Page 2 of Bedding Rose
Fuck.
I can’t breathe as I reach out and carefully pluck the razor from between her fingertips. As if it’s a snake about to bite, I toss it away into the sink behind her before leaning down and cupping her face in my hands. Her skin is cold and clammy and so, so soft. But even my touch doesn’t rouse her.
What could have hurt her so badly that this ... this was her outlet?
“Lil reina? What happened?” I use the nickname Quique and I used to tease her with, hoping it will draw her out. When she was fifteen, she used to screech like a banshee and throw pillows at us whenever we used it.
Her lips part and I hold my breath, waiting for her answer—for her to tell me how things have gotten so derailed. How the fuck the universe could let an innocent like her get trampled underfoot.
When she doesn’t speak, I decide to give her time. Maybe she’s in shock or something. I can’t just stand and stare at her. I have to do something. Fix this. Make it better. The need grows in me and it’s just as potent as hunger or exhaustion, a physical craving that can’t be denied.
I retrieve a clean hand towel, surprised to find my fingers steady when my insides feel so jittery. I stand up, turn on the faucet, and let the water grow warm. Memories poke and prod at me: Rose peering around the corner of Quique’s bedroom door. The way she’d grow silent and blush when she saw me. How she used to kick her brother under the table whenever he teased her for being a nerd. Fond memories, but now they cause an ache as I soak a corner of the towel. After I turn the faucet off and kneel in front of Rose, she finally makes eye contact.
Her expression is dull, so dull. It’s like a vivid painting that’s been toned down to pastels and I absolutely hate seeing her that way; she's not supposed to look like that. I've seen her real smile. I've seen her annoyed face when Quique and I push her too far and piss her off. I’ve seen her fight to stay mad when Quique cracks one of his goddamned jokes, lowering her temper to a reluctant simmer.
God—I wish I was in one of those moments right now. But I'm not. I'm here.
I’m here and she needs me. That realization makes something inside of me click, and all the discomfort I'm feeling fades, concentration taking over. She needs me and so I'll help.
“It’s okay. I’m going to clean it up a little. Alright?” I don’t know what the fuck I’m doing right now. I sound like a horse whisperer, but I’m just so worried about spooking Rose. She looks so delicate right now that a wrong word could snap her.
Crouched down, I lean forward and touch the rag to her cut, trying to dab, not wipe—to make my huge mitts for hands work for me instead of against me. I can’t help but notice how dark my skin looks against her pale flesh, and I try to keep the rag between my calloused palms and her dainty skin so that my roughness doesn’t scratch her. Of course, my hands are too big, and the side of my hand glides over her smooth thighs, but I focus on that red line and nothing else. Luckily, the cut doesn’t appear too deep, though I can hear Rose sucking air in through her teeth as I work.
“Angelo, what the fuck?” Quique’s voice comes from down the hall, playful and slightly drunk—his reality a million miles away from the one I just stumbled into here.
Rose gives a startled little gasp when she hears her brother and her eyes spark with the first real glimmer of emotion I’ve seen since I’ve walked in here. Fear contorts her brow and makes her teeth come out to worry her lower lip. “Please—” she looks up at me, an entreating expression making her brow rise.
Whatever is going on, she doesn’t want her brother to know.
Guilt and conflict swirl within me because if this was Tatiana, I’d want to know. But Quique and his family have always been different than my family, with my mother who hovered over us with all the love and protection of a mother hen and a father who provided.
In his family, each person has to fend for themselves. Maybe that’s why he’s never watched over Rose the way I do my sister. I’ve had to step in a few times over the years. But he’s her brother. Maybe I should make him step up.
Why does the thought of handing her off to him make my heart thunder? I stand and turn to the sink on autopilot, running hot water over the rag, watching the pink evidence of Rose’s pain swirl down the bowl. What do I do? I blink, staring at my face in the mirror, at the scar on my chin and I don't recognize the expression on my own face.
“Angelo—” Rose's voice interrupts my thoughts but she cuts herself off. Her broken tone has the intended effect, however. It sends a pang straight through my chest, setting off a chain reaction. It's as if there’s a light bulb inside my skull and her panic tugs on the string, clicking it off—making me go dark. Reason snaps off and the only thing left is this burgeoning need to take care of her and erase whatever left her wilted on the ground.
I wring out the rag and toss it over the edge of the sink. Drying my hands roughly on my jeans, I reach out and touch her tiny shoulder, cupping it to reassure her as I tilt my head to the side and yell to her brother, “Start a one-player!”
“Really?” Quique’s tone is skeptical.
“Really! I’m gonna be awhile.”
She stares up at me, and I see colors in her eyes I’ve never seen before. Little gray flecks swam among the green stripes … if the entirety of space was green, it would look like a series of tiny universes floating in her eyes.
When we hear the sound of gunfire coming from the living room indicating that Quique's started up a new game, Rose finally relaxes underneath my grip. Something about her melting under my touch stirs up a tingling sensation in my chest.
I clear my throat. “I need to clean it out with alcohol next.”
“No, it’s fine—”
My tone comes out harsher than I intend, strained from the tension that’s built in the air between us, when I say, “Sit on the toilet, Rose. I’m cleaning it.”
She blinks up at me for a second, those thick, curled eyelashes of hers clumped together from crying. I’m struck by how intense her gaze is before I reach down, grabbing her waist to help her up to perch her ass on the closed toilet seat.
“I can—”
“Don’t.” I cut her off and give her my back as I yank open a drawer and paw through it, looking for disinfectant.
