink at NVIR thought it was a nervous reaction.

“Do you think there’s food here?”

“I know there is,” she says. “Food and wine. Ammo. Jesus had this place well-stocked.”

I frown down at the table. It's weird the way she talks about Jesus. So...neutrally. Like she's talking about her cousin or something. It makes more sense now that I know he never fucked her, but it’s still weird. Dude committed horrible crimes, and she doesn’t even sound like she dislikes him.

“You up for some wine?” she asks.

I haven’t had any alcohol since the night I crashed. It used to conflict with the meds, and then I guess I just never had a reason. But right now I feel like I could really use a drink.

“You gonna pop the cork?” I ask her.

I lean over my shoulder to see what she’s doing, and my neck zings a little.

She’s got a loaf of homemade-looking bread out, and she’s spreading something on it that looks like jelly.

“If I still remember how,” she says. “I haven’t had a drink in more than a year.”

She looks so pretty right now, seems so normal, it's hard to imagine her with Jesus.

She finishes the bread and pulls out something else—beef jerky—which she sits on the table. Then she disappears, returning a moment later with a bottle of merlot and two jewel-encrusted wine glasses.

“The bread and jam are homemade. The merlot is local, too.”

I snort. “What a hostess.”

“Hey, I don’t have to share.” With some difficulty she pulls the cork, and my vision doubles as I watch her pour. She takes a small sip and sighs. “I'm just trying to be informative. It's my go-to, stressed-out mode, I guess.”

“Is stressed all you’re feeling?”

She laughs, but it’s strained. “It’s a good bit more than stressed. Honestly, it’s too much for me to even begin deal with.” She takes another sip of her wine. “So I feel pretty good at this moment. The wine…could be crap and it would still be good.”

“Is that true for the company?” I joke, and she pretends to consider.

“It’s not the worst thing about this situation,” she says.

“Nice.” I take a large drink of the wine. It’s velvety, with a hint of molasses and a taste of plum, but like she said, it’s been a while.

I rub my eyes, take the bread she hands me, and say, “I shot a lot of people you knew.”

She purses her lips and just sits there, staring at her plate. I can tell she’s fighting tears, and I think to myself, what the hell is wrong with me? Impulsively, I touch her arm. “I'm sorry. I shouldn't have asked. This whole thing is fucking weird—”

“Can you say frack please?”

“Huh?”

“Say frack.” She wipes her eyes and speaks from behind the shield of her hand. “I really hate the F-word.”

“Sorry,” I say quickly. “My mom’s Catholic, so I should know better.”

She shakes her head. “It’s not for anything like that. My aunt taught me it was tacky.”

“
Taaaaaccky
.” I say it with what I think is a convincing drawl, and she shrugs.

“Ooooookay. You can make fuuun of myyyy aceeeeent all you wannnnt.”

I swallow back some of my wine and watch her eat. I'm like a fracking cat. Curiosity is killing me. I need to know more about this woman—now.

“I was in a motorcycle accident.” There. I said it. I shift in my seat, automatically searching for a position that will lessen the painful zinging of the damaged nerve endings in my neck. “Fallout was pretty bad and I was laid up for a while.”

She considers me over the rim of her glass. I can feel her eyes urging me to go on. I take a long sip of my wine, hoping it will take the edge off my zings. “What do you want to know, Mer?”