Page 49 of Where You Are

Wonderful.

I’m not a fan of blood, and while I can’t see the wound very well, I can tell it’s coming out good.

What the hell did this? Did I step on a crab? I almost laugh at how this day has turned out, but it comes out as a weak form of a sob instead.

“Damnit,” I utter out in a pathetic whimper, trying not to pass out at the sight. It’s just then that I hear a thudding noise. It’s rapid and getting louder with each beat until a dark shadowy figure is hovering over me at my side.

Great. Now a creepy, dark stranger is here to finish me off.For fuck’s sake, make it quick, please.

“What happened?” The figure asks in a low, masculine voice. His tone lacks any trace of compassion, like it’s only looking for information on the situation, not caring that someone is actually hurt.

“I don’t know, I stepped on something,” I grit out as my foot is hit by another flash of stinging pain.

The man deftly takes hold of my foot to take a look and then quickly scoops me up in his arms.

What the fuck?

“Hey! What the…” I protest as he carries me to the water. Oh, here we go. He’s going to toss me in and let me attract sharks that will come to devour me.Just what I always wanted, I’m going to be chum. Dinner. I’m becoming something’s dinner. Frickin delightful ending to a craptastic day.

Instead, he sets me down on my good foot just a couple of feet into the tide and guides my other leg down to immerse my foot, which stings like a bitch.

“Agghh!” I hiss at the sensation.

“Relax,” he orders, sounding impatient. “It’s going to clean it.”

Relax. Yeah okay, knowing that he just rung the dinner bell to every carnivorous fish in the damn area, sure I can relax. No problem.Jackass.

After a moment or so of soaking my foot in ocean water, the dark faceless stranger hauls me up in his arms again and starts walking toward one of the docks, and this time I struggle.

“Put me down! Let go of me!” I shout, wriggling around in his grasp, causing his soft t-shirt to rustle and making a very vaguely familiar scent assault my nostrils. It smells like a crisp-scented laundry detergent mixed with salt water.

“Just calm the fuck down, I’m trying to help. You don’t want to get sand in it,” he snaps in a slightly louder tone, although still sounding very mechanical.

“Calm down?!” I echo. “I don’t even know you and you’re-” and then it hits me where I know his smell from.Hit, being an appropriate metaphor, as the last time I smelled this scent it very literally slammed into me.

“Mr. Personality?” I think the memory out loud.

“Who?”

Shit.

“Nothing, I remember who you are,” I mention, my squirming starting to cease as he steps up onto the dock, his shoes smacking against the wooden planks as he walks in the direction of the boats. He says nothing to my revelation as we approach a small sail boat with white chipping paint along the side, and golden yellow bistro lights strung along the boom. “You tried to plow me over while I was on a run a while back.”

He doesn’t give away whether he remembers the incident or not as he takes a wide step onto the deck whose wood is weathered and faded, and swiftly carries me over to a small table with a folding lawn chair that he deposits me into.

“Stay here, I’ve got a first aid kit below,” he grumbles before turning and heading somewhere below deck. From what I know of sailboats, there are likely living quarters of some kind down there, and with his dazzling people skills, I wouldn’t be surprised if that’s where he resides.

While my first inclination should be to get up and bolt, my injured foot would be a hindrance to getting very far, and as I look around, I see other boaters out on their decks enjoying the evening with snacks, cocktails and friendly banter. So if I need to scream, I’ll likely be heard. We’re out in the open with witnesses, and so far, this nameless robot seems to have no interest in harming me.

As he trudges back up the steps from his presumed abode, I can actually get a better look at him under the lights. His sandy brown hair has streaks of gold in it, likely from hours in the sun, and is long enough to give it a shaggy look. Despite his light blue t-shirt fitting just right over his physique to show that he is in healthy shape, I feel no twinges of attraction. He glances up and his hair hangs in a sweep across his forehead, conveniently hiding his eyes from me.

He grabs a nearby crate and drags it over to sit in front of me as he sets a red zipped pouch on the table before leaning down and taking hold of my leg and propping my foot on his knee.

He looks irritated and put out, like I selfishly cut myself just to mess up some stranger’s plans of an evening of sulking and brooding, which I suppose I can’t judge as I was out on the beach doing the same thing.

“Is it still bleeding?” I ask, looking away.

“Just a little. The water stopped most of it,” he responds, examining the gash.

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