Page 82 of False God

“Okay. You can turn off the light.”

A soft rustle as Charlie rummages through the bag he brought. He glances up, catching me staring. “This is antiseptic,” he tells me. “It’s going to sting.”

“It already stings.”

But I understand what Charlie means as soon as he presses the damp gauze against my palm. A hiss escapes my mouth before I can stop it, the burn so intense it feels like my skin should be smoking. I bite down on my tongue until I taste copper as the gauze moves to my shoulder, the singe of invisible flames following right behind.

“Quietest you’ve ever been with my hands on you,” he says, low enough so that only I can hear—I hope.

“Don’t be a wanker.”

Charlie chuckles under his breath. “Who taught you that one?”

“I searched some British insults earlier.”

Another low laugh, and then he tosses the gauze to the ground. I make the mistake of following the motion, grimacing at the rusty stains.

“Where’d you hit your head?”

“By my left temple. I was holding a glass in my right hand, so I was trying to fall that way.”

His fingers slip into my hair, running lightly across my scalp. I wince when he finds tender skin.

“There?”

I nod. “Yeah.”

“Did you lose consciousness?”

“No.”

“How much have you had to drink?”

My cheeks warm. It feels like a personal question, coming from him. Like he knows I ordered my second drink right after seeing him talking to several beautiful women, including the blonde he sat next to during the ceremony.

“Two,” I answer.

“Was the flashlight bothering your eyes?”

I shake my head, then immediately regret it. “I just don’t like looking at blood.”

“You have a headache.”

It’s more of a statement than a question, but I answer anyway. “My head hurts, yeah. The concrete wasn’t soft.”

Charlie doesn’t crack a smile. “Who got married today?”

“Chloe and Theo.”

“Where did you start college?”

“Yale.”

“What did you have for dinner last night?”

“Fish.”

“What’s your favorite color?”

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