Page 26 of Suddenly Entwined

I look away, settling on a pile of fluffy white towels on a shelf I built behind the door. I toss her one without looking.

“Well, I do!” She shrieks and I hear the towel hit the floor. “I can’t use that!”

“Why not?”

“I’m gonna get blood all over it. They aren’t mine! They’re my brothers.”

An image of Chris scowling at me fills my mind. It was the same feeling I had at the party when she joked about it being her job as a little sister to tell embarrassing stories about Chris. When we’re talking and laughing, it’s so easy to forget who she is.

I stare at the ceiling. “Oh my god, please don’t talk about your brother while you’re naked.”

“Oh, I thought you didn’t care?” she sasses. “Get me something else. The dish towels in the kitchen are dark.”

I’m back in a flash with a navy blue towel that is great for the blood still trickling down her arm, but not so great for hiding her damn body.

“Okay, now I can take the towel.”

I notice her stoop down out the corner of my eye to retrieve the towel I’d tossed in her direction before.

“What the hell are you doing, Berg? How did you even get in here?”

I take the fact that she’s addressing me as my sign to look at her.

“I heard a crash and was worried. I did knock. But you didn’t answer. And I saw you enter your code,” I add.

“So you came on in? I–I dropped a bottle because my arm hurts and while I was cleaning it up–”

“You cut yourself.”

“Obviously.”

She has the towel wrapped around her, one end tucked in over her chest. She’s cradling her hurt hand, and it’s obvious that it’s still bleeding, a droplet rolling down from beneath the edge of the towel.

“You’re going to need to hold it firmer than that. It’s still bleeding.”

“Yeah?” she says, voice wobbly, “I don’t…really like blood.”

Her face is approaching a level of pale that competes with the cotton. First, I switch off the shower. The last thing someonewho is queasy about blood needs is for the room to be a million degrees. And I want her to sit down. Clearing some products off the counter, I grip her waist and lift her up onto it.

She gasps.

“Did that hurt?”

“No. The counter is cold on my…legs.”

I swallow, trying desperately not to notice how short that towel is around her hips.

Imaginary Chris clenches his fists.

“You don’t need to do this.”

“I want to see if it needs stitches.”

She groans. “It better fucking not.”

I smile at her language, but I’m still worried about her.

“Deep, slow breaths.”

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