Page 16 of The Heart We Guard
But now there is blood on my rug that won’t come out no matter how hard I scrub, and a dangerous yet handsome biker is sitting in my living room watching some ridiculous action movie where semi-automatic weapons get fired on repeat every five minutes.
And he’s been here for three days. I’ve kept his calories up with lots of smoothies and protein powders. Easy to eat. Nutritionally high.
He complained about the breakfast one I just served him being green.
Maybe it’s because I’m so damned tired that I feel so cranky about it. The first night, I stayed up, watching his wounds, making sure he didn’t roll off the damned table.
The second, I woke up every hour.
Last night, I slept in my own bed after we got Butcher up to the bed in the spare room. But my sleep was still fractured, as I listened out for him and for signs of distress.
I yawn, no longer able to stop myself. My eyes feel heavy, and they water as I glance at my phone, filled with messages.
Mostly they’re expressing disbelief that I was effectively fired.
They aren’t alone. I’m fucking horrified. Now that I’ve slept on it, I realize I should have just kept my mouth shut and dealt with it. But, for some reason, swallowing my pride and apologizing doesn’t feel like the right thing to do either.
“Do we have to do this?” Butcher asks, sitting on a plastic chair in the kitchen. He’s naked, apart from a towel across his lap.
“Well, until you can stand without getting dizzy, this is the best I can do. And it’s one up from a bed bath. I’ll leave you to it once I’ve washed your hair.”
He leans his head back over the sink and resigns himself to looking at the ceiling. “Fine. What’s one more humiliation.”
I run the tap and check the temperature before spraying it over his hair. It goes darker as it wets and flattens. When it’s soaked, I pump some of my shampoo into the palms of my hands, then start to lather his head.
The house is quiet, apart from the splat of soap and water. The scent is decidedly citrusy, but it’s all I have. To reach both sides of his scalp, I lean across him in a decidedly intimate position. My arm reaches across his chest, bringing our faces closer than they have ever been.
“This is pretty,” he says, reaching up to tap my necklace that swings close to him.
“Thank you.” The wolf tooth necklace was a gift from one of my foster parents. I got a white one with a silver band around the top. And they got Eli a black one with gold. We wore them every day, even when he aged out of the system.
He closes his eyes and sighs as I scrub. I’m intent on doing a good job so I don’t have to do this again because by the time it next needs washing, he’ll be able to stand for the duration of a shower.
I turn the tap on and rinse all the suds off before giving it a second wash for good measure.
Once it’s properly rinsed, I pump a substantial amount of conditioner into my hands and smooth it through his hair. He sighs again, as if the actions are bringing him some kind of…comfort.
My very favorite part of a trip to the hairdressers is the scalp massage they give you. And while I’m no masseuse, I attempt to give Butcher the same treatment. If I’m empathetic for a second, I can see how the man is away from home, injured, and probably suffering mentally from what happened.
His nervous system is likely very dysregulated. I’m sure he’s processed how he nearly lost his life and what that would have meant for those around him.
So, I massage his scalp, paying attention to the tight muscles at the base of his neck, because I manage to find an ounce of compassion. He groans and then sighs again. I feel the breath that escapes him against my bicep and little goose bumps break out on my skin. I tug a wide-tooth comb through his hair from root to tip, and when I’m satisfied it’s thoroughly detangled, I rinse his hair a final time.
When I’m done, I squeeze as much water from it as I can, then rub it with a towel I placed next to the sink.
“There,” I say. “Washed and dried…sort of. I’ll give you some privacy to do the rest yourself.”
When I step back, it’s hard to miss the erection he tries to hide with the damp hair towel I hand him.
“Thank you,” he says, gruffly.
“No worries. Next time, you should be well enough to do it yourself. Don’t be squeamish when it comes to cleaning your surgical sites. It’s necessary, hygienic, and won’t cause problems.”
Butcher glances down at his stitches. “You sure, Doc?”
The uncertainty is endearing. “Very.”
I leave him to it, only returning when he’s finished up. We manage to get him into the clothes I asked my older neighbor Esme to pick up for me. Comfortable clothes. Jogging pants, an oversized T-shirt, and a hoodie.
