Change of Heart - By S.E. Edwards Page 0,37

only thirty minutes have passed. I look at the sofa. Rich isn’t there. That’s when I hear the clacking sound of the vertical blinds swaying in the breeze. My eyes move to the balcony door. It’s slightly ajar.

I walk up to it and look outside. I find Rich sitting on the floor, his feet dangling over the ledge. That whiskey bottle is at his side.

“Hey,” I say softly as I open the door. “Mind if I join you?”

Rich nods without looking back. “Sure.”

I settle down beside him—not too close, but not far away, either. “What are you doing out here?”

“Couldn’t sleep.” Rich picks the bottle up and cradles it in his lap. “You?”

“Same.” I look forward. A lonely road runs past the empty parking lot out front. Thick evergreens line the other side of the street. It’s impossible to see past them. The night swallows up everything else. Right now, it feels like Rich and I are the only people left on earth. “Where are we?”

Rich gives a sour chuckle. “You didn’t see the signs on the drive?”

I shake my head.

“We’re somewhere by Baker City. You heard of it?”

“No.”

“Me neither.” He looks at me and smiles. “That bodes well for our escape.”

My hands feel empty, so I run a finger up and down metal railing. “Rich? Can I ask you something?”

“Hmm?”

“Why me?”

He brings the bottle to his lips and tips it back. He takes a long time to answer. “It’s like this, Penny,” he begins.

That is the moment I notice that his leg is bleeding again.

“Rich,” I gasp, interrupting him. “Look!”

He turns to see where my attention is directed, and curses. “Shit.”

“You don’t feel that?” I ask, aghast.

Rich brings the bottle close to my face. “Alcohol’s a great inhibitor.”

“Is that why you’re drinking?” I place my hand on his thigh before he can answer. He grimaces at my touch. “Oh, Rich, this is bad. The sleeve is soaked right through.”

“You’re not doing me any favors poking at it,” he says, pushing my hand away.

I square my shoulders to him. “Take off your pants.”

“What?”

“You heard me. Take. Off. Your. Pants.” The exasperation is clear in my voice. “If your damn man pride prevents you from going to the hospital, the least we can do is clean and bandage the wound.”

“I’m fine,” Rich defends, turning away. “And if you haven’t noticed, we don’t exactly have the materials needed for—ah, ah, AHH!” Rich spins around and glares at me. “Why did you do that?”

I remove the fingers I used to put pressure on his leg. “To prove a point. You’re not fine. What will you do if this gets infected? Do you want your whole leg amputated?” I toss my head to clear the hair from my eyes. “Now, do as I say! Take off your pants.” I give him a wicked smile. “If I remember correctly, you had no trouble with that request a few nights ago.”

Rich grumbles and stands up, muttering the whole time. I pretend not to hear his remarks. He unwraps the leather strip from Victor’s jacket, then yanks his pants down.

At least this time, he’s wearing boxers, I note to myself as I open the door. “Come inside. There’s more light to see. Do you need help walking?”

“I got it,” he tells me, leaning on the window frame to shuffle in. He isn’t putting any weight on his injured leg. When I put my arm around his waist, he doesn’t push me away.

I help him to the couch and let him sit, then hurry to switch on the light. When I turn back, an inadvertent gasp escapes my throat.

“That bad, huh?” Rich quips. “Don’t tell me you’re squeamish at the sight of a little blood.”

Ignoring him, I rush over and go down on my knees in front of his wounded leg. The cut isn’t deep, but it’s long, running nearly all the way from his hip to his knee. Definitely more than “a little knick.”

“Damn all men and their macho pride,” I mutter as I hurry outside to grab the whiskey bottle. I run back to the bathroom to get a clean towel. “Here,” I say, shoving both items at Rich. “Use that to clean it.” Something else occurs to me, and I turn back to pull the cover from the bed. “And sit on this so you don’t stain the entire sofa.”

Rich frowns and lifts up his leg. “It’s a little bit late for that.”

He’s right. “Fine,” I concede. “But start cleaning the wound. I don’t want