Page 56 of What I Should Have Done

“Well, damn, girl. You’re not even going to buy me a drink first?” Mikey replied with a smirk.

I pursed my lips. “Not like that, dumbass.”

“Not even a scotch?”

“Oh. Ha. Ha. It’ll be much easier to wrap up your leg if your pants aren’t in the way.”

He chuckled and slid his hands to his waistband. I should’ve looked away. That would’ve been the appropriate thing to do, but I couldn’t help watching as he shimmied them down from his hips and slipped them under his ass.

I sucked in some air as he paused, his compression boxers not hiding much, and the shadows from the glow stick in his cavern only enunciated what he’d been blessed with.

“Scotch, you gotta move,” he stated.

My eyes widened. “Shit, sorry,” I mumbled and quickly scrambled out from between his legs. What the actual hell was that? He knew, he had to know that I was staring at his junk… Swallowing stiffly, my eyes rose from the blackened crevice floor. Immediately, of their own accord, they returned to the bulge sitting between his legs. Such an objectifying thought, I knew that, but just damn…

Damn.

The moment his pants were around his ankles, he kicked them free. The movement peeled my gaze away. I watched as he finally looked at the wound. “Well, shit. That’s gonna leave a gnarly scar.” He chuckled and gave me a tight smile.

“How is it not painful for you?” I asked.

He shrugged his shoulders as I cautiously crawled forward again. Between his thighs, again. Sweat ran slick down my spine, my heart beat so fast, I could’ve sworn he could feel the waves it was making. “I mean, it doesn’t feel good, but like I said, I’ve had worse.”

“Like what?” I asked and dribbled some water over the wound.

“Broke my femur before. That fucking hurt like the dickens.”

“How’d you manage that?” I tore some cloth from the extra rag I’d stuffed in my bag just in case I’d wanted a change of balaclava.

“Got in a fight,” he answered, grinning as I began wiping away at the dried blood on his muscular thigh. The wound didn’t seem too deep, but it was long enough that the amount of blood made sense.

“I’m just going to assume all of your injuries you’ve had came from fights.” I dabbed at some skin.

“That is the wisest assumption you could’ve made.”

“You told me once that you’re good at fighting because it’s something you’ve done for a long time. How long is this long time?” I asked, peeling some dried blood from his leg.

Mikey’s chest expanded, drawing in a long breath of air. “Got in my first fight when I was eight, almost nine.”

“What happened?”

“Beat the shit out of the kid ’cause he pissed me off. Don’t even remember what the kid said or did to make me so upset.” He brushed at some sand on his arm, the first indication that he noticed the dirt.

I furrowed my brows and paused. “You don’t even sound like you regret it?”

“I learned a long time ago that regret does nothing but cause you pain.”

“So, you have no regrets in life?”

He shook his head, but his brows twitched. “Nope.”

“That is a lie and you know it,” I grumbled, returning to the wound.

“What’s something you regret?” he asked.

Slipping the wrap beneath his leg, I tightly wound the cloth around his cleaned cut. “Asking you to take your damn pants off,” I grumbled, annoyed at myself more than him. It took everything in me to remain focused on the wound knowing what waited so close.

“Why the hell would you regret something you so clearly enjoyed seeing?” he flirted.

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