Page 33 of Surrender

I locate a heavy stock pot and fill it with water for the pasta. “After a week of takeout and gas station food, I think I’m in the mood for something real.”

“I’m not complaining.”

“Mr. Jack.” Lucy breaks into the conversation.

“What’s up, Luce?”

“Who colored on you, Mr. Jack?”

A clove of garlic slips through my fingers as I watch the two interact.

Lucy traces her fingers along one of the many swirls of black ink on Jack’s arm. Her brows furrow in concentration.

“These are called tattoos.” Still holding the single bean, he closes his fist and extends both arms for her perusal.

“Do they come off in the bath?”

Jack’s laughter is a husky rumble. “No. They don’t come off.”

Lucy continues tracing. Jack and I both watch her explore his decorated skin. I can’t say I blame the girl. I might like to trace those tattoos someday with something other than my finger.

“Ouch.” A sharp prick in my left index finger brings my attention back to my hands. A crimson bubble of blood wells from a puncture wound. The knife still clenched in my right fist the culprit.

Jack stands. “What happened?”

“Cut myself.” I move to the sink.

“Oh no! Mr. Jack only has reglier bandages.” Lucy’s distraught observation causes both Jack and I to freeze.

“It’s okay, Peanut,” I soothe, washing the wound.

Jack appears at my side. “Let me see.”

“It’s just a little wound.”

His huge palm cups my elbow and tugs me closer to him. Close enough for him to bend down and inspect the damage. Warm breath wafts over my fingers, chilling the parts still damp from the faucet and affecting my pulse.

“It’s not too bad. I’ll grab the first-aid kit.”

“Lucy, honey, it’s okay.” I find her standing on her chair at the table, small hands clenched into tight fists at her sides. She tracks Jack as he returns a moment later, carrying a clear plastic box with a lid.

“Don’t worry, Luce. I’ll fix your momma right up.”

Securing my hand in his grip, he uses the other to dab on an antiseptic. His hands are warm where they wrap around mine.

The steady pulse in my cut serves as a poor distraction. A woodsy scent, reminding me of green pines and oakmoss, holds me captive as Jack works on my hand. Those long fingers are precise at sticking on the bandage, lingering a second too long as he presses down the final edge.

“There,” he murmurs, eyes flicking between mine and my index finger.

Our hands fall between us.

“You hafta kiss it,” Lucy sniffles.

“Lucy, he’s not going to kiss my finger.”

But my words are left hanging in the balance when Jack ignores them, lifts my limp hand into the void between us, and presses his lips carefully against the fresh bandage with his gray eyes locked on mine.

Surely he can feel the way my pulse races beneath his fingertips. I can only hang on and pray the hitch in my breath isn’t audible.

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