Page 30 of Bound By Fate
I found gashes on his right thigh, and the left had several. Bending down in front of him wasn’t the best position for me to be in because his penis was right there. Right. Freaking. There. Hard—for me.
Focusing on the task, I bandaged him up and tried desperately to not look up at his hardness. It was so very hard.
“Is everyone else okay?” I thought it was a question he could answer.
“Same as us, minus the fall off the fire escape.”
“That’s good,” I murmured, then looked to his face. “That one on your forehead needs to be stitched up. I have the stuff, but I’ve never really stitched someone before.” He had so much blood and ash on him when he’d come in, I didn’t even notice the cut on his head.
“I can do it.” He held out his hand, and I gave him the supplies then moved quickly away from between his legs. Dry went into the bathroom, and the curiosity bug hit me hard.
I wanted to see him. The thought of him doing his own patch job kind of turned me on. Not everyone would just grab a needle and thread and start sewing their body back together. It took a man. A real man’s man to do something like that.
Not a single man from back home would ever stitch themselves up. Ever. And they’d need lots of meds.
Dryerson didn’t take any. He was definitely a man.
I moved to the doorjamb and leaned against it, mesmerized by him.
“Wanna watch?” he asked, sticking the needle into his skin without a flinch and then tied it up like he was a doctor.
“How did you learn to do that?”
“Marines teach you a lot of things. Basic emergency care happens to be at the top of the list of objectives to master.”
Right. Military. Sometimes I’d forgot about that. How, I had no idea. Stitch by stitch, he continued to close the wound. I stayed silent, not wanting to have him mess up because of me.
It was the shape of a lightning bolt when he finished, and I couldn’t help but laugh.
“What’s so funny?” he asked, stepping out of the bathroom and heading to the drawers. He opened one and pulled out some boxers. This wasn’t unusual. I had things here too, just in case.
“I really hope you don’t have a scar there.”
“Why’s that?” He eyed me curiously, but I didn’t get why.
“Because you’ll look like Harry Potter.” I burst out laughing at the thought of him, big strong man’s man, turning into Harry Potter. I doubled over from the hilarity of it.
It took me a few beats, but I was able to control myself and as I looked up at him, his wide smile greeted me.
“A scar is never ugly. It means I survived.” His voice was utterly serious, and the laughter left me in a whoosh. He wasn’t talking about his scars. No, he was talking about mine. “A physical reminder of winning because against all the odds, the body kept going.”
My heart ached and burned. From a moment of happiness to one of pain and sorrow in a flash.
No. No. No. I wasn’t talking to him about my scars.
I left the room without another word, closing the door behind me. I didn’t tell anyone goodbye. No, I left, unable to stop the tears streaming down my face.
My scars were ugly. Horribly ugly. I kept them covered up for a reason.
He’d seen me before the marks on my body, and he didn’t realize how damaged it was now. Nothing like when we'd first met.
Now, I looked like I had been attacked by Edward Scissorhands.
Tears rolled down my cheek.
Then the monsoon came just as I got in my car and shut the door.
Needing to get out of there, I turned my girl on and left.
