Stray Fears - Gregory Ashe Page 0,37
was saying, “but I still can’t believe I didn’t hear—” He stopped and drew a sharp breath. “Elien, you didn’t say he was bleeding. What in the world happened?”
“I said he got hurt.” Elien was lugging a black bag. “What did you think I meant?”
“I’m ok,” I said.
The older man—Richard, I assumed—gestured for the bag, and Elien set it on the coffee table.
“I’m really ok.” I held out a hand. “No offense, but I’d rather go to an urgent care.”
“I’m a trained physician. Let me at least take a look. Elien, call the police. Was this an animal attack? What did you—”
“I’m fine,” I said. Ok, I shouted. More calmly, I repeated, “I’m fine. I’m going to leave, and I’m going to—” I had reached the end of rational thought, so I repeated, “I’m going to leave.”
Richard glanced at Elien, and Elien shrugged.
“Great,” I said. “Now that we’ve got that settled—”
“Let me talk to him for a minute,” Elien said.
Frowning, Richard said, “The police—”
“Go upstairs.” Elien nudged Richard. “I’ll handle this.”
“He really needs attention, Elien.”
“I know. I’ll call up to you if I can get him to change his mind.”
With another frown, Richard trudged back upstairs, putting in his earbuds again as he went.
In his absence, I was suddenly very aware of Elien, the perfect brown lines of his arms, the way he pulled on his shirt with one hand, drawing it tight against his chest. The silence rang in my ears.
“Richard’s your boyfriend,” I said.
“It’s like you’ve been trained,” Elien said. “It’s like you’re professionally suited for putting clues together to unravel impossible riddles.”
“Mostly I unravel domestic disputes.”
“I’m going to cut your shirt off and see how bad those cuts are,” Elien said, dropping to sit on the coffee table. “And if you tell me one more time that you’re fine, I’m going to scream.”
He looked serious, so I said, “Ok. But I don’t think you have to—Jesus Christ!” I had tried to peel off the shirt, but the blood was already gumming, and it pulled on the wounds on my shoulder and chest.
Elien held up the scissors.
“Yeah,” I said. “That’s a great idea.”
“You’re going to want to practice saying that,” Elien said. “I like being right.”
He snipped away the shirt in pieces, using warm water and a clean cloth to loosen the fabric and work it away. His movements were slow and sure and steady. This wasn’t the worried kid pacing outside Ray Field’s apartment. This wasn’t the kid who had fallen down the stairs outside DuPage First Methodist. This wasn’t the kid who had been hyperventilating in the woods.
This was the guy who had come back for me.
“You’re staring,” Elien said.
“Sorry.”
A tiny smile pulled at the corner of his mouth; he was still intently working a piece of my shirt loose. “Do you still think I have nice hands?”
I swallowed. “Yes. Ow.”
“Don’t be a baby,” he said gently. “That was the last one.”
For the first time, I risked a glance. It was worse than I’d thought: four deep cuts that ran from my sternum across my chest, curving around my shoulder and upper arm. They were still bleeding.
“These need stitches,” Elien said. “And you probably need antibiotics. I don’t know what that thing was, but I don’t think it was clean.”
“Do you have gauze and tape?”
“Of course.”
“Just tape me up, please.”
“You didn’t hear me: these need stitches. Richard can—”
“No.”
Frustration twisted his features. “Then I’ll get Richard to drive us to an urgent care.”
“Yeah, well,” I said, squirming to the edge of the couch, biting back a gasp at how much it hurt. “I can’t afford an urgent care.”
Elien put a hand on my belly and forced me back down. What happened next wasn’t my fault: I still had adrenaline pumping through me, and a hot guy had just cut my shirt off and had his hands all over me. Now the twinkie was manhandling me.
He noticed, of course. I waited for the smile, the jab, the dismissal.
Instead, he slid off the coffee table and straddled me. It sent a wave of pain through me, but a wave of something else too.
“What are you—”
He kissed me.
When he broke for air, he brought my hand to his crotch. He was hard under the denim. He rocked slowly into my touch. He made a low noise in his throat and thrust harder.
“Am I hurting you?” he whispered.
“I can . . .” I gulped. “I can handle it.”
“Yeah?”
“God, yes. Yeah.”
“I want you to fuck me,” he whispered. “Please fuck me. I