Page 22 of Blood of the Sirens
Quickly, I filled the glasses and offered him one. His fingers brushed the glass and as soon as I let go, he didn’t take it. The glass fell to the floor and shattered, spilling soda and shards everywhere.
Oh my gods. Could this get worse?
“I’m sorry!” I wailed. “Didn’t you have it?”
I put my glass on the counter and scrambled for the paper towels and a bag. We knocked heads as we both bent on the floor to mop at the mess, him daintily picking up a shard of glass and staring at it.
“I am sorry. I am … not from here,” he muttered, blushing madly. “It was heavier than I thought.”
Third world country it was, then.
“Most people aren’t from here. This place is nothing but tourists in the summer.” I carefully picked up shards of glass and put them in a plastic bag.
I thrust the paper towels at his chest and he took the hint, mopping up the brown liquid carefully as I made sure I got all the glass.
“Son of a bitch!” I hissed in pain, the pad of my index finger slicing open as it found a piece I missed on the floor.I stuck my hand in my mouth to staunch the bleeding, depositing the last bit in the trash can.
Merrick’s hand was around my waist a second later, yanking me through the sticky mess and across the floor, then up onto the counter like I was a Barbie doll. I was so surprised I forgot to be self-conscious.
“You are hurt! Let me see.”
Before I could protest, he held my finger in front of him, his other hand rooting through a small bag at his waist. I couldn’t stop staring at the muscles on his shoulders or the intricate necklace that hung from his throat on a leather cord. Was it an opal? It shined every iridescent color of the rainbow, its beauty distracting me from the harsh stinging of my hand.
Merrick brought some kind of gel pod to his mouth, ripping it open with his teeth. He squeezed it on my finger, and I sighed at the instant relief that happened as the wound tingled and went cold. Carefully, he packed the clear remains of the gel packet around my finger, molding it around the area like a liquid Band-Aid. Within seconds, it hardened and dried.
I held it up in front of my eyes, admiring it. Was he a marine biologist, too? Was this some kind of new innovative wound care I hadn’t heard of since I’d left the program?
“This is what my … my family uses,” he explained. “You can remove it in a few minutes.”
Merrick clasped his hand over mine, holding it in place and tucking me further into his broad chest. Was I dreaming? What the fuck was happening?
“You’re very forward,” I ended up saying, mostly to fill the odd silence that had descended between us. He smelled like the ocean, as cliche as that sounded, but without the stereotypical smell of sunscreen and coconuts. It was authentic. It was real, and it called out to something deep and primal within me. There was a spicy undertone thatreminded me of the produce section in the bodega downtown.
I couldn’t see his expression above me, but I heard the surprised huff he let out.
“What direction am I supposed to go? Backwards?” he asked.
A bark of laughter escaped me. Merrick was so refreshing. He was nothing like any other guy I’d dated. Except we weren’t dating. We weren’t even technically friends.
“We may remove it now,” he noted cheerfully, quickly peeling back the clear gel on my finger. It had dried to a consistency similar to silicone or rubber.
“What the—” I snapped my mouth shut, stunned to see only a thin pink line where a deep cut had been only moments ago. I stared at it. “What’s in that stuff?”
Merrick tucked the dried gel back into his bag. “Extracted jellyfish venom, along with seaweed and a few other malleable components to make the wrap.”
My fingers opened and closed reflexively; the skin felt fine, if a little tight. Wouldn’t jellyfish venom be bad to put on a wound?
“Right …” I managed.
“May I try your beverage again?” he asked brightly, those blue-green eyes practically glowing in the semi-darkness. I needed to turn on more lights than the one candle and my wax burner.
“Why don’t we share mine? Then you can see if you like it or not.” I suggested. I had the feeling this would be his first Coke experience and wanted no more shattered glasses.
I shook my head and held out my glass . He bent forward and tried to take a sip, seeming the flounder a bit as he hovered with uncertainty over the top of the glass. Then his tongue dipped in like a cat’s, and he made a face.
His nose wrinkled and brows furrowed.
“It burns!”
