Page 62 of Contingently Yours
“I’m fine. I just want to get a look at my foot. I think that thorn is still in there.”
“A thorn? When did that happen?”
“Like three hours ago,” I grump, no longer able to maintain my Don Juan attitude of the last few days. Romancing Tufty has had to take a backseat for survival and dignity preservation. Tugging at my shoe, it’s aggravating how weak I feel. I don’t work out on a schedule, but I’m in decent shape. I shouldn’t be this sapped. Hell, I haven’t heard Mason complain once. I can’t even keep up with a pampered pop star.
When I fumble with my shoe a second time, Lucas takes over, gingerly prying it off. I wince at the stab of pain that shoots through my foot. I cannot be taken down by a damn toe.
“Have you been hydrating?” he asks.
“If I drink anything else, I’ll be pissing more than Uncle Lou.”
“You’re bleeding,” he remarks.
Ten points to Captain Obvious. He is now five percent less sexy than I thought he was. Why couldn’t we just rent a drone and camp out at the bunkhouse where we parked our safari-looking wagon? We could be viewing this roughage from a laptop screen and the luxury of the sparsely converted shipping container that someone with more sense than Dario had placed at the entry point of the property.
Lucas peels my sock over my foot, making me wince when the fabric brushes my injury. “Shit,” I hear him whisper.
“It’s purple! Why is it purple?” I demand, looking at my toe that’s now two sizes larger than it should be.
“The thornhead must still be in there.”
“Ah, bugger, mate. That’s a nasty one,” comes Dario’s obnoxious commentary.
I possessed a natural-looking toe before we got here. I am not nasty. I’m just pissed off.
“What kind of thorn was it?” Lucas asks, rotating my foot to inspect the damage.
“I don’t know! I wasn’t cataloguing flora and fauna.”
“Steel-toe boots, mate. Always steel-toe,” Dario adds.
If I punch him in the throat, he might not buy this place. Besides, I think there are two of him as I blink through the sweat dripping into my eyes. Why am I sweating? It’s the cold season in Australia.
“I think it’s infected already,” Lucas remarks. At least someone sounds concerned.
“Yeah. We need to get that thornhead out of there,” Dario suggests.
If he pulls out a Crocodile Dundee knife, I will miraculously reacquire my ability to run. Lucas drops to a knee and rests my foot on top of his thigh. The next thing I know, pain blooms through my toe. I yelp.
His mouth is covering it. He’s…sucking on my toe.
I shut my yap when I realize that’s better than a knife. He surfaces with a bitter expression. Reaching in between his pursed lips, he pulls something out. Placing it on his fingertip, he shows it to me—a tiny curved thornhead that makes me feel like less of a man for how much pain I’m in, given its size.
“Got it.”
“Burn in hell,” I tell it. “Thanks.”
Sighing, I sit back on the rock and close my eyes. The stabbing sensation has at least subsided, but the thought of opening my eyes again feels like it would take too much effort.
“Let me get this jacket off, and I’ll be good to go,” I tell my audience.
“I don’t think he should go on,” Lucas says. “I’m sorry. Maybe we can postpone for a day or two?”
“What?” I chirp. I am not doing a repeat of this. “No. We’re going. It’s just hot as hell. Get this thing off me.” I start undoing my backpack to rid myself of my jacket, but I feel hands steadying me.
“Whoa, Drew. Easy. I think Lucas is right. You look like you should head back to the bunkhouse,” this from Keenan, I think.
“There’s a med kit there. A shot of antibiotics should get you right in no time,” Dario enthuses. “We can circle back as long as you guys have time. Our schedules still have room. Don’t want a man down.”
