Page 7 of Dark Horse

“Fuck!” He ends it for us. “It’s wet again.” Wait… what? Oh. Right. The sink. The pipes. Shit. “The water’s starting to come faster. The wrench?”

I leap up and hobble over to the counter to get the wrenchas he dives back under the sink to try to re-secure it manually. I unlatch and root through the tool kit until I get the wrench and hand it to him. It’s a few more curses and twists plus a handful of grunts, and he resurfaces again.

“That should hold it for now,” he explains as he sits back up again. I hobble my way to the dining chair and sit down. He frowns at the way I’m favoring my ankle. “Are you okay?”

“Just twisted something. It’ll be fine in a minute.” I waive it off, but as he stands to put the wrench back, I don’t miss the blood on his hands.

“You’re bleeding!” I jump up out of instinct and nearly fall again.

“I’m fine. Just sit down.” He gives me a glowering look, and I take a step back as he grabs a paper towel off the roll and wipes the blood from his hand. He reaches back to touch his head, and his fingers are stained crimson again. “Well, fuck,” he mutters.

“Let me see,” I insist, his grumpy threat forgotten as I hobble my way around to look at the back of his head. I raise onto my tiptoes and see a small abrasion from where the cabinet must have dug in when I fell on him. My cheeks heat again as I remember our position, and I shake my head. “The cabinet got you. Give me a second, and I’ll get my first aid kit out of the bathroom.”

“I’m fine,” he insists.

“You’re not fine. Just let me get it cleaned up.”

“It’s just a scratch. I’m fine. I can clean it up when I get home.”

“I’ve got it.”

“You need to get off your ankle,” he insists.

“I can be the judge of my own ankle. I can walk ten feet to get the kit.” I make my way into the bathroom, open the cabinet, and pull it out—holding it up for full effect. “See?”

“I just don’t want you to fall again.” The man worries even when he’s grumpy.

“I fell because there was water. There’s no water on the carpet.”

He presses his lips together in irritation but doesn’t say anything as I open the first aid kit and pull out some alcohol wipes. I rip one open, tossing the wrapper onto the counter.

“Sit.” I pat a chair in front of me. He glares at it, but he follows the order. I gently press my fingers to the crown of his head, my fingers slipping through his hair as I tip his head forward. “I’m just gonna clean it up.”

I swipe the pad across the small wound, and he grunts loudly, jolting in his chair. You’d think I shot the man.

“It’s just a little alcohol,” I say softly.

“It fucking stings,” he grouches. Wounded animals never like to be touched.

“You can handle it.” I take another swipe, and he complains under his breath, but he holds still. I eye the lollipops that are still sitting out on my counter next to the toolbox from a promo event we did last weekend. “If you quit complaining, I’ll give you a sucker for being a good boy.”

“You’d be better off giving them to the children you’re entertaining downstairs,” he deflects.

“This again?” I ask, dousing the wound with one last fresh wipe before I throw them all away and close the kit. There’s too much hair for a Band-Aid to do anything other than get tangled, and the bleeding is slowing anyway.

“What again?”

“You hypocritically giving me shit for flirting with younger men when you date younger women.”

“I don’t date younger women.”

“I’ve seen you with younger women.”

“I might spend time with them, but I’m not dating them.”

“Potatoes, po-tah-tohs,” I counter. “You know what I mean.”

“You’re literally luring them with candy and treats. Spitting in their mouths. Spreading your legs.”

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